Words from somewhere in Iowa City ("sorry about our bad English")

The brothers Chang, vice lords, slave traffickers, murderers unredeemed, they were still curious to know what it is that of creative writing. They heard some rumors about Iowa City; something about some writing workshops, and teaching over 70 years. "70 years!" said the Chang brothers! "These people know what they are doing”. Without thinking twice, they bought us plane tickets and sent us on the state of Iowa. Hiding in our luggage, they just waited and waited in our room. We had no idea what they wanted. So we started to wander through the beautiful down town, and one day, we ended following a small group of suspects who emerged from the strangest cafeteria in the city: the Tobacco Bowl. We walked and walked behind these guys, and finally came to the house of a Spanish poet named Ana Merino. There was a costume party, so we could sneak without major problems (started walking stick very close to each other, shoulder to shoulder, and said we were Chang and Eng Bunker). There we found that not only was a costume party, but also was dedicated to some international writers. The light was on our minds! We ran to find our luggage, we went back and soon opened the bags. From the inside not only the Chang brothers came out, but their best murderers too…

We prefer not to tell what happened to the poor writers. Some say they ended up buried in the Effigy Mounds. Others say they are wandering and lost among the endless fields of corn. But before disappearing forever, the Chang brothers forced them to give samples of their writing. So what's left of these writers, are the texts that you will see below.

The Chang brothers, meanwhile, still do not know yet what it is creative writing.

José Urriola and Fedosy Santaella (corn eaters)

REPERTORIO DEL ABSURDO o el Maadi verano del 88.

Yasser Abdel-Latif
Egipto

(Animales, Rufino Tamayo)

Composición por cada 10 mililitros:
Clorfeniramina maleato 3 mgr.
Fenilefrina clorhidrato 5 mgr.
Efedrina clorhidrato 5 mgr.
Dextrometorfán bromhidrato 15 mgr.

Las cejas del doctor Muafaq, dueño de la farmacia Al Rahma, se enarcaron sobre la frente tras leer el prospecto del Tosifan─N, al que nosotros llamábamos simplemente «N». Lo dobló y lo introdujo en el envase de cartón.

─Seis frascos esta vez ─dijo─, no hay duda de que esta noche os pegáis un banquete.

Él no sabía que nosotros éramos seis y que hoy me había tocado a mí ser el voluntario para vérselas con él. Fuera había cinco esqueletos, unos apoyados en un coche aparcado y otros sentados en la acera. Miraban a su alrededor sin saber qué hacer con su cuerpo, a la espera de los resultados de esta ruleta rusa que era enfrentarse a un farmacéutico nuevo. De su disposición a tragarse el anzuelo, a aceptar con complicidad o a rechazar tajantemente el trato, dependía que empezásemos un fatigoso viaje por otras farmacias.

Cuando salí con la bolsa de plástico que contenía los seis frascos, los cinco esqueletos se incorporaron y sus cuerpos resucitaron tras introducirse en ellos el alma. Las botellas eran marrones y se transparentaba en su interior el líquido rojo. Las manos, sudorosas por el esfuerzo nervioso, sujetaron el frasco por el cuello y les costó varios intentos asir la tapa, cuyo liso metal resbalaba a causa del sudor, y arrancarla con un movimiento de rosca.

Se tomaron su dosis de un trago y cada cual arrojó su frasco a la acera. Al final de la calle 15, que pasa entre dos conventos, se encuentra la casa de Mahmud, después del monasterio de Notre Dame des Apôtres y justo frente a la tapia del Seminario, en cuyo enorme jardín los monjes habían renunciado al campo de fútbol para construir una residencia a los padres ancianos. Ésta es exactamente la línea que separa los barrios de Maadi y Turah.

La familia de Mahmud estaba renovando la tapia de la casa, cambiando la floresta de árboles por un muro de piedra blanca. Las obras habían dejado un pequeño montón de arena junto a la pared, a cuyo lado había un tronco de árbol cortado. Este era el lugar perfecto para que pasaran el rato estos seis chavales, cuyas edades oscilaban entre los diecinueve y los veintidós.

No hacía falta mucho esfuerzo para reconocer en ellos al antiguo equipo de voleibol, con sólo dos sustituciones en sus jugadores. Uno de ellos, merced a sus buenas notas, había sido admitido en la Facultad de Medicina, por lo que la seriedad de los estudios le había alejado de los compañeros de escuela, a los que llamaba los «fracasados» medio en broma, medio en serio. Otro había ingresado en la Academia de Policía en la que se pasaba tres cuartas partes del año y de donde salía con la personalidad completamente cambiada en cada ocasión, debido a una conciencia de su autoridad que se agravaba de unas vacaciones a otras.

Los efectos del «N» llegan pasados entre unos veinte y cuarenta minutos. Quedábamos cuatro en la «arena», el nombre con el que se había quedado el lugar, mientras que otros dos voluntarios habían emprendido la marcha a pie hasta el desierto de Kozzika para comprar hachís de Umm Amal, después de que consiguiéramos reunir quince libras, el precio de una pieza de chocolate en aquel entonces, juntando la calderilla de nuestros bolsillos.

Para llegar al desierto de Kozzika teníamos que atravesar el hangar de trenes vecino a la estación de Turah al Balad, donde se juntaban la línea de metro de Helwan con la vía del tren de las canteras que viene de Abaseya por el desierto de la autopista y que baja por detrás del muro del Seminario. El patio del hangar era un enorme descampado en el que se cruzaba un laberinto de raíles y donde se hacían chatarra decenas de viejos trenes. Este espacio constituía un vasto refugio para zorros y perros callejeros. Los trenes abandonados se convirtieron en el hogar de la primera generación de niños de la calle, cuyo número veíamos crecer día tras día durante nuestros viajes a través del descampado. En muchas ocasiones les veíamos sentados repartiéndose las ganancias que habían robado o mendigado. Una vez les vimos alrededor de un gran festín de kebab. Entre mordisco y mordisco no olvidaron guardar un bocadillo lleno de carne para el trabajador del hangar.

─Es la solidaridad con su hermano proletario ─comentó el que veía el vaso lleno.
─Es el peaje, amigo ─respondió el que lo veía vacío.

Umm Amal vendía dos tipos de hachís: el primero era un polen para fumar en pipa, envuelto en celofán rojo. El segundo era un chocolate aceitoso adecuado para liar porros, envuelto en celofán amarillo, y la barra costaba dos libras más cara. El primero era de marca «Gracias por su compra», y el segundo, «Complacer a Dios». Comprábamos media pieza, o una pieza entera, del segundo porque sabía y olía mejor. Cuando los enviados regresaron con la mercancía, el efecto del «N» acababa de empezar. Era ese momento en el que los escalofríos se apoderan de tu cabeza y suben por ella haciendo de corona, mordisqueándote el cerebro con un delicioso hormigueo interior.

Nader comenzó a desmigar el hachís sobre el tabaco que previamente había desgranado en un plato, siempre dispuesto para esta faena, que se había traído Mahmud de la terraza de su casa. El viaje estaba a punto de comenzar.

En una tarde como ésta, los seis, desde la «arena», vimos acercarse a Essam Nagui, montado en la bicicleta de su hermano pequeño. Resultaba cómico con su voluminoso cuerpo sobre la bicicleta infantil de talla 24. Para nosotros era un invitado deseado a medias, debido a que, aunque todos sentíamos afecto por él –y sin duda él también por nosotros–, se había convertido en un extraño más al distanciarse del grupo en otro mundo de preocupaciones. Pero este afecto seguía unido al recuerdo de una viva amistad cuyos ecos se conservan entre los muros de la escuela, no muy lejana en el tiempo y en el espacio de donde nos encontrábamos en ese momento.

Cuando llegó Essam se desvaneció el fantasma del distanciamiento que habíamos presentido al verle aparecer al principio de la calle. Dejó la minúscula bicicleta a un lado sobre la arena y se puso de pie sudando a mares. Sin esperar a recuperar la respiración, encendió un pitillo antes de saludarnos:

─¿Qué tal, locos?
─Toma, colega ─le respondió Nader, pasándole el canuto.

Essam tiró el cigarrillo que acababa de encender, prendió el peta y se lo fumó él solo, rompiendo nuestra regla de fumarnos el porro entre todos y por turnos. A continuación, fue directo al grano, como quien trae una sorpresa agradable:

─¿Os apetece pasar un día en la playa gratis?

La idea nos pareció en principio bastante extraña, aunque cuando empezó a explicarla quedó clara. Essam nos contó que, a la mañana siguiente, la empresa en la que trabajaba le mandaba a Ain Sujna, en la costa del Mar Rojo, y que viajaría él sólo con el conductor de la empresa en un microbús, así que podíamos ir con él los seis y pasar el día en la playa. No podíamos rechazar una oferta tan tentadora. Essam añadió que debíamos traer de casa nuestros bañadores y algún tentempié si era posible.

Essam se acabó el canuto que le había pasado Nader y dijo que pasaría a recogernos por el mismo lugar a las seis de la mañana con el microbús de la empresa. Cogió la bici y se montó. Al alejarse volvía a parecer un cómico obeso, bajo la luz de las farolas de la calle 15.

Sólo había un problema que nos quitaba el sueño: cómo aprovisionarnos de drogas para el viaje. No nos quedaba más que una cantidad insignificante de dinero, y además las farmacias cómplices seguro que ya habían cerrado. El dueño y los empleados de la única farmacia de guardia gozaban de una reputación de íntegros por encima del resto de farmacias del barrio, y como farmacéuticos expertos conocían bien los trucos de los chavales como nosotros para engañarles.

Sherif, que acababa de llegar hacía unos días de Luxor donde estudiaba en un instituto de hostelería, dijo que había probado allí un medicamento extraño que se utilizaba para el tratamiento del parkinson y las parálisis temblorosas: se llamaba Parkinol y decía que producía fuertes alucinaciones parecidas, por lo que habíamos oído, a los efectos del LSD, por lo que había que tomarlo con mucho cuidado. Además, era increíblemente barato, ya que una caja no costaba más que una libra y contenía pastillas suficientes para sumergirnos en fantasías durante días y días.

La idea era excelente, ya que ese medicamento todavía no era conocido entre los adictos y no estaba incluido en el repertorio de drogas y medicamentos de venta prohibida sin receta médica. Esto facilitaba la tarea de embaucar al respetable dueño de la farmacia de guardia. Todos estábamos de acuerdo y, como de costumbre, nos repartimos las tareas: un grupo partió y otro se quedó.

Apareció por el horizonte la expedición de compra que volvía de la farmacia de guardia. Cuando sus siluetas se aproximaron, vimos a Sherif ─uno de los expedicionarios─, lanzando algo al aire y recogiéndolo en la palma de la mano. Al acercarse más, reconocimos en esa cosa el envase mágico. Nos alegramos por el resultado favorable de la ruleta, seguros de que Sherif se había inventado una película para engañar al veterano farmacéutico. Ahora el viaje ya era llevadero.

A eso de dos horas antes de nuestra cita con Essam ya estábamos reunidos en nuestra sede, listos para partir. Discutimos largo rato sobre el momento para empezar nuestra aventura experimental con el Parkinol. Los impacientes ganaron el debate y, acto seguido, Mahmud bajó de la terraza una botella de agua fría y cada uno nos tragamos la cantidad de pastillas prescrita por la experiencia de Sherif.

Las pastillas de Parkinol son blancas y muy pequeñas. Su minúsculo tamaño les confiere una inocencia engañosa. Ya nos habíamos tomado la dosis indicada por Sherif y, tras más de una hora, no sentimos ningún efecto. Poniendo en duda la información de nuestro amigo, cada uno nos tragamos algunas pastillas de más…

Una hora más tarde, el microbús avanzaba por el desierto en dirección al Mar Rojo, dejando atrás los suburbios de Maadi y Qatamiya. En el asiento delantero, junto al conductor, iba Essam Nagui, con los ojos hinchados a causa de la falta de sueño, bebiendo té en un vaso de plástico que era también la tapa de un termo para conservar la bebida caliente que reposaba en el salpicadero. El conductor fumaba.

Nosotros seis estábamos repartidos al buen tuntún por las doce plazas del pequeño autobús. Con la cabeza apoyada en la ventanilla de mi asiento, disfrutaba de las cosquillas que el traqueteo de las ruedas del coche transmitía a través del cristal a mi cabeza. Seguía con la vista los montículos de arena que al lado de la carretera subían y bajaban… subían… bajaban. En esta hora temprana el sol daba en la parte delantera del vehículo ya que nos dirigíamos hacia el este. Su luz me molestaba en los ojos y me adormecí por unos instantes contados, o eso me pareció.

Cuando me desperté noté la violencia del sol, todavía en las primeras horas del amanecer. Esta excursión que acababa de empezar me pareció un viaje sin final, y fui consciente de la fuerte canícula que nos esperaba sobre la arena de la playa, de la salinidad del agua del Mar Rojo que te hace sangrar los ojos y del cansancio que nos sobrevendría tras pasar dos días sin dormir. ¿Qué más nos daban a nosotros la playa y el baño?, me preguntaba. No éramos más que seis yonquis que dormían por el día y se pasaban las noches entre «la arena», junto a la casa de Mahmud, y la farmacia Al Rahma, dando vueltas desde temprano en la noria de la desesperación… ¿Qué desesperación? La palabra resonaba en mi cabeza: desesperación… desesperación… El sonido de la «ese» se convirtió en un susurro que se repetía como un eco interminable. Cuando parecía que iba a extinguirse, resonaba de nuevo y la «ese» volvía a silbar. Esta palabra invadió por completo mi cabeza, ofreciéndome sus letras, desordenadas primero y con sentido después. Su eco siguió retumbando hasta que me imaginé leyendo un libro sobre la desesperación.

Tenía la garganta seca como un palo y me dije: Deja el libro a un lado y trae una botella de agua fría del frigorífico. Sólo entonces volví a ser consciente de que estábamos en un armazón metálico atravesando el desierto oriental en dirección al mar.

La luz del día confería un ambiente enfermizo al interior del vehículo. De repente, estaba jugando al ajedrez con uno de mis amigos en el estrecho espacio del asiento del microbús, sobre un pequeño tablero magnético. No entendía absolutamente nada de la partida, no sabía ni cuándo empezamos ni con qué color jugaba. Tampoco podía afirmar con seguridad si mi contrincante era Mahmud o Mujtar. Cogí una pieza y la apreté en la palma de mi mano. Resultaba asquerosa al tacto. Todavía no sé cómo un objeto tan normal como una figura de ajedrez podía tener un tacto tan repulsivo. La solté asustado sobre el pequeño tablero de superficie metálica magnética y base de madera y, al caer, provocó un estruendo horrible. Se balanceó, yendo y viniendo entre las demás piezas en pie. Levanté la cabeza para mirar al amigo que jugaba conmigo, quien se giró lentamente hacia la ventanilla y se puso a llorar sin que yo supiera el motivo. Fuera, los montículos de arena seguían subiendo y bajando. Miré a la parte delantera del coche y vi el perfil del rostro de Essam Nagui que se había puesto unas gafas de sol. Fumaba cigarrillos sin parar y estaba sumido en una conversación con el conductor que yo no podía seguir.

Al llegar a la playa los seis bajamos del vehículo como quienes descienden de una nave espacial a la superficie de la luna, totalmente faltos de equilibrio. La tierra bajo nuestros pies era como lana cardada.

Cuando se abrió esa inmensa fosa que es el Mar Rojo, surgieron a sus orillas cadenas de montañas ardientes abrasadas por el sol, bajo cuya luz las rocas parecen rojas ascuas. El camino de asfalto que nos había traído hasta aquí y que continúa paralelo al mar en dirección sur hasta Quseir y más allá, separa el mar de las montañas. Estaba concentrado en un cráter negro abierto en las faldas de uno de esos montes cuando algo asomó la cabeza desde su interior. En un principio me pareció un perro. Su enorme cuerpo era del color del polvo y tenía manchas negras. Al fijarme en su gran hocico y en las patas traseras curvadas, lo reconocí. Descendió con agilidad la falda de la montaña y cruzó la carretera hacia el cadáver hinchado de un burro tirado patas arriba, con las cuatro extremidades rígidas y las pezuñas apuntando al cielo. ¿Dónde había visto este cadáver antes? La hiena hundió el hocico en el vientre hinchado y con su mandíbula de dientes afilados y potentes músculos arrancó un gran pedazo de carne. La sangre coagulada se vertía por las comisuras de su boca, manchándole el pelo polvoriento del cuello mientras se le nublaban los ojos, ebria de voracidad. Estaba tan fascinado con la escena que no me di cuenta de que una manada de primos de la hiena bajaba de la misma cueva. Avanzaban lentamente y con confianza. Les vi dejar de lado el festín del burro y dirigirse hacia nosotros. Se nos aproximaban con el tronco torcido, como si sus patas traseras fueran más rápidas que las delanteras. Me acerqué al fuego que habíamos encendido para asar la comida. Agarré un tizón prendido para defenderme. Mis compañeros se habían agrupado espalda con espalda mientras el conductor fumaba tranquilo su inseparable cigarrillo.

─No temáis ─dijo el conductor─, estos animales nunca atacan a los vivos.
─¿Quién te asegura que nosotros estamos vivos? ─le replicó uno de nosotros.

Las hienas nos habían rodeado y se pusieron a gruñir enseñando los colmillos. Escuché una frase, y me imaginé que era el conductor dando otro consejo. Le pregunté si había dicho algo y me contestó, con una sonrisa irónica, que no había abierto la boca. Cuando volví en mí no había rastro de los animales. Me giré hacia el conductor de nuevo y le pregunté:

─¿Dónde está el burro muerto?
─En tu cabeza ─me contestó, con la misma sonrisa.

Recuerdo las hamburguesas que se habían descongelado y estaban sucias de arena, y el gusto del pan que intentaba masticar y tragar con dificultad, como si estuviese comiendo algodón a palo seco. No sé cómo fuimos capaces de pasar el día en la playa. Recuerdo que estaba tirado a la sombra del coche, contemplando el sol ponerse en el horizonte a gran velocidad. No podía apartar la vista de esa gran disco rojo que pasado un momento dejaba en mis ojos una sensación verdosa. A partir de entonces, me comenzaron a pitar los oídos hasta el final del viaje.

Los colegas Nader, Mahmud, Sherif, Mujtar y Hani estaban cada uno a su rollo. El conductor nos miraba como quien contempla una comedia que no puede entender. Essam Nagui disfrutaba por su cuenta del viaje: natación, buceo, comida.

A medio día llegó a la playa, que estaba vacía a excepción de nosotros, un coche en el que venía un grupo de jóvenes asiáticos, probablemente filipinos. Con gran rapidez se quitaron la ropa, se pusieron los bañadores y nos quedamos aturdidos al contemplar a las chicas nadando como siluros en las tranquilas aguas. Recuerdo que el conductor rompió el silencio que sólo herían las voces lejanas de los chicos y chicas filipinos en el agua:

─¡Estos filipinos sí que saben divertirse y pasarlo bien, aunque tengan trabajos de mierda como el servicio doméstico!

Una de las alucinaciones que se repitió ese día consistía en imaginar que tenías un pitillo entre los dedos y, de repente, te dabas cuenta de que tus manos estaban vacías. Entonces mirabas a tu alrededor, te levantabas, te sacudías la ropa y revisabas el asiento buscando el cigarrillo fantasma. Tu mirada confusa se topaba con las risas de los demás, que ya habían caído en esta trampa.

También estaban los reptiles e insectos producto de la imaginación febril. De cuando en cuando alguien gritaba asustado, quitándose una serpiente o insectos imaginarios que le recorrían el cuerpo. Este tema de los insectos fue el que llevó a algunos yonquis profesionales del Parkinol ─cuando se extendió su consumo en su ambiente a principios de los noventa─, a ponerle el nombre de «cucaracha» y a utilizar el verbo «cucarachear», que significaba «colocarse con Parkinol». Al Comital se le llamaba «calavera» y al potente Ativan, «Tren del Sur», por un famoso suceso en el que un sujeto narcotizó a todos los pasajeros de un vagón del tren al poner Ativan en un cubo de agua potable que ofreció, voluntaria y desinteresadamente, a los viajeros durante el trayecto. Después les robó sus pertenencias mientras ellos comían arroz con leche con los angelitos del Ativan.

La gigantesca serpiente se enrosca en torno a la copa para escupir en ella su veneno, que es a su vez el antídoto por antonomasia…, en torno a la copa del mundo…, a la copa de la madre que parió al mundo…, que flotaba a la deriva en un mar de narcóticos. Este periodo, a finales de los ochenta, fue la época dorada de las drogas químicas. El Imperio del Hachís estaba llegando a su ocaso, debido a la Gran Crisis del Hachís que trajo como consecuencia la implantación de la marihuana como droga local. El resultado fue el ahorro de millones de dólares que se gastaban fuera de las fronteras para importar hachís. Por lo tanto la hierba, de una forma o de otra, participó en el paquete de reformas económicas que comenzó y terminó en la década de los noventa.

En un abrir y cerrar de ojos se nos pasó el día en el Mar Rojo. Cuando oscureció comenzamos los preparativos para la partida. Estábamos todos absortos por un sentimiento parecido al pecado. Probablemente era el resultado de los desvaríos que ocuparon nuestras mentes durante el día y que hicieron de aquella playa vacía su teatro. La presencia de Essam Nagui y el conductor constituía una especie de ruptura de los episodios de alucinaciones en los que estuvimos envueltos a lo largo del día. Vimos matanzas y asesinatos, adulterios y cosas prohibidas. Todo lo que la vida intenta olvidar desfiló ante nosotros. En el viaje de regreso, mientras el microbús recorría la carretera oscura, reinaba el silencio. La mayoría ya nos habíamos recuperado, o casi… De repente, Sherif pidió ayuda desde su rincón al fondo del vehículo y fuimos a socorrerle. Se imaginaba que sangraba por la nariz. Le convencimos de que todavía desvariaba, lo que no era de extrañar ya que era el que más se había pasado con las pastillas.

Y volvimos de la excursión… y yo volví de mi viaje particular en aquella excursión. Y ahí estábamos, todavía en la «arena». Nos habíamos fumado cerca de la mitad de la pieza de chocolate. El rock tronaba en el radiocasete portátil de Sherif que colocábamos en lo alto de la tapia blanca de la casa de Mahmud, sobre el pequeño montículo de arena. Escuchábamos a Ronnie James Dio, el inglés errante que pasó por varios grupos de rock, cantándole a la noche… a la noche más oscura… a los que esperan al final de la cola… a la maldición que invade el mundo mientras los pueblos rezan para salir adelante… a los mundos en los que se derrite tu vida ante tus ojos… El ritmo de la batería –a pesar de su violencia, reflejo de un auténtico enfado–, era muy regular, ya que Dio era un hombre que seguía una tradición musical a la que se mantuvo aferrado hasta finales de los ochenta.

Calma entre canción y canción, entre el final de la cinta y la pereza de darle la vuelta, durante la aventura de cambiarla alterando el estado de ánimo reinante… Tras una música violenta vino un silencio violento. Pasaron unos instantes hasta que distinguimos el canto de los grillos y el croar de las ranas. La calle estaba sumida en la oscuridad. Las pálidas lámparas le conferían un aire misterioso. Se extendía ante nosotros en silencio, flanqueada por la grandiosidad de los monasterios e instituciones divinas que arqueaban a ambos lados sus sublimes muros, y por la pureza de sus cipreses y eucaliptos, paralelos a las tapias. Desde el profundo silencio nos llegó el agudo sonido de un grito de mujer al final del muro del monasterio. Nos levantamos rápidamente para ver lo que sucedía. En la curva de la tapia encontramos un Peugeot 305, junto al que un joven discutía con un policía que reconocimos como uno de los guardas de seguridad del monasterio. Dentro del coche vimos sentada a una muchacha sollozando. El respaldo de su asiento estaba reclinado, haciendo las veces de cama. Pudimos verla gracias a la luz de la lámpara interior del coche, encendida porque la puerta estaba abierta. Junto al vehículo, el joven peleaba con el guardia. No tuvimos dudas de que la chica había sido quien pegó el grito. La situación estaba clara. Sin embargo, decidimos entrometernos y preguntamos al agente, al que conocíamos por su proximidad a nuestra sede, qué había pasado. Nos dijo que había pillado al caballero montado encima de la señorita y que tenía la prueba del delito, blandiendo un trozo de tela triangular que no era otra cosa que la ropa interior de la chica que lloriqueaba. El policía juraba y perjuraba que les iba a entregar a la primera patrulla que pasase. El joven dueño del coche intentaba demostrar que conocía gente que tenía más poder que los superiores del agente, aunque parecían evidentes su temor y sus esfuerzos por aparentar tener la situación bajo control. Sacamos cigarrillos y le dimos uno al policía y otro al chico. Le hablamos al agente del perdón y la misericordia de Dios Todopoderoso y cosas por el estilo. Le dijimos que no volverían a hacer algo así nunca más. Los nervios del policía se amainaron y soltó al joven, diciendo que, sólo por nosotros, los dejaba marchar. El muchacho saltó dentro del coche, puso en marcha el motor y pisó el acelerador a fondo, levantando el embrague en un movimiento contrario al del pie derecho, de modo que las ruedas de la tracción delantera giraron a gran velocidad, superando las revoluciones de la dirección. Los neumáticos dieron vueltas en el aire, levantando una enorme nube de polvo, antes de recuperar sus revoluciones naturales y de que el vehículo saliese disparado. Los jóvenes llaman «americano» a esta maniobra de arranque… Con las prisas, el muchacho se olvidó de encender las luces del coche.

Nos quedamos tosiendo y sacudiéndonos el polvo de la ropa y la cabeza, soltando imprecaciones sobre quien cría cuervos y cagándonos en el chaval y en su madre. Cuando desapareció la nube de polvo vimos al agente, que todavía tenía en la mano la «prueba del delito» perteneciente a la chica. Nos dio a todos un ataque de risa histérica y el agente, avergonzado, lanzó la prenda con enfado entre los arbustos… Nos marchamos los seis de regreso a nuestra sede… Uno de nosotros, al darse la vuelta, pudo ver al policía volviendo sobre sus pasos para recoger las bragas del suelo y escondérselas con cautela entre el uniforme.




(Capítulo de la novela Herencias del Cairo,
Icaria editorial, Barcelona.
Traducida del árabe por Álvaro Abella)

The Hands

Fflur Dafydd
Gales

I will always remember it as the night of Mr Huws and the hands. It is often difficult to determine which event gave rise to the other, but one thing is certain: I would not have been weeding in my back garden at four in the morning if it hadn’t been for Mr Huws’s disruption. When a pair of hands came to view in the soil, the only sound to be heard was the sound of a frenzied man, dressed in pale blue pyjamas, violently tooting his car horn. I resented the sound for several reasons, primarily because it trespassed on a certain moment of clarity I had achieved only seconds before, that sudden understanding of the little things that isolate a person. This aborted thought left me in mourning for something I couldn’t quite remember, and with a feeling of resentment towards my otherwise genial neighbour.

Peeking through his car’s sweat-clouded window a few minutes later, I saw Mr Huws’s pink, balding crown being hurled again and again on the wheel – beep! beep! beep! – the pale blue pyjamas rustling against the black leather seats and the night’s shadows dancing across his scalp. I knocked. The window became a blur of movement; pink, black, pale-blue, pink, black, pale-blue. I knocked once more. “You can knock all you like,” shot a voice from the still night, “it won’t make the blindest bit of difference.”

I turned to see his wife slumped in a garden chair, her eyes sliding onto the red, worn fabric of her cheeks. Those eyes reflected years spent knocking on car windows.

I too, had become slowly accustomed to Mr Huws’s lunar obsessions. A month ago, when the moon had slid casually from behind its dark veil, I found him on my roof, raging at the skies, wildly questioning how best to communicate with the moon’s obstinate, legless presence. It wasn’t only in the skies, it was inside him, he swore, bulging beneath his eyelids, lighting up his dreams. It really had become quite a nuisance, he quipped.

But then, so had Mr Huws. I watch the usual flood of neighbours seep over the concrete. The street’s only complete family are the first to arrive; Perdita, the policewoman who never even eats a piece of toast without knowing its legal implications, and her hurricane of a house-husband, whose name has become lost between the banalities of school fetes and parents’ meetings, and who is mainly to be seen rushing about in a whirl of familial activity, dropping his glasses, children, and groceries. Tonight, they each have one child placed carefully over their shoulders. When Perdita has finished assessing the legal severity of the situation, she peels the child from herself and places it on the Hurricane’s shoulder, where it fits perfectly like a piece of Lego. She walks casually, and yet intently, towards the car. Even in her dressing gown, Perdita is a serious policewoman.

“Are you aware, Mr Huws,” she asks, sharpening her vowels like knives, “that you are committing an extremely serious offence?”

As he sounds his horn in defiance, I see Marina, one of my fellow teachers, emerging suddenly from a dark corner, like an apparition. Marina is different to the other teachers. When I first shook her hand, I felt my skin rising like dough to meet hers. I hoped we would be friends. I had imagined all sort of friendly escapades; sitting together in the late July sun, drinking homemade tomato wine, mocking the stunted vocabulary of our fellow workers, cooking elaborate meals laced with continental vegetables and coconut milk, all the while laughing warmly together at the absurdity of the world in which we lived, and getting to the very root of exactly what it is that isolates a person. It was I who recommended the street to her, back in the day when Mr Huws was a sweet old man who did the gardening on Wednesday and who flushed beetroot-blue whenever a woman looked his way.

Marina’s second night of settling in, however, had been spent trying to get Mr Huws out of her chimney. “Don’t you talk to me like that young lady,” he spat at her, “I’m doing you a favour. You don’t want the moon’s bum rubbing your window all night, do you?” Since then, Marina’s eyes had never again met mine.

I can see her now, standing in the middle of the street with her blonde hair turning a sharp white in the moonlight. Nauseously beautiful, viciously wonderful.

“Marina! How are you?”

“O hi Melissa. Didn’t see you there.” She is wearing a cream coloured poncho, her face powdered by the moon. I feel I should run my fingers through her, to see if she is real at all.

“How are you getting on at school?” I ask, knowing full well that she nothing but conscientious, dedicated, and popular. “How are you finding the children?”

“They’re fine. You will always come across some tearaways of course, but nothing I can’t cope with. Isn’t it cold? I think I’ll go back to bed.”

And with one swift movement, she aims a cricket-ball-sized full stop at my forehead.

Intrigue dwindles, the street empties. Mr Huws falls asleep with his head on the horn, and his lunar call resounds throughout the night. Mrs Huws loses herself in her loose sheets, Perdita rants about the tactical faults of neighbourhood committees while the Hurricane sweeps fleshily over her, and Marina burns her tongue on her strawberry tea.

While I become engrossed a little early morning weeding, discovering a pair of hands in my back garden.

The following morning, Mrs Huws calls by. It is always her who does the apologising. Her husband awakes each morning with a clear conscience and an unruffled mind, with no awareness whatsoever of his lunar activity. He insists on having had the best night’s sleep in years, and having always reached his bed by dawn, he has no reason to believe otherwise. He wakes, yawns, and turns to face his wife, surprised to see the dewy remnants of fear and confusion at the corners of her eyes. Putting it down to general inertia at the thought of yet another day of a floundering marriage, he sits up, rubs his eyes, and says: “There’s nothing like a hot egg to start the day.”

The cold glare of each and every neighbour he puts down to antipathy: “It’s always been such an anti-social street,” booms his voice from beyond the garden wall.

Mrs Huws now stands in my door frame, with a face like a broken car window. “I’m truly sorry about last night,” she says, as her false teeth bob insecurely on the crest of her tongue, “you know how he is. He truly has no recollection of it. And well, it only happens once a month.”

“But he’s getting worse, Mrs Huws….”

I suddenly imagine Mr and Mrs Huws as a young couple on their first outing, on a deserted, windy beach somewhere, shivering with love and beauty, their hair wet and salty against their shoulders. For better, for worse, echoes the sea. My heart slip-slops away with the tide.

“I understand this is difficult,” I add, “and of course I don’t blame you or your husband for it….but…”

She quickly pockets the word ‘understand.’ It’s all she needs. I see her walking on towards the next house, preparing those cold, glazed eyes for the task ahead. I notice that her walk is also designed to be disarming.

Just as I am about to close the door, I see Marina. I call her name. I don’t know why I do this. The voice comes from some mysterious white space within me, and I feel for the first time a strange, distant presence within myself. One that desperately wants her to come in, to have her share in my rare and precious find.

She raises her eyes. She looks at me for a second, smiles, and begins to walk over. At last, I think, at last. Then, suddenly, the smile shatters on the concrete.

“Oh sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

It isn’t every night that someone finds a pair of hands in their back garden. I should have been grateful, in many ways, to Mr Huws for the fact that I happened to be weeding with such ferocity in the first place. My decision was merely to absorb the information, and to keep it to myself. They looked so much like lilies that I thought they must belong there, as a small part of a far greater creation. It would be a crime to uproot them. There was something so familiar about them. Something that I couldn’t name or express but which rested there lazily, on the tip of my tongue, without any desire to launch itself into the open air.

Slowly, carefully, I covered them up again.

It is lunchtime in the staffroom. I eavesdrop on a glorified version of last night’s events.

“He is an absolute lunatic…if you pardon the pun…and he has this pathetic little wife who comes round apologising, licking arses, telling us he doesn’t remember a thing, it’s so very convenient…”

Her devotees, three milky-grey men and two duck-faced women, laugh uproariously.

“Leave it to the police,” says Mathematic Molly, as she fondles her breasts in front of Phil the Physicist. “Do you think one’s bigger than the other?”

Phil’s eyeballs clunk to the floor like marbles.

“There’s a policewoman in the neighbourhood. It’s a nuisance.”

“Shouldn’t that make things easier?” queried Gorilla. No one knew what subject he taught.

“She doesn’t have any real authority. Not at that time of the morning.”

“Policewomen are so….so taxing, aren’t they?” comments Cybernetic Cynthia, as the information draughts through the empty corridor of her mind.

The bell rings.

That evening, while I was tending to the hands, Mr Huws’s head popped up pink over the garden wall. It was too late to think up a story, I had been caught out.

“Melissa,” he growled, as though he were about to scold a flower-thief, “are you going to tell me what’s going on here? I’ve been watching you, you know. For weeks on end. Kneeling there. Staring at that spot.”

I want to say something to change this moment. I yearn for a single word, with the weight of the sky, to crush Mr Huws into the ground.

“Don’t you see them?” The sentence drips pathetically from my lips.

“I think that what you’re doing counts as very suspicious behaviour. I think I’m going to have to report it.”

It was only a matter of time, therefore. Within the space of a few hours, I would be forced to view things differently; to see a pair of hands in my back garden as an unnatural thing, a thing to generate speculation and curiousity, doomed to be discussed blandly and disinterestedly over mashed potatoes on a Thursday night. Rousing stifled laughs in the staffroom. No one would understand that they were a part of my life. That I could feel them stroking my hair in between dreams, those white palms caressing my face, welcoming me to each bright new day. That I heard them uprooting themselves nightly, creeping around in the shadows together like some white, eyeless creature. Guarding me from the night’s nightmarish nuns, and the dusk’s deadly dolls.

The following afternoon, the garden was full of unwanted guests. Mrs Huws was offering parsnip soup over the garden wall, Perdita was investigating in her usual meticulous manner, and the Hurricane and his children were playing pin-the-tail-on-a-neighbour. Mr Huws had his head to the ground. Marina watched the pantomime mutely from her upstairs window.

The absence of the hands troubled me.

“What exactly are we looking for?” asked Perdita, poking the soil with her silver stick. “It’s a crime to give misleading information you know.”

“Henry saw her digging something up,” said Mrs Huws, self-righteously.

“I saw her digging something up.” Mr Huws’s face was ablaze with annoyance.

We all stared at the still, intact soil.

“It could have been a body,” said the Hurricane-husband. Everyone stares at him, as though ‘body’ were a foreign word. Perdita laughs.

“A body! Ha ha! What to do with these house-husbands, I ask you? Too many daytime murder-mysteries, I suspect! Don’t you think you should be getting on with something more constructive? Like dinner perhaps?”

She gives his bottom a reverberating slap, before chasing the rest of her family out of the house with her silver stick.

“You’re up to something, my girl,” shouts Mr Huws in my face, “and I’m going to find out what it is, just you watch me.”

He slams the door like an accusation.

Mrs Huws asks for her mugs back; and once more, I claim the garden as my own.

It was dark by the time Marina came. It was obvious from her strange, horizontal posture in the door frame that curiousity had triumphed over her disgust; as though she believed her hatred to be less visible at an angle.

I pronounce her name like it ought to be pronounced. As though my mouth were full of salt.

“Well, can I come in?”

The moon is above, the lawn shimmers silver. They’re back again. As pure as ever. I see them reaching for light, clasping together in silent prayer. She kneels before them. I imagine this to be the start of things. Soon, she will accept my offer of a cuppa, we will both kick off our slippers and sit on the lawn discussing the incongruities of the education system. And wonder at those things that isolate a person.

But my dream melts, hideously, like plastic shoes on a radiator.

“There’s nothing there,” she said, rising to meet my gaze.

“What do you mean there’s nothing there?” The shoes congeal, harden. Again I feel the tug from that secretive, hidden, white space within.

“I mean, there’s nothing there. You made it up. For attention. To get people to like you.”

I take one, slow, step forward. From the corner of my eye, I see something that amazes me. I see those white hands dancing, coming alive, shooting up from their bed. And at that moment, it all seemed to make perfect sense. At last, I knew to whom the hands belonged. I knew why they were there, and what would be the end of my story. I knew exactly what those little things were that isolate a person.

At that moment, Mr Huws jumped on the wall. His lunar activity had reached its peak one more. He had a loudspeaker in his hand and was shouting “Death becomes her! Death becomes her!” crashing off the concrete walls, while the Hurricane was punching in and out of his wife, while their two children nibbled white chocolate mice by the light of a torch, and while Mrs Huws lay dreamily adrift on her living room armchair. All while Marina moved closer and closer and closer to the white, energetic hands behind her, close enough for them to grip her ankles. And there was something in their touch that was far too familiar.

Her scream was drowned by Mr Huws’s declaration that he would become the moon’s kitchen hand.

“And then she just said, sod you all! I won’t stay here a moment longer. I can’t cope this. And off she went. Packed that very night, and left. It seems so dramatic doesn’t it? Leaving your home and job just because of one lunatic – if you’ll pardon the pun. I think she just wanted attention, really. Wanted people to like her.”

My devotees, three milky-grey men, and two duck-faced women laugh uproariously.

“I always though she was a bit odd,” confessed Mathematic Molly, rubbing her legs in front of Phil the Physicist.

“Do you think it’s better to shave or wax, Phil?” Phil’s eyes veer like a pendulum.

“Did she say if she was coming back?” asks Gorilla, disinterestedly.

“She said this was the worst place she’d even been to. She would rather live…elsewhere.”

“Well,” sighed Cybernetic Cynthia, locking her smile in her lap-top, “that wouldn’t be a great loss, would it?”

The bell rings.

I walk towards the door of the staffroom. When I see my own hand on the door handle, I can’t help but think about another pair of hands, those that enabled my crime. Those hands now buried deep in the soil, forever hidden from view. Complete at last. The fusion of black and white, the perfect blend. And once again, I convince myself that what I did was perfectly logical. They were, after all, her hands. They belonged to her, and she belonged to them.

I had worked it all out that night. The fact that maybe the hands hadn’t existed at all until I knew their true purpose, that they were merely a symbol of something else. The sudden arrival of the unfamiliar in the familiar, was that not, after all, the very essence of that which isolated a person? I didn’t feel guilty. Mr Huws didn’t remember a thing the next morning, and had made perfectly evident his joy at Marina’s sudden, unexplained departure. I saw myself as a nocturnal crusader, therefore, being forced to do what was necessary in order to restore harmony to the community. Marina had merely served her purpose, and she had clarified mine. It was a completely rational act. It made perfect sense.

As much sense as a pair of hands in your back garden.

The Eighty-Mat Room

Kyoko Nakajima
Japón

“He’s still not back,” Hajime Tachibana glanced up from his half-read weekly comic magazine.

“He bailed,” Yōichi Matsuyama answered.

“Already?” Hideo Kaneko said casually, while in the background Tachibana waved a hand and said, “This sucks.”

“How long was he here?” Yūji Koike, who was older than the others, muttered to nobody in particular.

“Three days.” Tachibana pushed up his glasses, then turned back to his magazine.

After that nobody said anything. The lights went out, and soon someone started snoring loudly.

Besides these four there was one more large boy in the room, but he was sleeping so deeply that he didn’t make a sound. It seemed like the snoring was coming from further back in the room.

Tachibana, who had been using the light of a small bedside lamp to stay absorbed in his comics, finally buried himself into his futon and curled up to sleep.

It was just past eleven, not too late, but the bulky, big-bellied boys all curled up or stretched out in attempts to sleep. Except for one, they were all giants. To grow bigger, to get fatter, these was just part of the job description.

No matter how much larger than average they were, the room in which they slept was still much too big for just the six of them. The sprawling, eighty-mat room didn’t even have partitions. It was like the resting areas at hot spring resorts. The blue, borderless tatami mats were simply laid out, eighty of them, one after another.

The room was part of the Matsu no Nami sumo stable. The stable had previously belonged to a larger group, but they had moved after it became too cramped; the current oyakata had taken on the building and re-opened it at the beginning of the year, and he continued to oversee the wrestlers’ progress.

In this expansive second-floor room, the six members- the four who had been accepted into the stable, a lower-division referee, and a former wrestler who had returned to coach- dropped their futons at random, surrounding themselves with metal shelves and plastic containers of clothing and various items, as if they were building encampments. The referee and two of the wrestlers were twenty, another was eighteen, the former-wrestler-turned-coach was twenty-six, and the oldest of the wrestlers had just passed thirty.

Another wrestler, who had been there up until the night before, was now gone.

One futon was left at the back of the room so that it would be ready to sleep on once someone pulled it out; it was folded into thirds, the mattress and the bedding together, waiting for its owner’s return.

The missing boy was Yutaka Kawasaki. At fifteen he was the youngest member of the stable, and had yet to even take the physical examination for new recruits. Before passing the physical one was considered a “guest” in the stable, so the training wasn’t even that hard. If he’s already run away then there’s probably not much use in bringing him back, Hajime Tachibana thought as he dazed towards sleep.

In the corner, about four mats up from where Tachibana slept, Hideo Kaneko lay buried under piles of stuffed animals, booty won from UFO catchers. He wasn’t actually sleeping, but lay awake, wondering if it was because of the sandbag squats he had made them do the day before that the boy had run away.

Or maybe it was because he had hit him twice in the rear with a shinai. He had only meant to fire the kid up, and by Kaneko’s standards he’d only tapped him with the stick, but he supposed even that would scare a kid today out of entering the sumo world.

Then again, maybe it was because, when they were making the regular chanko stew for everyone, Kawasaki was so slow that Kaneko had yelled at him. Maybe because he happened to be holding a kitchen knife and had waved it around a bit when he was yelling, and the pointed blade had scared Kawasaki into thinking he was going to get stabbed.

One Kaneko started thinking he couldn’t seem to fall asleep, and compared to other days, when he would snore louder than anyone, he was unusually quiet.


But, of the six of them, the one farthest from sleep was Yōichi Matsuyama, who lay on a futon square in the middle of the eighty-mat room; all he could think was, “Why didn’t I run away?”

Every time he was about to drift off, an image would float into the back of his mind of fists flying at his face without warning, of relentless kicks landing on his stomach and back, of furiously shaking his head as someone held him from the back, of one wrestler grabbing his hair while another stuck packing tape across his mouth. The fear that overwhelmed him as these memories bore down turned his vision white.

Before their oyakata had gone independent and brought him along to this new stable with its eighty-mat room, his peers’ attacks had been daily occurrences; back then, in a slightly smaller room with a few more people, where nobody but the young wrestlers slept, there had not been a single night when he could sleep peacefully.

When he tried to recall what went through his mind during that time, nothing came to him. At least nothing he could put into words.

To reflect or to consider or to plan, those sorts of things were beyond him. Whether he was going to live or die or breathe or bleed, those were the only ideas he could grasp.

And somehow, Matsuyama thought after a bit, even then I knew.

Violence had a will of its own.

By the time the irrational will of violence took hold of the one who would use it, it had already found a target. Violence had a sixth sense, which it used to seek out its victim. The others, they knew right away. I was their victim.

The only way that Matsuyama could resist the bullying that plagued him through middle school and high school was to shut himself in the tiny second-floor bedroom of his house. Even then, he had a feeling that wasn’t the answer.

Something about his nature attracted them. He had an herbivore’s scent, one that carnivores could easily pick out. Matsuyama could trace this back to the home in which he was raised.

That was why, when his dad’s friend had said, “Why don’t you try training in a sumo stable?” he had set himself to the idea and left home.

Every time someone asked why he had joined the stable he would grin and answer, “Because I can eat a lot!” But the real reason was that the oyakata had come to his house and asked, “Do you want to become stronger?” That had stuck with him.


At the time he hadn’t answered out loud, and even now he used “food” as his excuse, but each time someone asked, he would think the true reason to himself: “I want to become stronger.”

He hoped that someday, this strength would help him outrun that eerily exacting sixth sense and its twisted powers.

No, he was sure that there was no way to escape; he’d been living with it for as long as he could remember. When he became absolutely certain that there was no way out, the cruel will of violence would catch wind of his fear and sneer, that’s right. You know you’ll never be able to get away from me.

Matsuyama let out his breath, then shook his head.

Why didn’t I run away back then?

Even when he was on the bullet train to Tokyo he was followed by a bad feeling, as if it were sitting just over his shoulder and out of sight. Up until about three months after he entered the stable, nothing all that bad happened. But once that three month mark passed, little by little he started getting punched more often than the others, or kicked more often, and before he knew it they weren’t feeding him, and not a day went by when he wasn’t bruised somewhere.
No matter where he went, he couldn’t get away from that force. It didn’t help that all the guys were so buff- they all easily weighed over 100 kilograms- but Matsuyama didn’t even stop to think that he was stupid to come to a place with guys like that.

Before he knew it, he was in hell.

When the oyakata had taken over the place Matsuyama decided to change stables, and his move to the eighty-mat room had barely gotten him out of that hell alive- but even now, the terror would return to him in flashbacks.

Why didn’t I run away back then? He tossed around the question for the third time that night, but even when he scraped at the bottom of his memories, he saw no trace that the idea had ever even occurred to him.

Anyway, I didn’t have a chance to think about it, all I could think about was staying alive. Once again he let out his breath in a sigh.

“Matsuyama!” The former-wrestler-turned-coach plus manager Hideo Kaneko whispered so he wouldn’t wake up the others, but his hoarse voice bounced off the walls and flooded the eighty-mat room. Matsuyama thought that if he answered his voice would be just as loud, so he held back.

“Matsuyama!” Kaneko called one more time.

Then after a bit, in an irritated voice, he called, “I know you’re awake, shut-in!”

“Yessir!” Matsuyama replied reflexively.

“Stop worrying about other people and get some sleep, idiot.” Kaneko lifted his head from his Hello Kitty pillow and whispered again. From that, Matsuyama understood that it was Kaneko himself who was “worrying about other people and couldn’t sleep.”

After a while Hajime Tachibana, who had been sleeping face down, jumped up as if he’d been shocked.

The cell phone he had been holding in his left hand started vibrating. Tachibana turned onto his back, slipped on the glasses he’d left next to his futon, and flipped open his phone. He looked at the little pink envelope in the upper left corner of the screen, and a smile instantly broke out on his face. When he opened his email, he saw,

sleeping?

When he answered im up,

was wonderin how ur doin came back.

today sumthin pretty bad happened

what?


He thought about texting that a new trainee had gone missing, but he had no idea where to start or what to type. Anyway it seemed like it would take a lot of explaining, so he just replied,

next time we meet ill tell u

when’ll that be?

prolly sunday, once i know for sure ill let u know

im waitin

At the end of this text there was a row of heart marks, which got Tachibana really excited.

yep, wait for me! He typed back, and after that there was no answer. He closed his phone and turned over into a sleeping position. When his phone started buzzing again, he opened his email and saw:

u gonna sleep now?

yep, pretty soon

After a pause came the message,

nite nite, which a little graphic of lips after it.

nite *kiss*

It seemed only fitting, so he chose the lips graphic from the menu and put it next to the text, and as he pressed the send button he held the phone up to his lips as if to kiss it.

After that he felt some odd energy down below, and he began to stiffen. Oh crap, I can’t sleep like this, he thought. When will that kid come back, I mean I’m worried too in my own way, I can’t be doing any “hand sumo” at a time like this, nobody’s asleep yet! In order to soothe it, he slapped his hard-on with an open palm.

He couldn’t imagine why a fresh recruit would run out so soon; he wondered if the boy, who had looked so uncomfortable in his corner of the room, ever managed to get a good night’s sleep there.

People like himself, or Otaru over there who wasn’t moving an inch, or even Matsu, who was such a nervous wreck that he gave credit to the idea that it’s easier for those who can sleep anywhere to get along in the world, they were all hanging in there, so what right did this kid have to take off only three days after getting there?

Ever since Matsu had changed stables after being targeted by older trainees and made to skip meals as some sort of “punishment,” the oyakata had told him to “fatten up,” and after more and more feeding, he had gained over 30 kilograms.

Yet, what had changed Matsu more than anything wasn’t the food, but a girl.

For some reason, one of the girls who came by to watch their morning training took a liking to Matsu, and began to come hang out at the stable pretty often. She finally succeeded in going out on a date with him, and before he knew it, Matsu achieved kachi-koshi for the first time. At the outstanding ratio of six wins to one loss, Matsu’s ranking skyrocketed.

When a person changed, they really changed. Now Matsu didn’t smile to cover up his suffering, he truly enjoyed himself. It was like he had moved out of hell and into heaven.

If only Matsu’s relationship had gone on happily, it would have been enough to make anyone believe in God. But there was no way things could continue so smoothly, and it wasn’t long before Matsu had his first breakup.

Even after being punched and kicked, even after surviving eight hours standing under the blazing sun, it was now for the first time that Matsu looked like he had died. He sat stonily on his laid-out futon, an unfocused expression on his face.

That night, like tonight, they had all wanted to sleep but couldn’t, and the eighty-mat room became filled with a tense, almost palpable atmosphere. As Tachibana got further lost in thought, his arousal subsided.

In the first place, it was Tachibana who had happened to spot Matsu’s girlfriend with a wrestler from another stable and emailed Matsu a picture. Even though he felt somewhat guilty, at the time he was sure that the relationship was doomed, and he thought Matsu should know sooner rather than later.

After long consideration, Matsu had called his girlfriend. All she’d had to say was, “I found someone else, so let’s stop seeing each other.”

Two days before that, on Valentine’s Day, Matsu had thought that he would be getting chocolate from a girl for the first time; he waited out the day nervously, even after it passed he was still sort of waiting, and then he thought maybe he would get some the weekend after. The tension was felt by everyone in the stable, and everyone silently felt sorry for him.

Matsuyama. Matsuyama. Hey, shut-in! Hideo Kaneko couldn’t bear to see Matsuyama like that and tried to get his attention. Normally Matsuyama would reply reflexively to being called “shut-in” no matter how tired he was, but on that day alone, he stared off into space without so much as flinching.

Yūji Koike, makushita ranked and the oldest member of the stable, then got up and trekked over to the corner of the room just to see how the younger student was doing. Once he saw the dazed Matsuyama, he waved his hand as if to say “it’s no good,” walked back to his own spot at the center of the room, and whispered that there were fairies swimming in his eyes.

They’d all heard stories of wrestlers whose retinas had gotten detached after getting slapped around too much during training or in tournaments, so that it really did look like bugs were swimming around in their eyes; but in Matsu’s case, “I found someone else, so let’s stop seeing each other,” was enough of a smack-down.

Taking such a blow before any actual competition meant Matsu was wiped out in all of his March tournaments, and the ranking he had worked so hard to earn slid straight down.

It wasn’t long after that incident that Tachibana got a girlfriend himself, which made him realize that being love really did change people’s lives. He made more of an effort in practice than usual, and through that he dominated his March tournaments. After feeling what it was like to brim with the power of love, though, it was all the more painful to see the tragedy of Matsu, who had entered the stable at the same time as him.

Matsu’s sumo career had walked the line between heaven and hell, yet some kid whose career hadn’t even started had already run away; it’s not fair to Matsu, Tachibana thought as he let out a yawn. He re-read his girlfriend’s final text, took off his glasses, and closed his eyes.

Otar Karumidze got up one time during the night to go to the bathroom. When he did, he sensed that one of the wrestlers who slept in the back of the room was still gone.

Otar had come to Japan from a distant country. Once he got into the sumo stable and it came time to find appropriate Chinese characters for his shiko name, he realized that nobody knew a single thing about his homeland.

“Try naming some of the mountains in your country,” they suggested, or asked “Is it near the ocean?” or “What are some of the rivers you know?” It was then Otar, fielding questions in Japanese, who had no idea what was going on. Finally the oyakata said, “Well, you can always change your name once your rankings go up,” and he adopted “Otaru,” the name of a Japanese town with which Otar had no personal connection.

Because of that, wherever he went Otar was called “Otaru.” It didn’t inconvenience him in the least.

The small boy who had just entered the stable was gone from yesterday morning’s practice, and when he didn’t come back in time to eat, Otar asked Tachibana, “Why is he not here?”

“He bailed,” Tachibana replied. Otar tilted his head to one side in confusion, so Koike spoke up from behind him in simple English.

“Home-sick. Go home.”

From that, Otar understood what was going on. The little boy had gone back to the place where his parents were.

People often asked Otar if he ever got homesick, since he came from so far away.

“Not at all,” he would answer with a wave of his hand, which always seemed to please the Japanese people who asked him. But Otar would always pause to think about just where his “home” was.

What he remembered was a place from where, if you drove on bumpy roads for thirty minutes, you could see the ocean, a village with a mild climate where he had spent his early childhood. Near the village flowed a small stream, and when he was a child he and his friends often played and caught fish there. In his yard were several quince trees, and when the fruit ripened the trees gave off a pleasant smell.

His sister, six years older than him, hated coffee but loved using coffee to tell fortunes, so when the adults all finished their cups of Turkish coffee she would look at the dregs; she was skilled at finding some sort of meaning in them and interpreting it for everyone. Until the time when he and his sister had flown to a city far in the east, this small village had been their home.

A little after he started elementary school, war broke out in the city nearest the village.

Bomber planes began to fly the skies above them, and soon the village had its own airfield. Looking down from the hills they could see plumes of black smoke drifting up from the nearby city, and here and there stood quivering pillars of red fire.

After deciding it was too dangerous to live there any longer, his parents contacted an uncle who lived in a large city further inland, and they sent their children ahead to live there. Otar was seven, his sister thirteen.

They never went back to that village. Now they would never be able to. Like many of his fellow countrymen during that civil war, they became refugees.

His parents fled to the city soon after, so he supposed that he could call the place he had lived between the ages of seven and twelve home. His mother and sister still lived on the first floor of that old concrete building. His father had gone to another country to earn a living, only returning on Christmas. It had been the same ever since the family moved to that city: his father sent money, which his mother put towards raising the children.

The doctor’s family next door liked throwing parties. They would always invite the entire neighborhood into a room that faced an inner courtyard, where they would all sing and dance. He wondered if, even now, they were all getting together like that.

Somewhere along the way his sister had stopped telling fortunes with coffee. Now she was out of school, working at the city post office.

Every once in a while Otar wound develop intense cravings for sour nut or fruit jams. Or goat cheese, or turkey cooked and seasoned with herbs, or snacks that involved mashing up fruits and nuts.

But thinking these thoughts, that was different. It wasn’t like he wanted to go back or anything.

The sumo world was simple, beautiful. At six a.m. they would wake up, go down to the practice ring, sprinkle sand on the arena, and begin to do shiko, which mean raising and stomping their legs. Otar loved the atmosphere of mornings. During cold winters on the practice ring their breath came out white, but for a short time, they were surrounded by warmth. The wrestlers’ body temperatures would go up, sweat would pour out; by the time the intensity of practice waned the room would be hot and humid, and their breath would no longer be white.

After doing sanban-geiko or butsukari-geiko several times, their entire bodies would be red. When they slammed together, their muscles would expand and contract. In order for their bodies to remember that sensation, they faced each other again and again.

The body was an essential part of training.

Nothing else had meaning. Push; approach; toss; hang; all were movements of the body. That’s where their power lay. If they were strong, they won; it was a simple truth.

It wasn’t much different from what Otar had learned as a wrestler in middle school or high school, what had been pounded into his consciousness day in and day out.

This body is mine, Otar thought. Nobody can take this body away from me. And this body alone will bring the future to me. It will carry me out of my past and into the future.

Think of this stable as your home, everyone had told him when he first came. Maybe they were right. He tried telling himself: I have no other home, this is it.

But, for Otar, the concept of “home” was not all that important.

What was important was “body;” an obstinate body, a body that didn’t know defeat. As long as he had his body, even if he had come to a world he could not have even imagined existed in his youth, he knew that he would take control of his future.

That little boy, who had looked so uncomfortable in his corner of the room, probably had something more important to him than his body. Otar thought that, in its own right, might be something to be jealous of.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say the wrestlers didn’t sleep that night; at some point, both they and the fledgling referee drifted into deep sleeps.

When morning came they stirred as usual, folded their futons in three, put on their mawashi, and went down to the training area.

“Hey guys,” the oyakata called them over to the viewing area.

The wrestlers, who had begun to do suriashi and shikobumi exercises, came together, stood up straight, and looked up at him.

“Apparently he was wandering around Tokyo Station.”

“When you say ‘he,’ do you mean him?” Kaneko asked after a pause.

“Yep, him. Seems he didn’t go home after all.”

“Wonder what he was doing?” Tachibana mused, pushing up his glasses.

To which Kaneko answered in the oyakata’s place, “Like he said, he was wandering.”

“I mean, wandering at a time like this, that’s just weird,” Tachibana retorted.

“Since he was roaming around looking so out of it, one of the station employees flagged him down and took him to the nearest police station. From what they told me, he said ‘I’ll go home in the morning, so just let me be for tonight.’”

“Weirdo,” Tachibana muttered.

“When he said ‘go home,’ I wonder if he meant here?” Yūji Koike thought aloud.

“I think he did. Even though we all assumed he’d run away to his own home. They contacted me this morning, so I’ll be going. Kane, you’re in charge.” As the oyakata left Kaneko, or “Kane,” yelled “Yessir!” and the wrestlers went back to their usual exercises.

“What a strange guy, I wonder why he didn’t go home,” Kaneko mumbled.

Otar, who until then had kept quiet, said in fluent Japanese as he faced a wooden pillar, “Maybe he doesn’t have a home to go back to.” The other four stared at him thinking that maybe, all this time, they had been lied to.

“Hey, Otaru, your hair has really grown! Better dye it black before your first tournament. Soon you’ll even be able to pull it back!” Koike exclaimed. Otar turned and gave him a wide grin.

“Matsuyama, you had a pretty rough time in your last stable, didn’t you? Why didn’t you run away?” The manager plus coach Kaneko asked. Matsuyama, a surprised look on his face, replied:

“I used to be a shut-in, I don’t know my way back home.”

The ring exploded with laughter, then fell back into silence as the wrestlers resumed practice. After that, nobody mentioned the boy who had run away.

He probably wanted to be stronger too, Matsuyama said to himself, and continued to push at the wooden pillar.


(Translated from Japanese by Maya Katzir)

Homing Pigeons

Maxine Case
South Africa

Mr Peterson’s body is small and wiry. People say that he looks like an angry, underfed rooster. His house is directly opposite Ma’s. Although Ma and Mr Peterson have been neighbours for years, they are not what you’d consider friends. When they see each other, they greet politely enough; exchange the usual pleasantries, but no more than that. Ma says that Mr Peterson is not our class. When I ask her what she means, she just looks at me. But then again, Ma says that most people are not our class.

Mr Peterson had spent most of his working years toiling as a deliveryman for Sunrise Bakery. Every morning he would get up way before dawn, long before Ma’s chickens would stir. You could hear him whistling “Pedro the Fisherman” in the dark as he pulled his old, faded green Datsun out of his driveway. He would drive all the way to Elsies River to collect his huge bread truck laden with basket upon basket of hot loaves of bread.

Whenever I saw a bread truck passing I would crane my neck, hoping to catch sight of him. I never did see Mr Peterson in his truck since his route was far away in “the townships”. By the time I came home from school in the afternoon, Mr Peterson would be at his usual place on the long, wooden bench on his stoep, sucking on his pipe, sipping his tea sweetened with Gold Cross condensed milk from his saucer.

Yes, he knew very well that Gold Cross cost a little more, but it was the one luxury he afforded himself. And so Mr Peterson sat on his stoep and watched the world pass by, every afternoon until five o’clock when Mrs Peterson summoned him to the supper table. On weekends Mr Peterson drove brides in their wedding cars. The extra money Mr Peterson made from the weddings he saved separately in a special account at the Post Office. Everyone knew that he was saving this money so that he could go overseas one day.

According to Ma, Mr Peterson didn’t have many expenses as he had inherited his house from his late father. “Now there was a gentleman,” Ma would say, “so unlike his son!”

“What do you mean Ma?” I’d ask.

“His father fought in the war,” Ma would answer with a faraway look in her eyes. “In Italy. Some people say that he had a woman there. A white woman, mind you! Some people say that she had a child from him. A little boy.”

“Really Ma?” I’d ask; thrilled every time I was privy to grown up secrets. But she would not tell any more than that.

Maybe Mr Peterson was saving so he could go to Italy to find his little brother, I mused.

Still, I thought it ironic that Mr Peterson would fly all the way to Italy to find a brother when his sister lived right next door and they had not spoken to each other for years. The funny thing about their fall-out is that no one can remember what it was all about in the first place. No one can remember a time when they were on speaking terms though. Only a low wall separates the two houses, yet it is never breached. Mr Peterson does not allow his wife and children to greet his sister and her family, which is really pathetic, according to Ma as the two families still attend the same church in which their parents married and in which they were both baptised. “… and that is not the way of the Lord.”

Mr Peterson lives with his wife Mavis, his daughter Lizzie and his son Patrick. Also living in the house is Mr Peterson’s mother-in-law, old Mrs Arendse. Ma says that Mr Peterson spends so much time outside the house because all the women gang up on him. We address Mrs Arendse, Mrs Peterson and Miss Lizzie as such, but Patrick is just Patrick. People say that Patrick is the spitting image of his father because he too is dark and thin and wiry. I think that Patrick can never look like his father since his face is smooth and not flecked with old acne scars like Mr Peterson’s is. Also, Patrick is nice. He smiles and calls me by my name whenever he sees me. Sometimes he gives me a Mint Imperial out of the box that he carries in his pocket. Patrick is always sucking peppermints. Ma says that it is to disguise his breath because he smokes behind the bioscope. She says that it serves the Petersons right since they think they are so high and mighty.

By this, I think that she means that they are God-fearing. Very God-fearing. Our family does not attend church. Not since my mother fell pregnant with me and the minister refused to baptise me because my mother was not married to my father.

Mr Peterson’s sister is Mrs September. She is a widow. Her husband died many years ago in a car accident. Her daughters May and June live with her. I call them Miss May and Miss June, just as Ma taught me. They used to give me Marie biscuits out of the biscuit barrel in their pantry whenever Ma sent me over with a message. On Sunday mornings before church, Mrs September plays hymns that wake the neighbourhood as the music cascades from her house. Sunday is the only day of the week that her front door is wide open. She fears that robbers, Moslems or black men will break into her house, so usually the door is triple-bolted against such threats. Her curtains too, are never open, except for a Sunday when the sunlight steams in as the gospel music streams out.

Once one of our Moslem neighbours complained about the loudness of the hymns, but Mrs September rightly countered that there was nothing that she could do about it. After all, did she complain when she was woken every morning by the bilal blasting from the nearby mosque? On this point both of the siblings agreed. Ma told me so. I thought that maybe Mr Peterson wanted to go overseas to escape the silent feud with his sister.

There is another sister. A legitimate one. Esther is the youngest child and the one with the looks, as Ma says. She lives in faraway London. Ma says that she left when she was very young. In those days if you wanted to go overseas you had to go by ship and Esther left on the last voyage of the Union Castle. From this I surmise that she can’t be that young after all!

Soon after she arrived in cold, “it rains all the time” London, Esther met a nice young man whom she married after a respectable time. “A white man, mind you!”

Maybe Mr Peterson wanted to go to London to see his sister. I had heard that not only was she beautiful, she was kind. Maybe Mr Peterson wanted to enjoy some sisterly kindness.

Not that he was a kind person. I’d greet him brightly whenever I saw him as I had been taught. Sometimes he’d reply with a forced, “good afternoon girlie.” Most times, however, his reply was more like a snarl, “hernuff”. The children of the neighbourhood knew better than to allow our balls to land in Mr Peterson’s garden, which was not really a garden. It was nothing more than a bare patch of sand. Granted, a neat, meticulous patch of sand, but Ma said that Mr Peterson did not have the patience to tend a garden.

“When old Mr Peterson was alive, that garden had the tallest dahlias in the whole of Wynberg,” Ma would say. “He used to give me bulbs to plant. That son of his,” she said, gesturing in the direction of Mr Peterson sitting on his stoep, “dug up the garden after he died.” With a cynical smile, she added, “Maybe he thought that it was a waste of water.”

“Yes Ma,” I agreed wisely.

Ma says that Mr Peterson is so rude because he is a miserable man. Maybe that is why he wants to go overseas where no one knows him and his ways.

It seemed that the only things Mr Peterson really had time for were his pigeons. He built a large, wooden pigeon coop at the back of his house. Every evening right after supper he’d go there to feed them.

Everyone knew that Mr Peterson hoped to race his pigeons one day. Some evenings my uncle Edgar would sit with Mr Peterson on his stoep listening to his stories of winning a great pigeon race and of course his trip overseas that he would take one day. Through the lace curtain covering Ma’s bedroom window, I would watch the two men in animated conversation as they discussed the virtues of the various breeds. And the perils and wonder of overseas travel, of course. We got most of our information about Mr Peterson from Uncle Edgar. When he came home after sitting on the stoep, Ma would start asking him questions until she knew all there was to know.

The rest of the neighbourhood was pretty much united against Mr Peterson’s pigeons and his pigeon coop. They made the most horrendous cooing cacophony. And the smell if the wind blew in a certain direction, or you happened to venture too close to Mr Peterson’s driveway! And pigeons brought rats into the area. Everyone knew that.

The only thing that interested me about the pigeons was how they would unerringly find their way home after Mr Peterson let them fly free to exercise their wings. From our front yard, I would watch Mr Peterson anxiously scanning the sky as he waited for his precious birds to return. I would silently marvel at the precise “V” formation in which the birds flew as they returned to the roost.

Watching the birds soaring in the darkening sky, I wondered whether they inspired Mr Peterson to fly away.

It took years and years, but eventually Mr Peterson had scraped together enough money for his plane ticket. Our entire neighbourhood was ablaze with the news. It was all everyone spoke about for a long time. The night before Mr Peterson was to fly away, you would have sworn that he was a Moslem man about to go on pilgrimage to Mecca from the amount of visitors he received! Even Ma went over with a plate of kollewyntjies.

“How come Mr Peterson is going alone?” I asked Ma. After all, he was still married; his wife was still alive. It was most odd.

“Who knows what that man is up to,” Ma said obliquely, but from the keen look on her face, I could tell that she too was perplexed.

“Maybe you can ask Mrs Peterson,” I suggested.

Ma just rolled her eyes. I should have known better. It was not done to ask such personal questions. Anyway, most people agreed that Mrs Arendse was getting very old and someone had to look after her. That was probably why Mrs Peterson would not be accompanying her husband on his much-anticipated overseas trip.

Mr Peterson’s destination was a bit of an anti-climax. It was London after all. The neighbours — Ma included — made unkind comments about this. It had to be that Mr Peterson was too cheap to pay for accommodation in a foreign country. He would be staying with Esther in London. And the gifts that people pressed on him to take to her! Some people say that under the cover of darkness Mrs September left a jar of her famous watermelon konfyt on Mr Peterson’s stoep with Esther’s name on it. Other people say that it was jam. I still wonder whether it found its way into his suitcase and arrived at Esther’s in London.

The air was still and stuffy the day that Mr Peterson left. A relentless summer’s day, but beautiful too. Ma said, “Trust Mr Peterson to go from the heat of Cape Town to the icy cold of London.” Flowers and people wilted under the burning sun as all the neighbours came out onto their stoeps when Patrick drove his father to the airport. We watched as Patrick hefted the heavy suitcase into the old Datsun. Smiled wryly when Mrs Peterson dabbed her ever-present handkerchief to her dry eyes. And of course we all noticed the slight twitch of Mrs September’s curtains as she watched the spectacle. None of us could believe that Mr Peterson was finally about to realise his dream. We had to see it to believe it. With a jaunty hoot from Patrick, they were on their way.

As the weeks passed, Mr Peterson in faraway London was soon forgotten. Things were changing fast in our country. PW Botha of the wagging finger had been forced to resign a few months before, to Ma’s glee. His position was now occupied by FW de Klerk — not that it meant much to us, Ma pointed out. The “Nats” were all the same, she pronounced. Yet, now in the new year, there were whispers and rumours that Nelson Mandela, whom Ma said had been in jail for over 20 years, was going to be released from prison. Other people said that our country was on the verge of a civil war.

Then unexpectedly, it was discovered that there was substance to the rumours after all, when it was announced that several political parties were to be unbanned and that Mr Mandela was truly going to be released. Ma said that it was a pity that Mr Peterson was not here to share the exciting changes. He was a strong supporter of the government. He had gone around to the neighbours to try to convince them to vote in the tricameral elections a few years back, much to Ma’s disgust.

Everyone was in a buzz the day that Mr Peterson was due back. Since I was not due back at college yet, I would be able to witness his return. I swept and reswept the stoep and Ma kept on delaying watering the front garden until it was quite late. We waited and waited. In those days overseas travel was an occasion and those lucky few who travelled were treated like celebrities.

We all wanted to hear about Buckingham Palace and Big Ben and of course whether he had managed to lay his eyes on Princess Diana, whom we all loved. What were the British really like and was it as cold as people said? Of course Mr Peterson was not the kind of man to share such stories with his neighbours, but we knew that eventually all the details of his trip would get around.

I went inside to answer the phone, so I missed it, but Ma said that Mr Peterson barely glanced at his neighbours milling around their front yards. Patrick opened the gates and pulled the car into the driveway, instead of parking it in the street as he usually did.

“Something funny’s going on,” Ma intrigued.

“Maybe Mr Peterson’s giving himself airs now that he’s finally been overseas,” I suggested, disappointed that I had not seen him myself. All I had was Ma’s word to go by.

It was Uncle Edgar who told us the story, told to him in drips and drabs over the weeks following Mr Peterson’s return. Apparently the overriding ambition in Mr Peterson’s desire to travel was that he longed to sleep with a white woman. Just once, and at any expense. Snowy white was what he wanted. As snowy white as he was pitch black. Actually, not pitch black. He was more blue — navy blue. “Blue-black” is what Ma thought and she said as much. When he first thought about his desperate need to experience a white woman, it was still illegal to do so. The immorality act was around and was strictly enforced by young, white policemen with flashlights. And there was Mrs Peterson and the church and all that. It had to be overseas!

Mr Peterson had heard stories of women who could be chatted up easily and who did not discriminate against dark, scrawny men with pockmarked skin. Yes, it was easy to get a white woman if you went overseas. The men spoke about it on his bread-route; they spoke about it at the pigeon racing venues; they spoke about it after their tournaments at the dart club. This was the wild yearning that fuelled Mr Peterson through the early mornings as he drove his bread truck. This was what got him through one weekend wedding after another. Visions of creamy white or pale pink pudenda with sparse or prolific blonde or red hair got him through the derision of the neighbourhood, the critical glares of the three women inside his very house and his sister’s silent scorn. What man more deserved his ambition to come true than he?

And did it happen? “Sort of,” Uncle Edgar said with a smile.

“It either did or it didn’t!” Ma scoffed.

“Well, the rand is not worth as much as the pound,” Uncle Edgar smiled like the cat that got the cream, “and when you convert rands to pounds, there is not much and you have to pay for these favours as if they are merchandise displayed in the shop windows.”

“Did he or didn’t he?” Ma demanded.

“All he could afford,” Uncle Edgar said wryly and I’m not sure whether he was enjoying this or not “was a look at the goods — what after converting rands into pounds.”

“A look?” Ma shrieked indignantly. “Do you pay to look too?”

“Apparently so” Uncle Edgar said slowly, twisting his moustache in his fingers. “Apparently so.”

And so Mr Peterson still goes about his business, ever since he has retired from Sunrise Bakery. He spends his mornings walking to the end of the road and back. He still sits on the stoep in the afternoons, sipping his sweet tea from his saucer and sucking on his pipe. He still gets dressed up in his navy-blue suit and white shirt to drive brides around at weekends, although sometimes Patrick does it when the arthritis in his father’s knees gets the better of him. And Mr Peterson still has the countenance of an angry rooster, unless of course a plane passes overhead. He rises to his feet and stands to attention as if in the army. He sits only when the plane has passed. People say he is going mad.

The pigeons? The pigeons, yes. Some he sold; some he gave away; some died of natural causes. The pigeon coop is empty. These days the door creeks eerily in the late October winds that tease the Cape at this time of the year. The hinges have come undone. The empty pigeon coop is a dismal reminder of a dream that once was.

The Mount Bouton

Salomat Vafo
Uzbekistán

Many years ago people awoke and found a mountain had settled in a distance from their village. They named it Mount Bouton or the migrated mountain. I was like this mountain, coming from a strange land. I had been to Mount Bouton before, yet I remained a stranger here. Each time I came, the land and the village held a miraculous sway for me: a place a sleepy dreams so unlike the noisy city I had known.

When we first met, the Priest and I, he told me the mountain’s long story: a lone stone going back hundreds of years, uniting the people under its long shadow.

Camels reigned here- in the land of age-old winds. Flocks set their cold, arrogant eyes against the passing wayfarers and cars. When I saw them first I thought them to be the last generation of dinosaurs to survive on earth.

This place was the last glimpse of a dying world, dragging itself along in this country of winds. Any man or woman who came here would surely come face-to-face with their true self. The land held a great silence while the winds of the wilderness played in the sand and weeds, burying the ruins of the ancient citadels. But the wind could not destroy the neverending silence. It seemed as if the land itself forced a man to sit in the silence, the past and think of his true self. The silence was pierced only by the winds and voice of a moaning man in the far distance, coming from the mountain. But the mountain was high and the moaning was lost on the mountain’s height and the dreams of hope that people placed on it. In all its majesty, Mont Bouton was the birthplace and hope of kind deeds.

I felt a strangeness when I first stayed in the Yurti at the foot of the mountain. As I looked up through the yurti’s toynniq, I saw the starlit sky and my heart nearly stopped beating at its sight. There was something uncommon and forceful about that sky that troubled and moved my human heart.

That night, as I lied in the yurt, I listened to the waves of nearby Sariqqamish lake and the howls of distant jackals. A dual feeling of dread and weakness arose within me. I hoped that the dread and horror would serve a purpose and preserve me from death and the loss of my soul. My mind quickly turned and ran towards light and life to settle my thoughts and bring my soul to sleep.

My God, why such a feeble and cheating man you have created?!

Though a man may be a leader in this world, he is forceless before his true mother: nature. He is only a bit, a small atom in the face of his secular and endless mother.

To be honest, my travel to the land of eternal winds was unsuccessful. For my will was given all to man called Priest.

Priest was the head of an empire. Every day he ascended Mount Bouton and prayed for the God-Sun. But why? I did not understand the reason for it. I thought that God must see him in the land. God of Gods is on the Earth, in hearts.

All the calamities began that day. The day Priest showed me his empire.

He told me this: the archangels Michael, Gabriel and Azrael brought the Mount Bouton from Mecca. One the day of Doom, the angels will come to take it back when Azrael plays his flute. I thought of this as we, the Priest and I climbed together before the sunrise. As we climbed I looked around me: the land was colorless and abandoned. The cold overpowered the land’s silence. It was desert: cold nights and hot days. As we reached the mountain’s top I looked out into the far distance.

Countless burrs, weeds, the ruined citadels and roads zigzaging the land, appeared blackened by the distance. Yet the camels, those dinosaurs of dry land were gone, as if they rested somewhere in the mountain’s shadow. I followed the Priest. He seemed a creator separated from his own will. We carried on our pilgrimage in different tombs upon the mountain. His sweet young voice rang out in the empty rooms, as if the great people, buried within the earth would shake and stand up from the sound. I could not understand this: it was beyond my power. I refused to think too much about it. I could only shed tears.

As for the Priest, he danced on as a snake amused by his own sorcery, blind deaf and dumb to his surroundings. He reminded me of my newborn son, so calm and damp after suckling. The priest was like this: his face glistening like a monument in honor of a Hindu god.

The power of his prayer crept upon the Priest’s face as he rubbed his forehead against the stone again and again, pleading for forgiveness. A strange young power controlled his body, as if he could fly off the mountain. He was beautiful: the angel of all the worlds. Any human could see. Though beautiful is not a word for a man, it was true. His beauty, against the stones, was real.

Gracious me, there was courage on his face. Many women came to this ruinous land of eternal winds to see his face and hear his prayers. Looking at his whitish face, his sharp nose and slender lips I thought perhaps I came here for him. This man.

What destiny is this?

After so many difficulties, I found my way. But what…what happened? Why did I come here? Why did I meet this damned Priest?

I came from so far to see only this priest. I felt a strange carnality for him and as a sensitive women, I became a slave to this man- beautiful on the inside and outside. I saw him as an ideal: a perfect man. In my heart he held great power, a never-ending sweet dream.

As we moved through the tomb I noticed that the Priest was not indifferent to my presence. He looked me not straight in the eye, but away as he continued his prayers. As we passed through the saints tombs he looked at me and said, “This is Father Jabron. The great upheaval of doomsday will start here, from this holy man’s grave.”

Oh, I envied him, my Priest. He continued to look at me and told me of the day when Azreal will play his flute to summon all the saints of the world, out of their graves. I said to him cautiously, “They will awaken and yawn, asking why they cannot sleep more.” I felt his faith and felt it pass into me.

As the sun rose, the wind, the ceaseless wind blew stronger. Bactrian camels drifted in and out of the burrs and weeds as the wilderness bled into the blurred skyline.

I looked over at Priest and saw caprice in his eyes. I worried- was it the sun? The wind blew harder, blowing over my anger and the Priest’s prayers, tugging impishly at my clothes and my scarf. I looked upward and thought, for whom does the Priest pray for in this solitude?

I grew tired of the great ruins and perpetual grief on the praying priest’s face. How could I bear it? Me, a fine girl so used to the bustling life of the city. I decided to go. I went to the mountain.

From the tomb I could see the great ruins of the fortress and the pits dug around its city. A river flowed out from behind one of the pits and left only it’s old banks as a trail. I looked at the fortress. No doubt one of virgin girls. Its high walls and guarded minarets curved with ceramic pieces adorning the surfaces. Oh, how I wished to gather them all. I breathlessly counted the minarets, twenty-five in all.

I entered the fortress and fell into a dream. Inside the second floor stood a large reception room where the queen welcomed her people on her throne. Forty charming soldier girls walked out with the queen. Dogs barked in anticipation from their small hovels as the soldier girls flew out to battle. They brought back their foes heads but it was too late. The fortress was ruined by the brute aggression of the cannibal devil and he married the forty angels.

I tasted smoke: was true that the angels dine here? And then I heard the priest’s voice behind me, “You should not be here alone.” I turned and saw him looking steadily at me. His body was wet with sweat. Worry creeping over his face, he ran to me and softly begged me not to repeat this act. I nodded and smiled.

Farewell virgin girls! Good-bye to their beauty passed on to eternity. Goodbye to my own pure dreams…

As I stood there I grew cold and weak, like an old flower tired of standing so long in its thin glass vase. As I fell down, my hopelessness smashed hard on top of me. I was overcome and taken to the yurti by the priest.

Some time passed, I could tell. The priest was changed and yet the same. He welcomed the pilgrims and prayed all day long, not coming down from the mountain, or, if he did, he never came into the yurti. All I could do was follow his ethereal figure in his white clothes and strain to hear the sound of his voice from the hollow of the house.

A young girl accompanied him on these days. She followed the priest like his shadow and continuously asked him what he needed. Right there I understood my fault. I had to learn the Priest’s ways, his beliefs and desires. At the very least I would flirt like the woman I am. After all, a slave can be clever as the day wanes to night.

But he was cruel. Either he showed me his mercifulness or tried to brush me aside. He did not take me back up the mountain. I only got up hearing his voice echo down from the mountain. Being ill in bed I thought of my future with aching despair. I was weak as a child and was mocked and beaten by the other children. They did not play with me. I waited for a Hercules who would one day come on a flying horse and take me away. Instead I met up time and time again with scoundrels, and gallants through the ups and downs in my life. My dream was not found. I married, but it did not matter to me, it was lost. Who I looked for, I did not know. I found in a man a height similar to mine, but I could not find a heart like my own.

I left all my wealth, my life that others envied, my beloved profession to become sand under an empire of eternal winds, yet the priest brushed me away. If I come they will kill me. If they do not, I will die myself.

I looked at the black mountain before me, lounging like a camel lying at night. In the lightsome dawns I thought of my pilgrimage with the priest. I thought of his whitish face and I wept. Could it be that all my memories end here?

The Priest told me how he studied in a remote city of Russia. He stayed in a hospital for ten years and then came to the place of pilgrimage and was healed. I felt it was here that he became a man. As we talked I learned more about him and he about me. We agreed and disagreed, but all the same we understood each other and were happy. The emperor of the land of eternal winds was like that.

The young girl did his errands. Together they read lectures for the visiting pilgrims and sometimes they passed a book between them, studying it together. As I saw them I thought of my son, my lonely son worried that I might die here.

Over time I understood that my fate was connected to this man, the Priest and at last he would tell me my fate- the reason why I was here. Days passed and sheep were sacrificed in the place of pilgrimage. I saw their meat, their blood and foul entrails curling in the sun all day. I was disgusted and did not eat meat. Once a fat sheep escaped from behind me. The villagers ran after it and finally caught it, just on the edge of sunset. They found it had a baby lamb.

By night the light in the Priest’s room never dimmed as I kept my eye on him. I saw how he lit the stone lamps at the tombs. He gave the lamps a special kindness and gazed lovingly at their soft beams. Once he told me that it was ordered that the stone lamps stay lit. but I did not ask who ordered this or when.

During the daytime I suffered mildly from his indifference so I wandered near the ruins so as not to sit in the yurti’s darkness. I dug and collected the pieces of ceramic buried within the fortress. One day I even found a gold coin with a woman’s image on it. The pilgrims told me to watch out for the white wolves in the ruins but I never saw them there. I was afraid of wolves, but knew I would never see them there. My greatest love was the fortress’s minarets. One day I climbed the highest one and looked down on the empire of endless winds. I saw the yurtis from afar and the smoke and pilgrims on the mountain from a distance. Sometimes I saw the priest on a rock or a hill with his hand protecting his eyes from the sun as he looked on. As I stood in the fortress I counted the minarets. Each time as I counted them I stopped at twenty-five and thought of what I would create if I were a painter or a writer. I thought of my fortress and flourishing women riders coming in and out of its gates, the snorts of the horses, the clang and voices of the blacksmiths, clamor and laughter.

Once I raised my head and saw a huge camel bellowing, running straight to me. I ran quickly, thinking only of saving myself. Is it correct then, that the meaning of life is simply to save oneself? The ceramic pieces fell down and the camel ran after me, as if death himself. It is said that if you ever see the camel in your dreams, it is surly a sign of death. But I saw the Priest in the distance, running, his voice bellowing, a stick in his hand. He overtook the camel and stopped him. I flew to his arms and felt him palpitate and tremble with fear.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Don’t worry, have no fear. I am with you. The camels seek out the color red in the spring. This one- he saw your red dress and followed you from afar. This is the land of camels. They hibernate here.” He paused, “Look at me!”
I could not look at him.

He went on: “Where did you come from? Why?” he asked me despairingly. “I spent fifteen years of my life for nothing. To withdraw all my material possessions to withdraw from all things. But again, I am crossed by a woman. I have lost my mind this way!”

He pleaded, “If you have mercy, please leave me. Get out. If I change my ways I will die. Your way is different and you do not belong to this ground.”

So I left this land. The empire of the winds. The camels, virgin girls, ruins of the fortress, burrs and weeds… all left behind. As I left I thought of the meaning of a human being’s life and of the constants of separation and loss. I walked along the path and thought of the sacred moments that changed my life completely, the black recollections of my past. How will I live on now and what will my fate be?

As I left this foreign land I murmured these words, “Oh my spiritual guide, my great sheik Sa’non, it is I a woman, knocking about these two worlds for I became the Mount Bouton!”