by Hades
CHAPTER 3
They Meet
I walked for a while down the road, with my shoes in my hand, observing the local people in this never-ending paradise, and thinking to myself. The families always seem to be together, helping in the work around the house. As I walked, I watched what seemed to be a mother, a father and all the kids patching up a house alongside the road.
How close they all must be. Dreadful how in the States we are so far from all our relatives. Here there must not be a single thing wrong in all their little world. I wonder if they ever quarrel among themselves. Well of course they must, but I wonder.
And who is this? It must be the daughter. She’s helping too! She must be at least nineteen or twenty. And how pleasant her smile looks. No makeup, nor painted nails. No shoes for that matter, although most everyone is barefoot here. Just look at the way she plays with her younger brothers while she works. Really, what a beautiful smile.
The women on this island are so good looking. I wonder what one must do to meet one of them. What would one do to show interest? I suppose one must first go to the father and mother, or something of that nature, seeing as they’re so close.
What a pretty little white dress she is wearing. Like a flower, so plain yet beautiful. I don’t know about the States. Too many accessories. All the things women add to their dresses and their faces. It’s like putting too many toppings on your ice cream sundae. Eventually you lose the flavor of the vanilla. We have to start looking more towards the plain and simple things, and getting away from thinking that more is better. It just confuses things.
Look at her. She is beautiful just plain. I don’t mean that she looks plain and unsophisticated, her poise alone strikes me in its complexity, I just mean wholesome, like plain apple pie. Oh, she is beautiful, isn’t she? So what must I do to meet her, because now I think I have to! I’ll just sit here by the side of the road and sip from my coconut drink, acting casual, to see what happens next. And look! She’s glancing back at me.
Stay cool Finch. I’m sure that’s a little more than a curious glance. She’s not intimidated at all, like the girls in the states. Oh if only her family wasn’t there, I’d go up to her right now. Well I’ll just keep playing it cool and look uninterested for a while longer. That should work because I can feel her looking at me still. Yep, reassuring! I’m pretty sure she’s at least a little infatuated, so I just have to wait it out and look for my chance.
Stay very inconspicuous Mr. Finch; don’t let on what your game is. Wait your turn to make the move. And look, there’s my chance! Her mom and dad are going inside. Just the kids are left.
What threat can they possibly pose? I suppose I could just go over and introduce myself, or make some remark about her dress; but that won’t make a good enough first impression. I could be blunt and tell her she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’m sure that line hasn’t filtered its way to this island yet.
While yet engaged in this conversation with myself, one of her brothers noticed me mumbling and planning to myself. Such a strange man looking at their sister. He pointed me out to his other brother, probably no more than a year older than he was, and they both began to tease and yell as they pointed their fingers.
I took this as an opportunity of luck. What a perfect opening line, I thought, while I rushed over. To entertain them I feathered my hair up, so that it would look like a chicken, then looked up at the kids and said: “Mira chicos, soy un campesino loco.” (Which means, I am a crazy country boy.) I played my “campesino game” some more, before recognizing the boys to be the same two kids I’d met earlier at the beach.
What a stroke of luck! I often tell myself how convenient it is, the way fate works. Somehow, I had managed to go to the same house that I would have ended up at if I had chosen to follow the boys’ invitation. They were already my friends, so it wouldn’t be too hard to meet their sister.
I continued playing with the boys, trying to impress their sister. First the role of a chicken, then a turkey, and finally a mad man. “And now boys, a chicken! Bock, bock, bock, bock, cock!” The kids were very amused, and so was the girl. She laughed some.
It was all very silly indeed, but nice. I could tell she was thinking that I was a pleasant man and that she liked me, although she could hardly understood any of the words I said. It was funny enough just looking at me. Her smile was tender. I had made such a good impression that I couldn’t help being proud of myself.
After my show was over, she had to surgically remove the two boys from off my legs; which had become fireman posts for them to play on. This big funny friend wasn’t something the boys were going to let go of easily. I didn’t mind any of it. They were beautiful kids and I really did like them. It was a feeling I didn’t have to fake, and that was something she found very attractive.
There was little verbal communication between she and I, because she didn’t speak a word of English, and very little Spanish. The moment was awkward and made me feel foolish, but I had to laugh at myself. Gee, I must have looked stupid. I guess it was all in good fun.
Now would have been the time for that Spanish that I never learned while sleeping in class, to kick in. But even if I had learned Spanish really well, it wouldn’t have helped much more because she mostly spoke Guarani-mezclado; which is a local tongue composed of Guarani mixed with Spanish. Her whole family spoke it, but the boys could speak a lot more Spanish than the rest of them. The whole island spoke this tongue, but only half the population could speak Spanish; and even less of that number could read or write. I supposed I could understand the boys enough.
Her mother and father returned as she was still pulling the unwilling grabbing monkeys away from my legs. The mother looked puzzled and made a couple of inquiries, to the girl, as to whom I was. The girl responded, with a smile and a lot of explanation, although I didn’t have a clue about what was being said. After the inquiries, the mother seemed to be satisfied enough, and she waved her hand to the kids as one might do to a cat or dog begging at the table. They resisted her command, a bit, because they didn’t want to leave my legs, but soon found their mother’s will was stronger, and went indoors without any more resistance to her authority.
Fascinated with this new visitor, both the father and mother pulled up a couple of chairs and sat to study me. So what does one say to someone who doesn’t understand a word you’re saying, but whom you want to make understand because you want him or her to like you?
Their smiles were very pleasant. It was the look of tender parents, very trusting and giving. The mother made little gestures at me, attempting to communicate. It made it easier for me to understand them, but I still felt as a know-nothing that didn’t even know how to speak. Still they were very kind, and soon I wasn’t uncomfortable. I sat with them, in what was the beginning of a mute conversation between two peoples of different worlds. I was on the one side, while they on the other; and they were able to speak among themselves while trying to communicate with me, “the curious stranger.”
Ironically, it wasn’t the type of awkwardness I anticipated. Instead, I actually remember having a good time. I’m sure we didn’t do anything too interesting, to provide much entertainment, besides me falling off my chair once, creating a good bit of laughter for quite a time. We began a friendship that didn’t need any words. It was one that was created with no deception, because a clean form of communication forged it. Nothing could be said that would be a lie.
Thinking about it, I believe never to have had equally as gratifying an experience at sharing myself with any other group of people. It was almost better not to have used words. I was sharing what was essentially me without the need for any form of persuasion to prove my good nature. I didn’t have to persuade them by telling them about my career or diplomas. My political views were also something I could keep in my pocket, being of no importance here. How often had I been misunderstood because of one of my political opinions, oftentimes being the result of someone labeling me, in the back of their minds, a
s a blind-minded conservative? Oftentimes, I had been the one that had done the labeling.
They could not be deceived, because they saw me for what I was, not what I could pretend to be, and that was the most reassuring part, when they ended up liking me. After a while, one of the kids stuck his head out of a window. I’m sure he was pleading for a chance to meet with the stranger some more. The verdict from mother was in the affirmative, as she nodded in allowance. So permission for one was permission for all!
It seemed I was a hit with the entire family. First at the beach, with the boys, then here in their home. I learned all their names; of course I already knew the boys’ names, who were Julio and Hector. The mother was Higinia (pronounced Ihinia), the father, Jose Luis Gonzales and the girl... I hesitated to ask her for her name. I was too shy. She blushed, and with a burst of courage and a smile, offered me her name.
I will never forget the way the sound from her lips made me tingle, almost as if little bells were ringing all over my body. “Noelia.” She said it simple, as if it had no real significance in this world; but to me it was the most important thing. I will never forget her, no, not even in my grave. She was like a little girl, so calm and perfect. I watched her eyes; they were the eyes of an innocent child. They reflected peace and serenity, something I had never found before in my own life. What a lovely girl. A woman!
I tried to continue my involvement with the family, although from that time on I found it hard to concentrate on anything other than Noelia. It was as if the sun had risen for the very first time, and all along I had never really felt the rays of heat that come to us from this distant orb. What could life now be? I found myself embarrassed, trying not to let them notice my obvious enamor. I tried to compose myself, although it was useless to find strength to pull the arrow that had struck me.
They all had a real interesting time trying to pronounce my name, and made lots of fun of it. Even Higinia laughed at it. None of them could pronounce Finch right, clobbering it phonetically, so I had them call me by my first name, David.
I’m not sure how I got so lucky to go on that little walk with Noelia, but at that moment I could not believe my fortune. I think Higinia suggested it. She probably noticed the way I was attracted to her daughter and thought it her task to see that the two of us had a moment. She had noticed a lot more than I thought during our silent conversation. Whatever it was, she trusted me with her daughter.
We walked through the village, and a little while later climbed up a slope that led to a brook and ended in a small waterfall. There were lots of trees with many different shades of green. Flowers sprung up everywhere, with colors from every spectrum imaginable. Soft grasses carpeted the entire landscape, as the birds sang the songs of home. It was their permanent year-round habitation and it made me envious of them.
I pulled out my camera, and am very happy to have done so, for if I hadn’t I never would have had such marvelous tokens of her. She was fascinated with the camera. I was glad because that meant I would be able to take many pictures of her, as was my intention. Cameras, on the island, were not very common, although they were inexpensive. Everyone was instantly drawn, when one was about to take a picture, the same way a child would be, and she was no exception. Like a little girl, she was curious and marvelous, shy in her beauty, and embarrassed when told of her fairness.
That made it so I had to coax a little before I could actually get her to be in the first picture. She took my camera and played with it, snapped a picture at the air and then one at me, which cut my body right in half. Then she laughed and teased while I ran to catch her.
As we walked, a little man and his wife passed us and I asked them if they would take our picture. He gladly accepted so we stood together and waited for the flash. I wanted her to feel comfortable, and have a shot of us to keep. Perhaps for some future year when she could look back on this day and smile for the day we met.
What would that future day be like? I wondered. Would she be looking at that photograph as four of our grand children sat around, and she told stories of their grandfather? Would I be there, watching over her shoulder, as the kids laughed at the funny stories about grandpa and his silly ways? Or would she be looking at them alone? I wondered if she would stay with me, or if I had only seen her, the girl of my dreams, for a short season, and would ever miss her afterwards.
These thoughts ended as we walked a little further, stopping occasionally where inspiration hit, to take another shot of her in some different pose. Now her confidence with the camera was trustingly established. I played the part of a professional photographer, from some famous magazine, photographing the world’s most elite model. It was so wonderful that I almost felt French, giving her directions as to what to do with her hair and pose. It was pretty silly, but I believe that was when we really began to have fun with each other.
There might have been others there, watching us, and they might have mistaken me for some real photographer from the States that was out on assignment. Maybe a few might have seen and been interested for a moment, as curiosity caught them; for I was the actor, pretending as they watched, feeding myself with their star-struck enthrall.
It was a strenuous profession, this life of a photo-famous-camera man. Trying to get my work done, before anyone recognized this famous goddess model, would almost be impossible. “Run through the field of those pretty yellow flowers,” I’d yell, “Run and pose for me, I can still see you.”
Even though my photos were far from professional, (mostly off center and blurred by the sun), they still caught the image of her beauty on a paper not worthy of such radiance. How grateful I am of those moments in time, captured. They were made to stand still-little ripples reflecting from her foot as she touched the water and a gentle smile as I instructed her. Perhaps the pictures weren’t professional, but they were something more than special. They captured beauty and life, her life, and were worth more than a Picasso or DaVinci to me.
They were monuments of our beginning, and every time I’d look on them, from that day on, meant that I could begin to live once more; to relive the moment of birth when I began to take unto me the sweet breath of her life. Again, those memories come to me now. The echoes of my words. “My sweet Noelia run! There is a place to sit! You will look so pretty on this wooden bench!” Memories of her beauty and my attraction. “You will look so pretty here. You will look so pretty there.”
The sun was beginning to go down, creeping over the horizon and onto the rocks, casting a perfect shadow. Even I could tell this would be a great picture: great focus, perfect center; she smiled and teased, cupping her hand inside the water, just the way I showed her, so that we might get that perfect pose. “Smile now, and blow me a kiss.” I said, but she didn’t understand until I made the kissing gesture. Even then, she wasn’t sure if I was flirting with her, or wanting her to do the same. I admit, I wasn’t sure either. I think I wanted the kiss. Then, “click-click,” and she was caught puckering at me. I’ll keep that one forever. I think I caught her having the best time of her life, or maybe I caught myself.
We walked back, laughing and smiling, because we liked one another. I was sad to have to leave her. I don’t know if I should have felt that sad so soon, but I longed to be with her and leaving now was very opposite to what I wanted to do. I’m not sure why my heart seamed to ache at the thought of even a second away from her, but at least one thing I was sure of: I was missing her already, and I hadn’t even left yet.
The rest of the formalities were pleasant. Her parents treated me nice and gave me a cake to eat on my way back. Higinia had baked it for me and had wrapped it in a cloth. The kids said good-bye to me by swinging from my arms, and the Jose-Luis gave me a friendly nod. Higinia wanted to make sure that I would come back, and that this wasn’t just another one time visit, “North American style”. She asked me in Guarani, and was very meticulous in making sure I knew that I was welcome and that they wanted me back. Noelia was behind her mom, equally eager to know when I�
��d return, and whispering to her mom’s ear the questions she wanted answered. That part I didn’t know, until she told me later on one of our exploration-walks through the island jungles.
On the walk to my room, I tried to convince myself to turn back, thinking up various plans, but never came up with a decent excuse. If I turn back, I proposed, they’d ask why I’ve called on them so soon. I’ll have to stay on my course. That’s the only thing to do.
I approached my room and once again I saw a note attached to my door. “Must be another poem.” I thought out loud, with a mixture of joy and dread. It was great that I had received another, for the first had been so great, but I also thought of the trouble it would bring with Blanca and sighed with heaviness. I took the paper off the nail.
Indeed, it was another poem, written in Guarani, or some other local language. In either case I didn’t understand it and that meant that Blanca would have to know about it. It would upset her more, no doubt. That was too bad, because I didn’t like to see her troubled.
I went inside. My door was slightly ajar; and I thought for a moment that the person who dropped the note had come inside as well. Instead, I found an oddly shaped individual with a long black beard sitting on my bed. He was holding a small book and nodded the moment he saw me, as if he’d been expecting me. I suddenly recognized the man as Irvin, a medicine priest that I had met on my early morning walk that day. I had completely forgotten about our appointment! I had asked him to come and look at the poem I had received, in an attempt to prove to Blanca that it was not evil. I was glad I hadn’t missed him, and hoped he had not been waiting long.
Irvin opened his book and then asked for the note. I presumed he wanted it when he pointed to me with his old stringy finger. I tried to explain that the note I was holding was not the original note, but a new one. I don’t think he understood, but took the note anyway. Irvin translated and wrote down the poem for me in Spanish. He nodded his approval of it, and smiled to me as if the spirits had blessed and poured out their mirth on me. Most likely he hadn’t brushed his teeth since he was twelve, and the putrid smell that came from his mouth with that smile diverted all my attention from the gestures of fortune he was giving me.
He went on to explain what the poem was about. In his broken dialect of Spanish and bits of English, (which was a surprise), he told me that the poem was a sort of blessing. It had magical and spiritual qualities that would foretell the future for me, and in some cases forge it. He explained that I would still be left to make certain decisions, but that the poem would stop the consequences of any wrong decision and correct my fate to run its proper course.
In this case, he said, it was all good. I asked Irvin if the poem had anything to do with “The Malagra”. He stopped for a moment, and then told me that this was not “El Malagra”. It was like it, except that “El Malagra” was a curse, and this was, in opposite, a blessing. He told me that I had probably found favor with some other, much stronger, “Worker of the spirits,” and that it had probably been that person who had sent me the blessing as a gift for some kindness. He then asked me if I had done something kind for someone lately. I thought for a moment, and then remembered I had helped a woman carry her groceries at the market. She had looked like a witch... Or maybe the two boys.
He told me that it couldn’t be any one of those persons; that on the island neither young boys nor women would be the ones to cast such a spell. Children could neither cast nor be affected by any type of magic that he knew of, except in the case of healing, where even children had been known to cure their parents using prayers and other omens. Women, on the other hand, could wield magic, but not the type nor rite that these blessings required. It could only have come from some very powerful and old “Worker of the spirits.”
There was that phrase again “Worker of the spirits.” It had such a ring to it, and it sent my imagination soaring. I couldn’t, for the life of me, think of anyone who met that description whom I had made a good impression on. There was that old magician I had plundered just some days ago, but he would rather have sent a curse than a blessing. I asked Irvin again if he was sure that the poem was good, but again came the reassuring explanation that it was indeed a blessing and that no cursing could bring such good luck. He explained that the poem read that I would find, or had found (I couldn’t make out if he was using past or future tense), the love of my life. Such a blessing, he said, could only take me to places where I would feel complete and true about myself.
Even though I was not superstitious, and believed nothing about the magic and spirits, and was only talking to this man to set Blanca’s mind at rest; I couldn’t help but be affected by Irvin’s fortune telling. If anything was to be said about these types of people (soothsayers, fortune-tellers, and palm readers), it is that they almost always have something to say that comes close to home, out of the many generalizations they speak.
In any case, I had been correct. The poems weren’t curses of any kind. Instead, they were omens of good fortune – blessings from above. I was glad Irvin had come, and had translated the work for me, even though I couldn’t understand all of it yet. But to find someone to translate from Spanish to English would be much easier, than to find someone to translate it from Guarani. I could even get Blanca to translate it for me, now that I had proof that the poems weren’t evil.
Irvin left and was on his way to Blanca’s door to explain the outcome. I didn’t feel the need to gloat over my correctness, but I’d probably go over there as soon as Mr. sewer-breath was good and gone, so I waited and gave it a few extra minutes.
Blanca was in the kitchen cooking something for me. I didn’t know what it was, but it sure smelled appealing. I would be glad to eat with her, now that all this Malagra business was over. Unfortunately, as I found out, it wasn’t. As soon as I asked her something about it, she professed Irvin’s incompetence, when earlier she would have been happy at my decision to get a second opinion. Now she cried because of how foolish the man had been.
He had probably been drinking and gotten his eyes clouded on some cute girl, she said, because his interpretation was absurd. She pointed out that there hadn’t even been a slight reference of any girl in the poem, so how could he have come up with such a tail about some destined love if he had not been preoccupied on some barmaid?
“An off the wall reading and translation. It was all rubbish. Basura!” She was crying, even more so now, because instead of helping me see the light, that old fool had sent me to an abyss of deceit where the truth would be screened from me, and there was no way of making me see it now. I tried explaining it to her. I told her that it was all a mistake, that there had been another poem, of the same kind, which I had not told her about because I had just received it. This was the one I had given to the man, instead of the first, and this one did mention a girl in it.
A look of appalling concern came over her face, and then I thought I shouldn’t have told her about the other poem. She shook her hands to me in warning defense. “It is the Malagra! Dons you see. Dis is why he no tell you toos. I so stupid, mi Tupa. Why you not tell me there is more dan wan note? He no see. Don’t you see, if you tells him der is more than wan, then he tells you the same as me.”
“Blanca, again with that. What difference is it if there is one or two? They are both written the same. There is no mention of bad in either one of them.”
“Yes, but you no see, it makes a difference. Plis sir, do dis for me. Let Irvin see the first and he tells it too yous, too.”
There was no concern in my part about the matter, and it all had been resolved to my complete satisfaction. The whole ordeal had been made to calm the poor lady down, and it had not, so I decided to agree with whatever it was that she wanted me to do. I most likely wouldn’t go back to stinky-man, as she said, to get my fortune re-told; but I’d tell her I would. A small fib wouldn’t hurt in the line of it being used for something good.
Her look of trepidation frightened me. For a moment, I thought th
at I might give heed to her warning and believe that there might be something to this. Anyone would have been scared by the look of that lady. She looked scarier than any Halloween spook I’d ever seen, so I’m not ashamed of any momentary lack of reason; but I came to my senses, brushing it off gingerly.
Certainly there was nothing alarming nor disturbing written in either of the two poems. On the contrary, they were what Irvin had made them out to be: both beautiful and full of good luck, if nothing else. Thus I set off to find someone else to translate the new poem into English for me, seeing as Blanca was so set on being superstitious; but told her that I was off to find Irvin again.
Even though I had lied to her for her own good, I couldn’t stop feeling a little guilty when looking on her face. The expression told that she felt a little better and that she held her confidence in me.
A little while later I arrived at a bar where I found someone to help me with the translation of the poem. I would have second-guessed any man’s translation, but fortunately I found an English teacher from the local elementary, who had decided to play hooky for the day. He only charged me three dollars for the task, and had it ready for me to read by my second glass. I must admit, it made for good reading with my drink and the strange snacks they had on the bar.
POSER
Pictures here pictures there pictures in so many poses
First you put your hair up then you let it down.
Turn around -Twice for me
Smile – It’s for the picture
Come on now come on don’t be yourself
They would die rather than to see you as you are
So fill it up, fill up your cup.
Please them for you-for your reflection.
