by Hades
Every effort was lost. Staying only made it worse. I wish I’d never had to see her go through all that, I being the cause. So I had to go. I couldn’t stay and torture her. Another moment and her father might have come with a club, to beat me until I died. That would have been the best for me, but I couldn’t put that on his shoulders. I had done enough already, and only deserved to rot away in isolation.
I walked and I drifted, looking to the sky for answers, but the sky would not give away its treasures. I was a polluted soul and had lost all privilege of such things. All that was left was to talk to myself, and try to find answers on my own, but nothing came that way. The only thing that stayed was the thought of what I’d done, and it returned again and again. So I rehearsed my fate to myself in my time of agony, trying to figure out which moment was my breaking point, the point of no return. My words were slurs of half thoughts that came in partial sentences, but it didn’t matter because I was talking to no one but myself.
“Heart... Broken. Feels like death. Want to cry. Know how wrong, how I was. Feels so broken. Feel so empty. Heart... broken... pain... alone without... without hope... longing! Missing! Knowing, without hope! Feel no end. Want... need... know... gone. No way back to your Heart. Broken...” My breath of words faded and I cried, giving myself the resolution that all was lost. She was gone, and I knew it, for there was truly no way to amend what had been done.
* * *
It is hard to explain, or remember, exactly what occurred after that, especially the details. I must have wandered astray with nothing left inside but the bitter worm. Life’s irony was the toughest part of it. It kept me living, for a time, with the battered notion of being a complete failure at everything, instead of humanely letting me go now that the real story had ended. Nothing had gone right. I had destroyed everything good in my life, and was now alone, which was the worst of it...
(Now that much time has past, since then, I find that alone isn’t quite as bad anymore. Decay has made it easier to bear each day, as the memories turn to dust and my mind no longer works the same. It’s a lucid tranquilizer that helps to dull my senses. Yes, “alone” is fine. It’s the guilt that is the monster and the killer. In fact, I am quite content to be alone, for it would be far more a sting if she were with me now. Just looking at her face and into those precious eyes would destroy what’s left of me. I would be as a man in the midst of fire, unable to stop the flames from scorching the skin of my mortal and vulnerable structure. It would be thus, ever much more, to see her now and see again her eyes filled with tears for what I did to her. No it is better this way. Alone, here by myself.)
Going back, I cannot remember exactly what I did those next few days. I must have wondered and slept on the streets, eating out of garbage cans and such. What I can remember is contemplating if I might just go home, to the States. Everything had gone wrong for me here, so there was no use in staying. The idea sounded right, but could I go? I had completely forgotten what date it was I could travel on. I had even lost the ticket. Had the man at the airport said I could go in two weeks, or was it more than that? Certainly, it had been almost two weeks. Surely, if I went back to the airport, they could help me with everything. I would be more pleasant, even if I had to stay another two weeks. That was fine. I wasn’t in any sort of rush any more.
The first thing I did was return to my room. I don’t know what I wanted to do there, because all sanity was straying from my mind. Rational behavior was no longer held by the bounds of my skull. Every thought was its own agent, no more a part of the great brain unity, but free to act and leave on impulse.
There was another poem attached to my door. I wasn’t surprised.
By then they were being left on a daily basis, sometimes two or three of them. Each time I returned, there would always be another stuck to the door. A curse on my door. They would be so frequent that sometimes I would find one on top of the other.
Such was the case, and I cannot remember them all, but this one I remember because it struck a weak spot at that moment and it made its imprint on me. It even curses me today, the damn thing.
BEYOND END
(or “Without Hope” – A rougher but more precise translation)
What have I done,
What have you said,
Dreams that matter shatter.
Where has it gone?
What must be done?
All that is good goes.
Where is the light?
Why is it night?
What must the answer be?
No one is trying.
Something is dying.
Why must perfection end.
After reading the poem, I went inside to pack. I threw everything into one suitcase, along with my heart. Now I didn’t have to care or look back, because of what I’d lost. I could just suppress that and go on as I always had. I could go back home, pathetic, looking well the role of a vagrant. I tucked in my shirt, made a rag, and headed towards the airport. As luck would have it, the suitcase opened and spilled right in front of my terminal; but I didn’t mind, I was disinterested with my bad luck. Instead I closed it up again and let its inward parts hang out, as I dragged it across the floor. In this fashion, looking like a deadbeat, I approached the ticket counter.
I was soiled from top to bottom. Any hobo off the street would have looked gallant next to me. Yet, just like that, I went into the airport and tried to get myself on a plane. The ticket agent had a look of disgust mixed with confusion on her face. She must have been thinking, “There is no way I’m going to have to deal with him.” But she was unfortunate because I was already there. At first she tried giving me the cold shoulder, but I pressed myself on her face and stated my claim.
“Miss... psst, miss... I need to get back to New York. Can you book me there for today please?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, one ticket for New York, for today please.”
“Do you have something to pay for it with?”
“But of course. Well, not right on me, but the ticket has been paid for and I—”
“May I see the ticket?”
“I knew you were going to ask for that and create a problem—”
“Problem!” she said, cutting me off with a patronizing attitude. “You don’t have it? How could I have guessed?” Then she rolled her eyes and looked right through me as if I was an insect. “Psssh, I don’t have to deal with this.”
“You know, you remind me of the people back home,” I said. “You should live in New York instead of here.”
My remark must have struck. Probably because I was a brother to her native land, so she talked to me again. “Well what a surprise, that’s exactly where I’m from.”
“You are?” I asked, with new aspiration. “And how did you end up here?”
“It was the job. They transferred me, and I was glad to get away from it anyway.”
“Well then I’m sure you won’t mind helping out, being a fellow New Yorker and all.”
“Sure, I can tell you’re a New Yorker, but not one that has it all upstairs. You’re one of the crazy-whacks on Broadway, and I definitely don’t want anything to do with you. So you’d better leave...”
I didn’t let her finish what she was saying. Obviously, she wasn’t going to be nice. But I had business to deal with, not some senseless chitchat, so I let into her. “Listen lady. You can’t kick me out! I’m a paying passenger and I have a right to get on that plane!”
Unsuccessfully, my fierceness didn’t go smoothly as planned. She gave me an inferiority grin, as though I were a bug, and spoke past me. “On that plane? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! You couldn’t get on that full plane if you were the president of Panama. You know you don’t have a ticket.”
Her mocking was too much for me. She was just telling me that to make a fool of me, as though I really was a vagrant with no authority to get on that plane. “I’m telling you I lost it! But you have a computer there, under your fingers. Can’t you just look it up?”
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br /> She paused a second, as if contemplating whether or not to bother with the bum in front of her, then decided to give it a chance. “Okay, Mister... What did you say your name was?”
“Finch.”
“Finch... Nope nothing.”
“You didn’t even look!”
“Oh well, all right, let me try again.”
“Look miss, do you think I’m some kind of idiot? You didn’t even click on the screen!”
My accusation didn’t please her so she leaped at me with words, as any teacher scolding an out of line pupil would, and set me back in my place. “What I think is that you’re some kind of crazy weirdo and I know you are definitely a bum. There is no doubt to that! Now you calm yourself! I’m going to give you one try, but if you’re not on here I want you to skedaddle!”
I was deeply offended by her tone and her remarks, but took a pace back. She was right. Looking at myself, I would have done the same. I looked a mess, so I humbled myself a little and let the crumbs of her alms fall into my paddling cup.
She found something. “Oh there you are, Mr. David Finch. Now you got any I.D.?” Her tone was serious again, and I had to respond mildly.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. I lost it. But it is me, I can prove anything you want. Please, I just need to get on that flight.”
My puppy tone must have softened her. She looked very carefully at me, then started to tack away at her keyboard. “Well all right, I guess. Anyone can lose his license. Maybe you got into a jam. And maybe you are telling the truth. However, I’ll still need to verify a couple of items... Okay, what is your date of birth?”
I was paralyzed. For a second I couldn’t remember. Then dashed the words from my dried lips. “March twenty first!”
“...And what’s your mother’s maiden name?”
That was easier: “Ageirro!”
“Your social security number?”
“Seven, seven, five, six two, ten-twenty.”
“Your driver’s license number?”
“Look, isn’t that enough to prove I’m me? How many more things do you need to ask?”
“All right, but I have to make sure. You aren’t in any position to be offended by my interrogations. I just have to make sure. You can imagine what it’d be like for me if the real Mr. Finch came along and I’d already given away his ticket.”
“But I am the real Mr. Finch!”
“Of course, but give me a few more seconds.” The clicking on her keypad resumed. (Click, click, click), “...And your wife’s name?”
“I don’t have a wife. You know that! Are you trying to trick me?”
“Very good, all right, but just want to make sure. I guess it’s you, but you know your ticket was for yesterday’s flight?”
“Well no, I didn’t know that, you see I ran into a bit of problems . . .”
“Well I won’t be able to print you a new ticket for today’s flight. You’ll have to wait a few more days because there is no way you’re getting on this plane.”
At that point my desperation became real. The island was swallowing me whole and wasn’t letting go, so I pleaded with her trying to make up any excuse. “Please... You have to let me on a flight! I was robbed yesterday, and they beat me, and I had to sleep on the street. This is all I have left,” I pointed at my luggage. “But I don’t care much about it because they spit on it and did all sorts of nasty things to it. But I have to get back home...”
I was trying to sob, but unfortunately true tears were not available. It was enough, though, and she bought part of the story, even though it was tough meat for her to swallow.
“I don’t know about you, Mr. Loony... But if those things, or part of those things, really happened to you, or if you just got drunk at a bar and pissed all over yourself, I don’t know. But I’m going to give you a break, a big break, so don’t badmouth me any more, or I might not do it for you . . .” The keypads on the computer talked loudly as her fingers danced on them. They moved at lightning speed (a detail I don’t know why I remember). Then she came to her conclusion, printed out the ticket, and addressed me again. “There! You have an open pass for ten days. You may use it starting on the week of the twenty-second, which is next Friday. Now you may...”
I had to cut her off. That was too many days. “But that’s ten days from now! I can’t...”
It was her turn to talk. “Now Mr. Finch, what did I say about bad-mouthing me? You take this ticket and drag it under your tail, and be grateful, and skedaddle out of here; before I change my mind and believe you are a bum who probably murdered the real Mr. Finch.”
She was kidding, of course, but with my luck I didn’t want to take the chance of ending up in some dungeon without food or water. I would probably get put on some phony third-world trial where evidence was not needed, just the testimony of some suspicious lady, and they would hang me by the neck until I was dead. No, I didn’t need that, so I just left.
“All right, thank you, ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“Well you’re welcome!” She smiled.
She must have ended up liking me, but I hurried up anyway. I don’t know whatever happened to my baggage. I must have forgotten it right there, on the side of the counter. But who cares? It wasn’t any loss to me anyway. It was just a smelly case coated with urine. I was better off wearing what I had on, or going to some public shower. Nothing was important until I got to the States.
The ticket was useless for ten days. I knew what that meant for me. I knew the island wanted me. It wasn’t going to let me go. I knew that now. The decision had been made, and it, or she, wasn’t going to let me out of her squashing-earthly hand. The island was now my mother. I was her prisoner and doomed in an evil curse, which I now recognized.
Yes I did believe in the curse now, whatever the curse was or whatever anyone had called it: “El Malagra,” “El Gauchito,” or “Sacralego.” Too many things had happened for me not to believe anymore. And I knew this island held a grip on me that was too late to loosen. There would be no way off the island now. I was cursed and here I would remain until death swallowed me. How long it took for that was frivolous, for I was already dead. I’d been dead for weeks, dying slowly each day since my arrival, reaching my terminal boundary when I lost Noelia forever.
The time with Noelia on the island was the best time of my life. It was a time when I reached, or at least sought and scratched, my fullest potential; although I hesitated and lost it as I grasped. So our love fell into pieces; now I hold nothing for myself. The only thing left, that I have to rely on, is the memory of her; as best I can remember. And I have to believe in my thoughts, that they are real and strong; for to imagine that I have begun to lose even the memory of her is far more frightening than to realize I am losing my own being to the drift of space. My ashes become ashes, my flesh is now corrupt, but my mind, even though it drifts, somewhat remains; and she is its central image.
It began to rain, as my steps dragged me towards my only refuge. Usually, I would have stood under a tree, because I liked the rain, but now I wanted to hide away under some blankets. Such a place I’d learned when very young, when I feared the monsters. I learned that the blankets made a shield to protect me from any threatening beast. Now I sought this refuge, wanting to hide from much more awful a beast, the pains of my sins towards her.
So I went back to the room.
There, on the door, was a note. I read it in the rain, and watched the characters wash away by the great drops, so I only had one chance to read it. Somehow, standing in the rain, it made a better impact, and it was recorded on my mind: word for word, without a misplaced dot. Although the purpose of the poem must have been to curse me, and to make the wound feel deep, this time it felt nice.
SHOWER
Shower of a bitter fall strikes tonight to make me ache
Don’t know where it came from nor how long it wants to stay.
Summer of a better passion takes the light and makes me come alive
Brings me wish
es wrapped in sunny life
Makes me wish I could play again.
Windfall in a whispered breath strokes me gently as I watch the night.
If the snowflakes were falling, they’d melt with your touch
But -No longer here
Yet through these gentle northern lights I feel your warming smile
Although this stormy night has made our love lie still.
* * *
Days passed. I had done the inconceivable; it would be good to get rid of me. And as far as my own will, it was easy to die – although I realize now that death is not an escape, and it is a fool who thinks so. Death is a cave, as shallow and dim as you make it. I say “make” because it is what you take with you from this life that creates your resting place.
Your grave can become suddenly too shallow, if you pack problems with you, where there is no room to bury them. A man that takes his own life finds the grim reaper there. He is his company, for he called him out of life; life did not bring it to him. A just reward, and recompense, for the one that seeks the end. Sometimes I think I can even hear the agonizing cries of one nearby who has taken his own life; perhaps his is an even greater torment than mine is.
I was not seeking such a way out, for ending my life never flashed by my eyes. It must have been due to my upbringing. My father always spoke of life as precious, something that God had given, and something we could not take – neither from someone else nor from ourselves – for that would be to rob God of his creation. He also spoke often about our bodies being on loan. That it was our responsibility to provide for them and serve as best we could. He was a wise man, for much of what he said was true. I found his answers on the other side of life, in this veil of darkness around my atoms.
Consequently, there I was, given up into fate and circumstance, left without a will. I spoke to myself, for only I was my company. I spent the rest of the time as a wanderer, a vagrant that no one would want, not even death, for a while. I didn’t want to stop in one spot for too long, for I feared, foolishly, that the earth itself would talk and ask me to move from off her back.
