by Maia Walczak
‘Left-handed,’ he said. ‘Should have known. All the good ones are.’ He looked at the drawing again and nodded. ‘I like it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Tea?’
I really shouldn’t have offered any; I really should have let him go.
‘That’d be lovely, thank you.’ He went back to look at the drawing again. ‘Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like if you did work in colour?’
‘Don’t be silly. It’d be shit. I’d never know what the final piece looked like.’
‘But maybe that could be kind of fun. Kind of liberating. I think it’d be interesting.’
He was beating round the bush. I knew he wanted to know when and how and why I became colour blind. This tea might be a big mistake, I thought. And yet, some part of me felt it wasn’t.
I suddenly felt under an immense amount of pressure. It was as though this moment was the deciding moment. Once the tea was ready, I placed the teacups on two saucers, put them on the coffee table and excused myself to go to the bathroom. I needed the time to think without him there looking at me. I sat down on the toilet seat. I cried. Was I really about to do this?
I felt safe with him. But maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe this was a trick of my mind, or the pill making me more emotionally needy. Maybe he wasn’t special in any way at all. Was I making up stories in my head like my mother had?
After a few minutes I returned to the front room. I could smell the expectation in the air. He was standing by the easel again. What was going to happen next? I had no concrete plan of how to go about any of this. Perhaps I had naively hoped that whatever was about to happen would come naturally, with ease. The short distance between us was filled with a silence so loud it made my chest tight. It was as though I was faced with blank pages, and I didn’t know what I was about to write. My heart was thudding hard.
I walked towards the sofas, and, as I did, so did he. We sat down, each on our own sofa. There was no way I could get him to leave now. He was staying. I could sense that.
‘Silvia?’
‘Mmm?’
‘You say you haven’t been colour-blind since birth. That’s unusual. Very unusual…’
‘Mmm.’
‘I did a quick search online after we met. It’s interesting. How did you lose your colour vision?’
I took a sip of tea, swirled the hot sweetness in my mouth, and counted three long deep breaths before I spoke. I lowered my voice; it felt safer that way.
‘You have to understand, what I’m about to tell you… I don’t know whether I should talk about it.’
I gave him one last long look to make sure that I trusted him – if this was the biggest mistake of my life, I at least had to make sure that in that moment I felt it was right. I did.
‘It’s just… I have to trust you,’ I said.
The cup clinked against the small plate beneath it as my hands started to tremble. I put it down on the coffee table. ‘Sorry,’ I said.
He shook his head to let me know I had nothing to be sorry about.
‘Uhm,’ I tried to continue. I was fighting back tears, so I looked out of the window so that he wouldn’t notice straight away. How embarrassing, I didn’t want to cry in front of him. I took a deep breath and it helped. ‘It’s just, I’ve never actually told anyone this before, so maybe you should decide if that’s a story you want to hear, and if you have time for that right now.’
He was silent.
‘The point is, if I tell you this, it’s a really big thing for me, so I need to make sure that you’re definitely someone I want to tell. Because for some reason I suddenly feel like I want to tell you everything and I don’t know why. I have no idea why.’
I suddenly felt embarrassed, and frightened. I was scared of what he would say. My heart was racing. I felt vulnerable. It took him a while to say anything.
‘Well, I mean, only you can decide that. Only you can decide if I’m the person you want to tell it to. But if it helps, there’s very little in this world that fazes me. I’ve experienced and seen many things. And I’ve also heard a hell of a lot of incredible stories. So I won’t judge, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
Of course, I was dealing with an environmental human rights lawyer. And, on top of that, one who’d had a mind-blowing epiphany that flipped the meaning of his own life upside down.
Suddenly the world went still; everything slowed to a stop. My mouth went numb, as though it had been injected with anaesthetic. A little sound came out of it and then I was mute again. The room was so still and silent, and I felt that this was all a dream. I imagined myself running away. Running along a long empty road at the ocean’s edge, the sun shining on me. A recurring dream I had. And I imagined it so vividly then, out of nowhere. The never-ending run. The never-ending escape – from the thoughts, the past, the memories, the lies, the prison, the pain. Ultimately, I longed to simply escape myself. To lose myself.
And yet, here I was, with this man, in this room, and my impulse to run was so abruptly succeeded by the most powerful desire to stay, to sink deeply into the moment. To not run. To not escape. To be here. To speak.
Luna
I was born on the night of a full moon. It was a large silver moon that lit up the night sky, and that’s why my mother called me Silvia. Silver moon. But Luna was the nickname she gave me, and it became the name she most often used. You’re my little light in the night, she’d say. My light in the dark. My Luna.
My mother, Alma, was originally from the city of Tromsø in Norway, but she went to live in London for her student years. She studied for a masters in applied ecology and conservation and spent a lot of time in Mexico, concentrating on forest conservation projects near and around Veracruz. That’s where she first met my father.
My mother was an intelligent woman. She was like a walking encyclopaedia. But it wasn’t just knowledge that she had – words, dates, figures and concepts – above all, I remember her for both her wisdom and her lack of it when it came to my father.
She was disillusioned with humanity. She’d spent years of her life studying theories of ecology, and the more she read, the more she became convinced of the absurdity of our species.
How had saving the planet even become an issue? How did it get to that? How had humans managed to become so removed in the first place? She used to say these things when she got particularly annoyed at something, and I used to shrug, because I was young and I didn’t understand what she meant. She used to talk to me a lot, because Diego, my dad, wasn’t always there for her. And I used to go with her everywhere because there was no one else to look after me. She used to say to me that she felt stuck, that she didn’t know how to make a difference. But she wanted to. She said, sometimes she felt the only way to make the proper urgent change that was needed would be through a radical revolution, a massive upheaval. But it seems too confrontational, she would say. It’s like fighting fire with fire. Then she would add, but maybe I only think like that because I’m from such a damn comfortable middle class background. I was taught to always be polite, to hold everything in, follow all the rules. And I could convince myself till eternity that we can fix all this without a massive confrontation, by just politely asking everyone to do the ‘right thing’. Meanwhile the world is dying around me even more. I’d shrug. But you know Luna, sometimes I feel I just want to run away from all this, go live in the wilderness somewhere, and make my own food, live simply, sustain myself – that way I wouldn’t be causing any more damage. And some say that’s the way. But then I’d be removing myself from society and I wouldn’t be able to influence change in a bigger way. But maybe it’s not about that… Ay Luna, I just don’t know! And I didn’t know either. I just listened to her, nodded, shrugged, and thought my mother was the cleverest and most beautiful mother in the world.
Sometimes, while she talked and talked, I would sit and draw her talking and talking. As her mouth opened and closed I sometimes imagined she was the little tweeting bird that sat o
utside my window and sung to me in the mornings.
The problem, for her, was that she felt powerless. Her life in Mexico restricted her, she would say. But did she leave Mexico to pursue those things she said she really wanted to do? No.
I don’t know what I would do if I wasn’t here Luna, but I don’t think there’s much potential for me here. I don’t feel I can make much of an impact. I don’t know what kind of dreams she had in her head, where it was that she imagined things would be different, and how they’d be different and what she would do. Where would things be better? I don’t know if those dreams were ever properly formulated in her head, either. She’d probably feel just as unfulfilled anywhere else, and maybe deep down that’s also what made her sad. But I think the biggest issue for her was that she felt like an outsider, she stuck out with her height, light ash blonde hair and blue eyes – how glad she was that I had been born with dark hair! She was the gringa, and maybe that frustrated her too. It made her self-conscious.
All I knew was that she loved Diego too much to ever leave. ‘Love’. That word. I didn’t understand it, what humans meant when they said it.
She worked for an environmental charity, but was unsatisfied with her job there – saying that she spent more time staring at pointless spreadsheets on a computer screen than actually making any kind of notable difference in the world. I used to imagine her head turning into a computer. On the side she worked on some translation projects to make ends meet, and to afford rare trips back to Norway to see her mother. My grandma was a woman of poor health who spent her last years in a hospice, and who was the only family my mother had left.
My mother was also deeply involved in local and national grassroots projects. For example, when an overseas company decided it could move into an apparently empty space without warning, clear land and mine for gold, or oil, she and her compañeros stood up to them. There were lots of different movements, and she made sure she was informed by as many of them as possible. Involving herself with these movements was, at the time, she said, one of the best things she felt she could do. It gave her a reason to travel around the country too, taking me with her. I remember she once whispered to me, this is a beautiful country Luna, as though it was our secret.
As time went by, she started to make a name for herself and gained the respect of locals and environmentalists from all over Mexico. And that in itself was a vital thing for her, and definitely contributed to her growing confidence. She didn’t feel like just a gringa anymore.
Diego wasn’t at all like my mother. Or at least I didn’t see all of the wonderful things she saw in him. You’d have to be me to understand, she said. But I wasn’t her, and I didn’t understand. He was from Culiacán, in the state of Sinaloa, and I spent a lot of my early childhood round there. He knew people in the notorious local drug cartel and, to some, his involvement seemed a grey area. My mother kept well out of that world. I didn’t know much about it either, I only heard rumours. And I didn’t really know so much about my dad. I didn’t see him that often. When I did he was drunk or high. I don’t know exactly what happened or why but I know he hit her on more than one occasion. She blamed herself, saying she travelled around too much for his liking. But the truth was that he was around much less, and sometimes he didn’t even tell us where he was going. I know that each time he went my mother wondered if he would come back. He’d hurt her and make her cry, and then she’d tell me she loved him. It was different before, said my mother. Your dad’s a good person Luna. Was she trying to convince me or herself with those words? He used to be different, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t change a thing, he’s still a good person. He’s had it tough, and sadness changes people. Her words hurt me, because I knew she was hurting herself with them. She was lying to herself, and she believed her own lies. But love is blind.
I wanted never to be blind.
It used to be different, she said. But I’d never know what she meant by that.
Blindness
Alma: Sunday 9 August 1987
I walk into this seedy little bar with two of my college friends and there he is, that guy I saw at the talk the other day. I recognise those intense green eyes. He’s up front onstage, strumming his guitar, singing with a sexy soulful voice. The warm light envelops him and beneath his shirt I see his muscles. Damn. After half an hour and a drink Emelie and Maria want to move on – our Scandinavian hair sticks out too much in this place and they look fed up with engaging in polite conversation with the group of desperate men that’s cornered them. They don’t seem to realise that I’m mesmerised.
‘He’s amazing,’ I whisper to Emelie, pointing at the stage.
‘Who? Diego?’ She raises one perfectly shaped Swedish eyebrow, and I’m shocked she knows his name. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree my love… that guy is crazy.’
Crazy, eh? He sounds like someone I want to get to know.
Three days later we’re on our first proper date. We’ve ended up back at mine, continuing our conversation with the extra help of marijuana. I’m in awe. I didn’t realise Diego was so radical. I feel like an impressionable ditsy teenager. He’s making me feel like a wannabe. He’s a member of the Frente ecológico, a small group of eco-anarchists who are all about direct action. He actually goes out and kicks ass, he shakes shit up on a regular basis. Earth liberation, as he calls it, is his life. He’s my new idol. I can tell I’m going to learn a lot from him.
By the end of the night I think I’m in love.
Alma: Friday 15 September 1989
Diego is a strong guy, he’s not someone to mess with. People look up to him. But they don’t know him like I do. Behind closed doors, when I have him all to myself, I learn more and more about his vulnerabilities, and I can feel my love for him growing stronger. I want to take care of him; I want to protect him. I want to show him that everything is okay because we have each other. His mother died giving birth to him and his dad, wherever he is now, became an alcoholic. He’s only close to one member of his family, his cousin Luis, because the rest of them – aunts, uncles and even grandparents – don’t seem to care. Diego has had to fend for himself. It’s made him more mature and determined than other guys I know. But it’s also made him crave family.
The news of my pregnancy is met with a lot of celebration, I think this may just be the happiest I’ve ever been and the happiest I’ve ever seen Diego. As the day’s celebrations come to a close and we’re lying in bed, his body around mine, I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face. I think about how great a dad Diego will be and how happy he’ll be to finally have the family he’s craved.
Alma: Saturday 30 March 1991
Diego is playing with Silvia and I’m preparing dinner when the phone rings. I ask Diego if he can get it because my hands are covered in dough. I think I’ve added too much water to the tortilla mix, and I’m trying to fix it. Juan Flores’ song Love and Pain is playing on the radio and I’m humming and singing along… Ooh sweet baby, I just can’t figure it out… I just don’t know if it’s worth lovin’ yooouuu… when all of a sudden I hear a loud yell. It makes my blood curdle. I turn around and rush towards the phone. There I see Diego on his knees with tears streaming down his face. Silvia is sitting on the floor next to him staring blankly at her papa.
‘Baby, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ I ask him, clutching him by the shoulders, stroking his face, doing anything I can to let him know I am here for him, ‘what’s wrong? What’s happened?’
He pushes me away and shakes his head. I reach for him again and again he pushes me away.
Diego’s cousin has just died in the crossfire between two cartels. I have never seen anyone as sad and angry as Diego is now. I don’t know how to comfort him, and he won’t let me. I suddenly feel totally closed off from him.
Alma: Wednesday 23 October 1991
These days I walk around feeling anxious all the time. Diego keeps talking about revenge and I don’t know how serious he is. It frightens me. I don’t want to have an
ything to do with the cartels, and I beg him to not do anything stupid. Diego’s abandoned his music, it’s been months since he picked up his guitar, and he’s rejecting invites to meetings with the Frente ecológico. I feel like he is slipping away from me. It’s been a while since we made love. I guess I have to be patient and accept that this period of grieving will take a long time. I need to remain strong for him. I need to give love without expecting anything in return, no matter what. I need to be there for him, to take care of him, because soon things will be better again and we’ll come out stronger for it.
I felt distracted at work today but now that I’m on my way home I’m feeling better. I plan to make us something special for dinner tonight, so I stop off at the grocery store to get some extra ingredients.
As I open our front door something doesn’t feel right, I only realise seconds after that it’s the smell of alcohol. Diego is sitting on a chair and resting his head on the kitchen table staring vacantly to the side. He doesn’t blink, not even when I walk into his line of vision. A half empty bottle of vodka and a bag of cocaine are on the kitchen table. Silvia is crying in the other room. I register all these things in a split second and for a moment I think to myself my god he’s dead. But then I see him blink. I have to think fast. I don’t know who to attend to first.
‘Diego! What the hell?!’
He sits up and stares in front of him. He doesn’t look at me. Silvia’s crying gets louder so I rush to the other room, pick her up and comfort her. Her nappy is drenched and stinks of shit. How long has she been lying alone and crying like this? My god. I cradle her in my arms, kiss her forehead and tell her hush, everything is okay.
I walk back into the kitchen, cradling Silvia close to me. I’m shaking with disbelief and anger. I’m starting to cry.
‘Diego,’ I say, ‘what’s going on?’
He turns to me now, and in a moment he too is crying. All my anger suddenly melts away and turns into pity. Oh god, my poor Diego. And we are all there by the kitchen table crying, hugging and comforting each other, and, though I am sad, I am grateful that he is letting me in again.
