Ancient Tillage

by Raduan Nassar

  19

  “ana, pedro, it was Ana, my hunger was for Ana,” I suddenly exploded in a peak, expelling in one isolated, violent jet the hardened core of my ripe, pestilent boil, “Ana was my illness, she was my insanity, my air, my splinter and chill, my breath, the impertinent insistence in my testicles,” I yelled with my mouth wide open, exposing the texture of my raving tongue, ignoring the guardian hidden between my teeth, spattering clots of blood, releasing the nauseating words that had been forever locked away in silence, “I was the crazed brother, the raving brother, the vile-smelling brother, I was the one with the slime of so many slugs and the devil’s slobber coating my skin, ticks in my pores, confused ants in my armpits, and profuse fruit flies celebrating my filthy body; go get it quickly, Pedro, hurry up and bring me the washtub in which we bathed as children, the warm water, the ash soap and scratchy sponge, the white, fluffy towel; wrap me up inside, wrap me up in your arms, dry my tormented hair, then run your earnest hand down the back of my neck, hurry and fulfil this tender ritual, it is up to you, Pedro, you opened our mother first, you were the one toasted as the hallowed eldest,” I said, foaming and in pain, slipping lasciviously on strange saliva, yet even having fallen into possessed wrath, I was still able to see my brother covering his face with his hands, terrified by the impact of my fury, it was impossible to figure out the cracks in his burnt-brick face, impossible to read the expression of his mouth, to determine which stone spark was, perhaps, shattering his eyes; it was clear he was probing for support, was definitely in search of solid, hard ground, and I could even hear his cries for help, but seeing him in such a profoundly startling, still position (it was my father), it also occurred to me that he might have withdrawn as an exercise in patience, that there in the dark he might be consulting the elders’ texts, the noble, ancestral pages, leafing through in search of serenity, but in the current of my trance the blending together of his pain and respect for the writings of the ancients no longer mattered, I had to scream out furiously that there was more wisdom in my madness than in all of Father’s wisdom, that my illness suited me better than the health of the family suited them, that my remedies had never been written about in textbooks, but that there was another medicine (mine!), and except for mine, I acknowledged no other science, and that everything was merely a question of perspective, and only my point of view held any meaning whatsoever, and that it was the apposite prerogative of gluttons to test the virtue of patience with other people’s hunger, and I said everything spasmodically and obsessively in a verbal rage, and wreaking havoc, I overturned the sermon table, destroying clamps, bolts and moorings; nevertheless, leveling off, aware of the plumb, establishing a different balance, while using all my strength to go steadily beyond, and tightening mainly my clandestine muscles, I was soon to rediscover everything animalistic about myself, my hooves, jaws and spurs, and an oily grease coated my sculptured self as I galloped, my feathered mane flying behind me, my Sagittarius paws denting the soft belly of the world and, consuming a grain of wheat along with a fat slice of wine-soaked wrath in this pasture, I, the epileptic, the possessed, the crazed, I, who was starved, summoned into my convulsive speech the soul of a flame, a veronica cloth, and a spattering of mud, then I mixed into this flowing broth the spicy name of our sister, the perverted name of Ana, and removing the nectar of my dagger from the fringes of these tender words, embarked passionately with my quivering flesh into urgent confessional voluptuousness (such shivering, so many suns, such agony!), until all at once, my limp body dropped sweetly from exhaustion.

  20

  i found peace as I lay in the hay, naked as the day I was born; the room was dark, it was perhaps the time of day when mothers rock their children to sleep, blowing gentle fantasies into their ears; yet outside it was still daylight, a mild evening, the gentle sky entirely composed of a languishing, dubious pink hue; I fell into thought at this peaceful hour, when cows roam in search of water, and the last of the evening’s birds seek their resting place; and I also thought how, if I were to lean over the windowsill, I could watch frayed clouds shifting patiently like an old man’s beard until a gentle dark dome in the sky would put out the day, and then gradually the dome would become covered with nipples for nurturing little pajama-clad children during the early morning hours; and I could foresee that upon awakening I would feel two enormous hands beneath my steps, nature engulfing me and making me her own, opening her fat arms and spraying me with fresh dew, rolling me up inside a blanket of grass, and taking me to her breast like a child; she would quell my fears earnestly, hurrying to light the dawn, and in the morning, she would dissipate the still-distant smoke, her hair blowing through profuse winds would dry my feet, and my own misty eyelashes would cleanse my eyes; then a vague, yet vast touch would run over my peaceful body, tickling me softly, ruffling my tender hair caressingly, sprinkling my young flesh with talcum powder, and hanging around my neck a red string, dangling an enchanted, fist-shaped bone amulet to ward off evil and illness; and over in a joyous spot in the woods, below full, leafy trees, where the earth plays its game of shadows and light, there would be fresh, flowing water and rippling creeks nearby and new, green leaves adorning my head, thickets in my teeth would freshen my breath, and honey and pomegranates would await me, ageless doves would rest on my shoulders, and on the atmosphere’s immense breast, a yellow ball would balance, wildly caressing my lips; and of course, Ana was there next to me, her presence so certain, so necessary that, in the dim hours of nightfall, I thought of leaving the old house and going outside to the deserted garden and reaching up and pulling at a shrub branch to pick an ancient flower for her knees; instead, with clumsy, peasant hands, frightening two timid lambs hidden away in her thighs, I slowly touched her humus-coated belly, felt the terrain, designed a flower bed, tilled the earth, and sowed petunias in her belly button; I also sensed my urethra, a chrysanthemum stem released, and thought how often we would be able to laugh riotously like two children spraying each other with urine, wetting our bodies as we had done just a while ago, ever exchanging each other’s saliva with our nimble tongues, sticking our faces together by way of our tear-dampened cheeks, thinking only that we were made of earth and that everything inside of us would germinate solely with each other’s waters, the sweat of one exchanged with the sweat of the other; and in this reverie of earth and waters, someone gently lowered my eyelids, leading me unawares into a light slumber; I didn’t realize that love required watching over: there is no such thing as everlasting peace, no such thing as infinite, supreme goodness, nor a goblet without a trace of venom; it was common knowledge, I had been so frivolous, someone stronger than I was pulling the string and, clever, smart child that I was, I had fallen directly into the trap set by destiny: fate had reached its long arm to take the fruit from deep inside me, pinched its long, thin fingers into my very depth, and in the blink of an eye, had suddenly turned my sweet world inside out; frightened and upset, I groped the hay, and as I opened my eyes, two burning coals, I was absolutely certain my body had been carved out to receive the devil himself: as soon as I realized she was gone, I was overcome with horrendous rage and right away found myself unexpectedly, somewhat cautiously, in the dark hallway; I spoke out clearly, “If you’re in the house, Ana, please answer,” it was a sensible, almost mild question, I was trying, although burning up inside, to entice the old house by urging the bat-filled silence and ghosts to take my side, to join me as allies, one and all, and I repeated, “Answer me, Ana,” and again my voice reverberated in waves, and I waited expectantly (I had to prove my patience), but since there was no answer, with the company of the creaking wood and my growing furore, I began to search the entire house, room by room, corner by corner, shadow by shadow and, finding not one sign of her, I fled to the veranda, the loneliness of the dark night sending a chill throughout my marrow: the old garden bushes, destroyed by the wild climbers growing everywhere, had been transformed into phantasmagoric masses inhabiting a noisy insect kingdom; leaning over the rai
ling, I looked out in every direction, and way over by the pastures, the cattle, some still standing, formed a silhouette as they slept beneath an old pepper tree; in a lung-bursting cry, I bellowed out for Ana with all my might, but to no avail, the ruins before me in the garden retained their somnolent stillness, and at that time of night, the cattle were like granite, the nature surrounding me was so indifferent and filthy, not one sign of concern for my plight, what a desperate sense of helplessness! Convinced she had run away, I felt like tearing at my face, ripping myself apart with my own fingernails until I bled, how distressful! I fled barefoot from the old house as fast as I could, my winged legs leading me to a clearing further along where, through the narrow arch of the chapel doorway, I saw — I don’t even remember if I was stunned — someone lighting candles inside; I checked my flight, but only for a second, after all, there was no reason to stop, I had nothing to reconsider, so I took off once more and, as I got nearer, I curbed my staggering steps, trying not to fluster her praying with my gasping: Ana was kneeling there, before the small oratory, and I recognized the altar cloth covering her hair; she was still fingering the first beads of the rosary, her eyes lit by two candles as she stared at the image above her; while watching her pious profile, her lips in small, tense, rapid movement, for a moment I was overwhelmed with dizziness, but I quickly revived and found myself inside the chapel, which was very different from what I had known in the bright days of our childhood; I had stepped into a cramped, bronze chamber where all my demons were tightly positioned, disguised in a myriad of shadows, what a show destiny had made of time (mixing the two of them together!), covering it with planning and industry to delay the finale: before pulling the string, destiny had made sure the candles were lit, and that Ana was on her knees, then generously and liberally there in the chapel, it had left me to choose between the clay saints and the devil’s legions; just as I had done as a boy with the innocent dove: on the one side, nutritionless sand, on the other, the promise of abundance inside the wire netting; since my childhood I had been no more than a shadow, created in the image of destiny, and I had further complicated matters along the way: even though, hidden beneath the sand, the line determining the outcome was stretched as straight as an arrow, I would make a curving trail of kernels to reach the trap; why all the foolishness, the endless scenes and the gorging with expectations, if my fate had been predetermined? As soon as I stepped inside, I stood over and behind her and I too began to mumble the rosary in an intense murmur, it was the rope I was drawing from my well, knot by knot: “I love you, Ana, I love you, Ana, I love you, Ana,” I kept saying in blazing madness, like someone in prayer, someone with dubious intentions, and what ecstasy it was to fondle her back, to trace her vertebrae, to peck the back of her neck with my warm tongue; but my prayers were useless, her back was absolutely motionless, the altar-cloth veil revealed not a single vibration throughout the thick decorative lace running just below her shoulders; even so, I continu­­ed, knot by knot, “Ana, listen to me, that’s all I’m asking,” I said, striving for serenity, I had to prove my patience, to use reason, while making the very best of its versatility, I also needed to bribe the clay saints, the clear stones and the illuminated parts of that chamber to entice and bring the entire chapel over to my side, just as I had tried to do over in the old house, “What happened between us was a miracle, dear sister, branches from the same trunk, with a common roof, no betrayal, no disloyalty, and the superfluous, yet fundamental certainty of relying on each other both in times of joy and adversity; it was a miracle, dear sister, to have discovered that even our bodies fit together, and that through our union our childhood will endure, with no sorrow over our playthings, no breach in our memories, nor trauma to our shared history; we have discovered a miracle, above all, we have become whole within the confines of our own home, confirming Father’s words that happiness is only found in the bosom of the family; it was a miracle, dear sister, and I refuse to be disillusioned over this small stroke of destiny, for I mean to be happy, I, the odd son, the black sheep whose confessions no one will hear, the inveterate ne’er-do-well of the family, yet the one who loves our home, I love this land and I also love the work, contrary to what everyone believes; it was a miracle, dear sister, it was a miracle I’m telling you, and it was a miracle from which there is no return: everything is going to change from here on in, I’m going to rise at the crack of dawn with our brothers, go to work with Father, till the earth and sow the seeds, tend to all the blooming and growth, and share our concerns over the crops, I’m going to pray for rain and sunshine for our fields when water and light are scarce, care for the ripening grapes, participate deservedly in the harvest, bring home the fruit and, with all of this, I’m going to prove that I too can be of use; I have blessed hands for planting, dear sister, I never neglect even one sprout from our seeds, and am very careful when transplanting, I always know what the land needs, how to appease it when necessary, to strengthen it for all types of crops and, although I respect its need for rest, I’ll see to it, as Father says, that each and every inch of our land is productive, I know a lot about planting the fields, and I’ll also be praiseworthy in looking after our animals, I know how to approach them, gain their trust and their gentle regard, I know how to feed them correctly by preparing the grains according to my own taste and mixing salts into the troughs to strengthen their muscles, and I also know how to weed our pastures to make them thrive, mow the grass to just the right height, and cut the grass at just the right time, to expose it to heat and humidity, and since I’m so skilful with the scythe and pitchfork, I can also cut it for storage in bunches or bales, as needed; I know how to milk cows, I dote on the calves and am kind to the mothers when I take away their young, rinsing the sticky milk from their udders, while preventing the first flow from leaking through my fingers, and always wiping them carefully so they maintain the rich smell of the corrals and stables; I have an enormous store of affection for the entire herd, as well as a clinical eye to spot the yearlings that will someday reproduce, and I know how to remove infectious worms stuck in their hide, all the while forewarning them against iridescent horsefly dreams and rendering their coat smooth, soft and shiny once again; I know how to protect the herd from other stings as well, how to shelter the cows from rough winds, and how to lead them to shady trees at high noon, or under cover during heavy storms, I can also find the best water for quenching their intense thirst since I know all the ponds on the fazenda; I love our nanny goats and ewes, and can cuddle timid one-month-old lambs, I have a soft spot for frightened animals, my pastures will be a mixture of rustic flute melodies, flowering grasses and gentle winds rippling through the fields; I have a shepherd’s soul, dear sister, I make sure all the species get along, I’m a master, even when it comes to the most suspect crossbreeds, I know how to multiply Father’s herd; and along with this vast knowledge, I’ll care for all the fowl, our gregarious chickens, the exuberant roosters, the graceful, wobbling teal, the ducks, flat from their beaks to their webbed feet, the puffed-up turkeys, as well as the adventure-seeking, ornery guinea hens, bearing their sickly lump as if it were a crest; I know how to gather eggs from the nests, and how to make certain stray eggs are forever protected under warm brooders, and I never flounder around timid hens laying their chaste eggs into baskets or nests dangerously suspended from the barn beams; I also know how to take care of the watering troughs, maintaining fresh, clear water in the clay containers and keeping them in the shade to prevent contamination, I know all about mangers, too, how to vary the feed with kernels, greens and meal, and with no risk of damaging our vegetables, I’m going to allow free pecking on the fertile land, I can be useful for lots of other things too, making stakes, fixing gates, I’m exacting with the crossbar, I have a carpenter’s precise blood running through my veins, and I love the trees as much as I do the wood, I can identify them all by their smell alone and know how to make the best use of the pea tree, the cedar, the pine, the peroba and the calabash; I am going to take o
ver the maintenance of Father’s tools, increase his set and clean everything meticulously after each use, removing scraps from the hammer claws, the level vial and the saw teeth, I’ll keep them oiled to prevent rusting so they’re always ready, for I’m well aware that no one cuts without a blade, that tools not only forge the way to the finished product, they often forge our willpower to do a good job; I am also planning to be the handyman, I’m going to eliminate any moisture dampening our reserve harvest, replace sagging beams, change latches and bolts, I’m going to whitewash wherever needed and carefully build a new shed, and, of course, make certain it’s proportional and that the roof tiles are carefully laid, with enough space below the overhang for the swallows; I am very versatile, dear sister, I’m good at so many things, I want to be busy, my arms are just waiting, I want to be called upon whenever there is work to be done, I can hardly stand my own energy, I can accomplish any task under the sun that could possibly need doing on this fazenda; and whenever I have free time, I’ll turn the soil in the garden beds with good surplus manure, and sprinkle it with chaff, kernels and siftings, so everything will flourish, the flowers surrounding the house, the birds in our trees, the doves on our rooftops and the fruit in our orchards; and every afternoon after working from sunup to sundown, I’ll come home and wash the blessed sweat from my body, put on sturdy, clean clothes and at dinner time, when everyone is gathered and the homemade bread has been placed on the tablecloth, I’ll share in the sublime sensation of having contributed with my own two hands to provide for the family; contrary to what everyone believes, I know a lot about herds and planting, but I’ve kept all of this fundamental knowledge to myself, which, if put to good use, would serve the family more than it would me, and I’ve put up with everyone’s scorn without ever letting anyone in on the nature of my idleness, but I am so tired, dear sister, I want to be a part of things, to be with everyone, don’t exclude me and don’t let my talents go to waste, it’s everyone’s loss; I can learn even more than I already know, and will always undertake my tasks earnestly, I’m dedicated and thorough in what I do, and I’ll do everything with joy, but I need a reason, I need to be compensated for my work, to be sure I can pacify my hunger in this exotic pasture, I need your love, dear sister, I know I’m not asking too much, what I’m asking of you is fair, it’s my due, my share, the ration I have coming to me,” and pausing in this outpouring of pleas, I waited, lost in confused dreams, my eyes fixed on her back, and my thoughts fixed in a disturbing rut, but it had all been pointless, Ana remained motionless on her knees, her body so wooden I could not even tell whether or not she was breathing; “Ana, listen to me, that’s all I ask . . .” I fell back into the same calm manner, I’ve already mentioned I was well aware that I needed to prove my patience, to speak to her with reason (and how unabashedly versatile it was!), to use my good sense to sensitize all the saints, I needed the entire chapel to back me up: “Ana, listen to me, I’ve already said it once, but I’ll say it again: I’m so tired, I want to be a part of things, to be with everyone, I, the wayward son, the perpetual convalescent, on whom the suspicion of being an aberrant growth weighs so heavily; I want you to know, dear sister, that I do not rebel by choice, nor do I mean to grimace and scowl all the time, nor to harbor the anger that leaves its harsh traces, nor do I choose to hide myself away, and certainly not to live in this nightmarish state for which I am condemned: I want to change the muddy clay of my mask, dear sister, to eliminate the spark of madness lighting my eyes, to remove their vile shadows from my adolescent face, to wash away for ever this blemish on my forehead, this dreary scar no one sees, but that you all sense; everything is going to change, dear sister, my face will soften, I’ll abandon my isolation, my mute silence, I’m going to get along with all my brothers and sisters, make my life a part of theirs, would that I be ever present at the bright table of our family meals; I’m going to speak lightly, like everyone else, make conversation with neighboring farmers, for example, about next year’s promising harvest, or mention that we can lend out one of our new breeders, I’ll borrow their important manner and finish up by commenting that recent rains have made the crops flourish; when I’m out on the road and meet up with people, I’ll tip my hat, just like they do, and in town, when I go to buy salt, wire or kerosene, I’ll stop and chat in every store, shake hands, and smile openly at everyone who looks my way; I’ll be upright and good, show concern and consideration, I like to help other people, I’m perfectly capable of being friendly, and when I have friends, I won’t let them down, I’m going to stop distilling poison at the onset of my loving impulses; and one of these nights after dinner, when shadows have fallen all over the gardens surrounding our house, and quiet darkness has taken over the veranda, when Father, with his grave manner, has become lost in his thoughts, I’m going to approach him, pull up a chair and sit down right next to him, then I’ll amaze him even more when I start up very naturally the distant conversation we never had; and as soon as I say, ‘Father,’ and before I go on, calmly and firmly, I’ll sense the barely contained joy in his face shining through the light in his damp eyes, and the thrill of his ideas eagerly falling into place so that he can announce that the son for whom the family has feared is no longer cause for anxiety, that there is no further need to worry over him, and, because the son has spoken, there is no longer any reason to be afraid of him; and after he has listened to everything I have to say as I unravel the concerns of the whole family through our conversation, I can already tell you what our coming together will be like: first he’ll take my shoulders in his hands, and have me stand up, as he himself has already done, then he’ll take my head between his palms, and look me firmly in the face to rediscover in my features those of his youth, and before I ask for his long-awaited blessing, looking downward, I will feel his rough lips on my forehead as he kisses me austerely right where my scar used to be; and that’s how it will be, plus all the other wonderful things that will happen afterward; help me to lose myself in the family’s love with your love, dear sister, I can’t take one step forward in this darkness, I want to escape this endless night, to be free of this torment, we’re always hearing that the sun rises for everyone, so I want my portion of light, my share of this warmth, that’s all I need, and as soon as I get it, I’ll give you my lucid soul, my illuminated body and my eyes, glowing at last; just to think of it, Ana, my cup runneth over, I can already feel my muscles strengthening once again, I’m bursting with joy, I could even lift up the world with one arm; and some day of rest, after lunch on a Sunday, when the wine has begun filling our heads with warm words and the sun is dropping from the sky, you and I will go outside to enjoy an exuberant walk; we will cut through the woods and down the cypress-bordered road and as we near the chapel, we’ll leave the lament of the beefwoods behind to answer the calls of the coconut palms urging us out into the open pastures, insisting we lay down on the soft belly of the fields; and only when, beneath that ancient sky, we’ve dyed our teeth in the blood of the mulberries picked along the way, will we surrender completely to the vast, circumspect silence, inhabited at that time of day by mysterious insects, by birds flying high above and by the distant ringing of cowbells; give me your hand, dear sister, so much awaits us, just reach out to me, that’s all I ask of you, everything rides on this one act of yours, my outlook, my behavior, and my virtues: kindness and generosity will be the first, and they’ll always be with me, I promise you this sincerely with all of my heart and I’ll keep this promise with no effort whatsoever, but everything, everything, Ana, begins with your love, it is the nucleus, the seed, your love for me is the beginning of the world,” I kept talking insistently, obsessively, making myself believable, although exhausted from my own carrying on, I was disturbed to my very bones! “You must understand, Ana, that Mother gave birth to more than just children when she filled the house, we were soaked in the most sublime syrups from our orchards, rolled in the transparent honey of the honeybees and along with the many aromas rubbed into our skins, we were ma
de dizzy with the delicate blossom water from the orange trees; can we be blamed for this plant called childhood, its seduction, its vigor and earnestness? Can we be blamed if we were sorely hit by the fatal virus of excessive caresses? Can we be blamed for the many tender leaves that hid the morbid stem of these boughs? Can we be blamed if we were the ones to be caught in the netting of this trap? Our fingers, kneecaps, our hands and feet, even our elbows are entangled in this birdlime mesh, you must understand that not only our fingernails and feathers, but our entire bodies would be mutilated if we were to separate; so, help me, dear sister, help me so that I can help you, the same help I can offer you, you can bring to me, understand that when I speak about me, it is the same thing as speaking only about you, understand that our two bodies have forever been inhabited by the same soul; give me your hand, Ana, answer me, say just one word, anything, at least show me a sign in your silence, a slight nod of your head is enough, or a hint with the tips of your shoulders, a gentle motion of your hair, or the soles of your feet, the smallest promise of movement in your arches,” I begged, but Ana didn’t hear me, the uselessness of everything I was saying was clear, and it was also clear I was using up all my resources for a dubious reason: to keep my soul light, available, how threatening, how dangerous! I advanced three steps forward and stood barefoot before her, leaning against the oratory, my face in the shadows, hers illuminated by candlelight; standing there in the dark, my eyes were very bright and almost clashed with hers looking up at me, but it was unbelievable: Ana was so strong-willed, she didn’t even see me; kneeling there, she worked away at her rosary zealously, only fervor, water, and grime coated her cheeks, washed her flesh, cleansed her leprosy, what a purifying bath! “Take pity on me, Ana, take pity on me before it’s too late,” then, with a more profane approach, I mumbled on, “but try to understand what I mean when I speak to you like this: I’m not attempting to earn your devotion with my pleas, it’s more of a signal, it’s my warning, I assure you, the clairvoyance of a dark premonition goes along with my appeal: if there’s a breach in this passion I won’t be pious, I don’t have your faith, I’m unable to find your saints when all goes wrong,” I said, already hearing the bleating of a lost ewe running through a red meadow, darting out to the valley, and realizing that somewhere a fire was being lit of resinous logs, that it was neither night nor day, but a time that balanced midway, a time that dissolved somewhere between the dog and the wolf: “Ana, we still have time, don’t release me with your refusal, do not leave me with so much choice, I don’t want to be this free, don’t force me to lose myself in the bitter dimensions of this immense space, don’t push me away, don’t drive me away, don’t abandon me at the gateway of this vast trail, I’ve already said it, and I’ll say it once more: I’m tired, I want my place at the family table, urgently! I’m begging you, Ana, and just to remind you, the family can be spared; in this imperfect world, this precarious world, where even the greatest truth can’t get beyond the limits of confusion, we must be satisfied with the spontaneous tools we have to forge our union: our recalcitrant secret, tempered with sly lies and subtle cynicism; after all, the balance Father has always talked about applies to everything, wisdom has never been exceedingly virtuous; and not only that, Ana, but in trying to do their best, when has anyone ever reached the core? We can’t forget that roads, like all routes, are only cleared on the surface, and that every trace, even life underground, is still only movement over the vast face of the earth; reason is generous, dear sister, it cuts through in any direction, will agree to any byway, as long as we handle the blade skillfully; to live our passion, let us clear our eyes of all artifice, of magnifiers, and of other tempestuous-colored lenses, relying only on their own lucid, transparent water: thus, in our unique love, there can be found no sign of egoism, debasement of custom, nor threat to the species: let us not even worry about such trifles, dear Ana, everything is so fra­gile, with one superfluous nudge we could push the impertinent curator of the collective virtue aside: and what sort of guardian of the order is he? Standing there haughtily, he’s easily caught winking maliciously, and it’s impossible to tell whether he’s calling our attention to the brazen club in his right hand, or to his lascivious left hand, deep inside his trouser pocket; so let’s ignore this pious fraud’s pompous edict, it would be feeble of us to allow ourselves to be lulled by such anachronous hypocrisy, after all, is there any bed cleaner than our own nest of hay?” And I braced my muscles forthwith to clear my path, my rodlike arms and iron fists gripping my sabre, which struck away at the inhospitable brush, and as the tips of my spurs scraped the ground, I dispensed with the old tape measure, but, driving in stakes, I sharpened my nerves as if I were sharpening a pencil, doing the arithmetic based on my own figures, little did I care that the grounds from my mind might eventually have had to weigh up against those from another mill: “It’s common knowledge, dear Ana, which we ignore like sleepwalkers, but which is, silently, the greatest and oldest scandal of all times: life itself is only organized through contradiction, what is good for some often means death for others, and only the fools among those that have been cast aside would ever borrow the yardstick used by those on top to measure the world; as victims of the order, I insist we have no choice if we want to escape this flaming conflict: we must forge our masks peacefully, draw a scornful mark into the ruby smear of the mouth, and in answer to the choice between forward and backward, we’ll even resort to debauchery and run a greased finger along the crack in the universe; if flowers thrive in marshes, we too can dispense with the acquiescence of those unable to grasp destiny’s baroque geometry; we can’t afford to exchange a precarious situation for no situation at all in the name of discipline, as do the most self-demanding spirits; for my part, I’d even relinquish the possibility of having children, but I want to relish the pleasure of our clandestine love in the old house that much more —” I said, ready to scale steep mountains, after all, I knew how to choose the right harness, curry horses, lead them to a trot, a slow pace and a canter, I mounted well, was agile with the lasso, and could gallop if I had to, not to mention that I also knew how to break in new colts, determining their elegance at the outset, the firm line of their tendons, their steel hooves and their blazing manes — “as a last resort, dear Ana, I appeal to simplicity, answer me reflexively, not from reflection, I entreat you to acknowledge along with me the atavistic line running through this passion: if Father, with his austere manner, wished to make of our home a temple, Mother, with her lavish affection, only managed to render it the house of our damnation,” I said, lifting my Sagittarius paws, my hooves kicking up at the beams, suddenly feeling my blood swift and virulent, immediately whetted over this irreverent voluptuousness; there was grease in my eyes, they were coated in a dark paste of black smut blended with thick olive oil, my imagination sent forth a torrent of the most lecherous images, and my hands, overcome with fever, tore away at the violent buttons of my shirt, all the way down to my zip; loftily rediscovering their primitive vocation, they had already become the distant hands of an assassin, confidently reinstating the rules of a filthy game, liberating themselves for sweet crime (such orgies!), sweeping across the oratory in search of flesh and blood, dipping the anemic host into my wine chalice, scratching into the softness of the lilies in their vases, leaving my fingerprints on their chaste parchment leaves, combing the alcoves for lascivious saints (such a coy, crimson-faced virgin! Such pecking at my liver!), and losing myself in a fog of incense lit in honor of the devil before me, I said, by then covered with burns, “I’m thirsty, Ana, I want to drink —” I was but a slab of raw meat — “this wound, this cancerous fester is not my fault, nor is this thorn, I can’t be blamed for this tumor, this swelling, this purulence, I’m not to be blamed for these turgid bones, nor for the mucus flowing from my pores, nor this cursed, hidden slime, I’m not to be blamed for this florid sun, this crazed flame, I cannot be blamed for this delirium: one bead on your rosary for my passion, two beads for my testicles, all the
beads on this string for my eyes, say ten rosaries passionately for the brother gone mad!” I foamed fervently, my hands running up and down my exasperated skin, violating my adolescent body and, with whimsical, artful flair, causing my superb, resolute phallus to emerge from the warm, tender flowering of my pubic hair, and filling my hands with the rough scrotum balls hanging below in my groin, the protectors of my primordial fountain of torment, I made a religious offering to my sister of their dense nutrition, but Ana remained impassive, her eyes definitively lost in sainthood, she was a cold, plaster image under that candlelight, and having set myself up for this turbulence from the outset, for a second I fell into dull, ashen anger: “I’m bathed in spleen, Ana, but I can still face your rejection, my violent storm is already perpetually laden with rage, my resistance is strong, plus I’ve got an alchemist’s talent and wisdom, I know how to transform sulfur using the virtue of snakes, and am able to mix dawn’s chilly mist into the vapors hovering over the boiling cauldron; I’m planning to cultivate my eyes, everything I see will be planted with barren seed, yielding infertile earth, dirt that will even decay, just as the frost will sear the leaves on the trees, the petals on the flowers and the pulp of our fruit; I won’t hide my smile if disease plagues our herds, or our crops, I’ll cross my arms while everyone rushes around, turn my back on those asking for my help, cover my eyes so as to avoid their wounds, turn a deaf ear to their cries, and if one day the house tumbles to the ground, I’ll shrug my shoulders; I did not get what I wanted, and I’ll have no pity on the world, to love and be loved was all I ever asked, but I was cast off without appraisal, amputated, I’m now part of the dregs, I’m going to surrender, body and soul, to the sweet delirium of a man who considers himself quite simply finished at the very onset of manhood, nevertheless, a man with yet enough strength to dig a deep hole into the rotten meat of the carcass with his index finger, and to elegantly close the tropical latitudes and the other lines with his thumb and ring finger, hurling the skeleton of this world into a bone pile; now, more than ever, I am a member of the novel brotherhood of the rejected, the forbidden, the cast-offs of love, the restless, the quivering, the squirming, the writhing, the maimed descendants of Cain with their murderous faces (Can’t you hear the cavernous ancestry in my wails?), those with a mark on their forehead, the ancient ash-scar of sacred envy born by those thirsty for equality and justice, those who, sooner or later, end up kneeling before the obscure altar of the Malign, after having laid down their meager offerings before him: a slab of white, cold fish, black grapes off a rotten vine, the solitary digits of the mathematicians, the mute strings of a lute, a handful of desperation and a piece of sacred coal for his creative fingers, offerings for the scrawling craftsman, the aged, scribbling draftsman, the artisan working from life’s castaways, drawing, with his morsel of coal, the extenuated will of each and every one, and he, the instigator of change, driving us against the current with his murmurs, scraping our ears’ membranes with his harsh, hot breath, seducing us into rejecting the precarious solidness of the order, this stone building whose iron structure, regardless of the architecture, is forever erected on the festered shoulders of the weeping, he, the first, the only sovereign — your generous (would that he be discriminating, lousy and revengeful) God is no more than a vassal, a subaltern, a maker of inadequate rules, incapable of perceiving that his very laws are the resinous wood that fuels the Eternal Fire! The torrent of my spit is not enough, you must contain this fire while there’s still time, I already feel a new wave coming on, a new flame licks at me, I sense the onset of desire to torture your saints, to pierce your tender angels, to bite into the heart of Christ!” By then, I had taken off, rushing into holy fury, boils began to cover my body from front to back, I was drooling vile nettle sap, bleeding the succulent juices of my cactus, sharpening my teeth to suck the pink liqueur of boys, desecrating the family shrine at the top of my lungs (such turbulence running through my mind, such con­fusion, so much broken glass and how entangled was my tongue!), but I was abruptly interrupted, Ana stood up in a violent impulse, the vibration in the air stirring the indecisive candle flames, causing the blazing upheaval in the chapel to falter: I could see the horror in her face, her restrained fright gradually giving way, and almost at the same moment, I sensed in her eyes the loving, concerned sister, suffering for me, crying for me, and when I had just barely fallen into the ritual of this old warmth, forever embossed in gold on the spines of sacred books, I suddenly took on the hushed sorrow of the universe, forever embossed in black in the eyes of the sacrificed lamb, I saw myself all at once lying down in a huge grave, surrounded by silent lilies, already asleep in a landscape lined with rows of cypress trees, the density of the uninhabited fields maintained with purple geometry, “I’m dying, Ana,” I said, abandoned in hoarse lethargy, covered in the cold fog seeping from the ceiling, hearing the lamenting beefwoods swaying in the wind, and hearing at the same time, a chorus of bizarre voices, the slow moaning of a horn, the rhythmic hammering on an anvil, the dragging of irons and muffled laughter, “I’m dying,” I repeated, but Ana was no longer in the chapel.