Nest in the Bones

by Antonio Di Benedetto

  I had to follow him through street after street while he labored meticulously, passing out letters until his leather bag was empty, and we understood that he’d passed by my house some time back and he’d brought nothing along for me. Then I walked with him like a friendly neighbor, trying to salvage my dignity with my attitude and conversation, still paying great attention to anything that might prove advantageous to me when the time came, assuring a letter would arrive in my hands, in mine, and mine alone. We reached his house, and he insisted on presenting me to his wife, against my wishes, but that was all, he neither invited me to the drink my lips were craving nor allowed me access to the bedrooms, which would have led, I’d like to believe, to a greater closeness and, in the long term, incalculable advantages.

  At least, I found out his address and thus, quite soon, that very same day, I could take another stab at friendship, sending a bouquet of flowers to the lady. I spent the night calculating the results of my daring, without casting aside the possibility that the sneaking character I had noted in the mailman, conjoined to a hot-blooded, jealous temperament, might lead him to receive my gift with ill humor. What I invested in these calculations I lost in sleep, and in the morning, my body sought recompense, so that my plan to repeat my wait from the day before came to nothing.

  It was this same mailman who later came to my door, demanding my presence in a way that my sister, ever timid, took as a threat, which she could neither deflect nor prevent me from reading on her face. As I was ready for anything, I immediately left my bed, fearless, or else pretending flawlessly to be so, and presented myself in pajamas before that imperative, impatient, and irascible mailman, who was not, however, spurred by jealousy, to all appearances and to my good fortune.

  He demanded categorically that I explain what it was I wanted from him. I stammered: “Well, I’m waiting…” and then I understood what he was after. I told him frankly and clearly, confessing, man to man: “Well now, I’d like you to sell me one of your paintings. My spirit compels me to have one, but my economic situation, with the current problems which impede me from making use of my talents as I should, puts me in the unpleasant position of having to ask you for a discount, the biggest discount you can possibly concede. And I will tell you even more. It is not in the least true that I propose to acquire one of your paintings, though I really do have the ambition of possessing one, and would buy one from you at any price, no matter how extravagant. If I turn to you as a likely buyer, it has been from mere vacillation, though my firm tone of voice makes this difficult to believe. I was vacillating because I may be neglecting my duty by telling you early what I must absolutely inform you of if I wish to strictly comply with regulations (though I should have done so by letter): we have voted for you, and you will receive the Grand Prize, and with the Grand Prize a recognition that, admittedly, is of no use to you, because you already enjoy it. Now, you know, and you may do what you wish with me, though I trust in your discretion.”

  Each of my phrases brought a shadow of a smile to my listener’s face, no less malicious for its faintness; though it could have been the smile of a person informing another that his problems are already solved, or on their way to being so. He smiled, and tried neither to interrupt me nor to answer. He listened to me courteously until I’d finished. Then, employing such a tone as would make me understand him, he said: “Neither what you ask of me nor what you’re announcing is possible, yet; but don’t fret, and don’t torment yourself. You should not be troubled in the least, because the painter, the artist, is you and not I.”

  I understood, and after squeezing with all my heart the hands he’d placed in my own, I went back to my brushes.

  Paternal Epistle to Fabia

  To Fabia:

  Today I’ve been conversing with Don Vicente and his wife; you will see what I told them.

  They live on the third floor of this same building. I ran into them on my way from church, in the little park next to Calle Peñascales; today is almost like a Sunday, it’s the Feast of the Virgin of the Pillar, no one works and everything is calm.

  My neighbors invited me to their apartment, for a glass of beer; they are older, and it’s the only vaguely alcoholic beverage they allow themselves. They were waiting for their son to come for lunch along with their daughter-in-law and the grandchildren.

  It didn’t seem improper for them to ask if I have family in America, they always see me all alone…I confessed to them I’d split from my wife, it was my fault I said, and I had the urge to tell them a bit about you. An incident you may have forgotten some time back, because I don’t believe it left a mark on you, it can’t have affected you the way it did me, it left me addled with an enduring shame that I still feel and that goes on gnawing at me.

  You must remember, though, that first encounter – which was a farewell – the day they conceded to restore my freedom, in the same manner in which they had dispossessed me of it earlier: without explanations, without telling me why. Naturally, confinement was worse: without an indictment, without taking me to trial, without the least opportunity of defense…

  After that year and a half of immobility in La Plata, no longer accustomed to walking the city streets, I thought it might not be utterly senseless to risk staying a few days in Buenos Aires before departing for Europe, from whence, I already inferred, I would not be returning in life.

  With this forlorn conviction – as I told the couple – I asked my daughter to travel to the capital from our home in the foothills of the Andes, to say goodbye, as I could not return to my region, even briefly, without facing the most ominous risks.

  We arranged to meet when her plane landed at Ezeiza, on such a day at such an hour, as you well know. I went to the airport, overcome with anticipation, and rested my body, which had grown so fragile, in the sanctuary of the waiting area.

  Assorted machines landed in brief succession, and soon, many travelers filed into the room. From among them, I paid particular attention to a contingent of young girls looking energetic and cheerful. I supposed they were companions of yours from some end-of-the-term excursion; the exam period had just ended. I didn’t see you with them, but I did notice some of them looking at me and whispering. I slunk down into the chair, trying to pass unobserved. Who knew whether they might be saying they’d identified me as the father who’d been the subject of that story?

  Faced with this circumstance, I kept my head low, I recall, bowed, that is to say, without wishing to face forward. Until I realized that someone, one of those girls, had stopped before me. I looked up, and the situation became clear to me. Wavering, almost timid, I asked: “Are you one of Fabia’s classmates?” Very considerately, as though taking care not to deprive me of my serenity, she answered, with a respectful rebuke: “Papa, I’m Fabia. You don’t recognize your own daughter…?”

  In that year and a half – I tried to convey to the couple – you had changed, at that age teenagers change so fast, and you ceased being what you had been as preserved in my recollection of my last day at home – do you remember?

  Your mother had moved to Córdoba for treatment of her singular and agonizing illness and you and I were left alone. As I couldn’t care for you properly, you ate and slept in the home of that classmate of yours with the remarkably hospitable family. For my part, I remained at our home, but only to sleep or at midday, for a bite to eat; dinner I always had at the Press Club.

  That day, I bought tomatoes, bread, and cheese in the morning and carried them back home. I was in the kitchen cutting a tomato, which I was about to bathe in oil, when you rushed in to look for school supplies or notebooks you needed for class. I offered to share my food with you, you were flustered with your tardiness or worries. I gave you what I believe was a gentle and comprehending look. Once more, like always: our fleeting encounters, the fault of my existence, sapped by journalistic duties, with no time for family, and when I did show up at home, you were asleep.

  “Did a letter from your mother come?” was all I could fi
nd to say, a single, otiose question, do you remember? Those were the last words you would hear from your father for a very long time.

  Later, when I was in that place in La Plata – which, despite its rigors, I prefer to imagine as a hotel, or a monastery – the pain of leaving you so poor weighed on me. Just as it plagues me now, because – as you know, suffering the consequences – I have been incapable of remaking myself in exile.

  My poor, defenseless child, without even a sister. I think with torment of those nights she had to spend, afraid, in her lonely, quiet room. Walled in, so needful of affection and company to sleep and play.

  My poor, fatherless daughter. Her father crucified on responsibilities unfulfilled while she grew and learned: to be the child’s mentor and support.

  I sigh as I recall this episode I confided to Don Vicente and his wife, though without disclosing to them the enormity or nature of my distress at my failure to be near and help you.

  You see, dear, if I’ve searched for solace by entrusting my secrets to strangers, still, I have not been sufficiently sincere, and I continue to feel ill at ease. Knowing it’s impossible, still I look for you, not so much in airports as in the people around me.

  With this misgiving, which sticks in my throat: if I found you, how would I recognize you? The last time, I forgot your features after a year and a half without seeing you…now, seven more years have gone by!

  This morning, prudently Don Vicente’s wife gave voice to her curiosity, which did not strike me as untoward:

  “Your daughter…does she write?”

  “Yes, yes. She sent me a portrait, a postcard-size photo. You can see it. I’ll bring it another day.”

  I made a show of flaunting a certain still-intact dignity, without stooping to convince them that the feeling is still there between us, that you haven’t abandoned me.

  While I kept to myself the bitter taste of disappointment at my failure to help you, my waiver of a father’s duties: to educate, direct, to listen to his little girl, to converse with her…No one who’s aware will feel these things like the person incapable of doing them.

  I say this, Fabia, because of the letter where you tell me about your life. Only a little, not too much. I don’t reproach you, I suppose you do so to save me the heartache. In that letter, there is a paragraph, a line that cuts to the bone:

  When I come home at the end of the day, and there’s nothing to eat…

  Without reading it again, I will go on hearing it.

  With affection,

  Papa.

  Very Early Morning in the Cemetery

  So much cold.

  “Did it have to be so early? Why?” she says, not in protest, but toneless, as though declaring acquiescence to her torment.

  “You know. I already told you…It’s to preserve the scene from onlookers. It has to be before the visitors come in with their flowers. The spectacle’s not for them.”

  “The scene, the spectacle…?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  From the frozen darkness of the garden at the entrance, a man comes forward. He speaks to them through the grating in the doorway:

  “Are you all…?”

  “We are. Good morning.”

  He leads them through the first rows of tombs to a squat administrative building, a contrast to the grandiosity of the structures for the dead.

  Inside, behind a desk of medium height, so wide it blocks their path, a man busies himself with his coffee and milk and rushes them:

  “It’s getting late…! If we’re not careful, they’ll see everything.”

  A flicker of alarm is visible in the sister’s eyes.

  The functionary opens bound volumes, registries, and loose papers. He reads quickly and badly, his words unintelligible. He asks expeditiously if everything is clear. Both the new arrivals say yes. The sister doesn’t intervene, she lets him continue.

  She pays. The sum makes her raise an eyebrow. She understands what she must do: pay. The service he’s performing for them is not the sort one niggles over.

  He swallows the rest of his coffee with milk and looks nostalgically into the bottom of the cup. It’s the only respite from the restive brusqueness of the procedure.

  “Over there, over there.”

  “It’s dark. Where are we going? No one’s going to take us?”

  “There’s no need, you’ll figure it out.”

  The sister in her fur coat cringes, while the man, in a dark, slender suit, with no other protection from the elements, regrets thinking only of the ceremonial aspects.

  They walk forward blindly, among blocks scattered at random, and are forced onto faint, weed-infested trails.

  They manage to emerge, irritable and confused, from the muddle of concrete blocks, stone, and marble, and neither utters a word.

  Further off opens up, on all four sides, a field of crosses, of graves dug in the earth. Stone angels bow down over them in compassion. Bolstering this vision is the sight of the masses, not yet clearly discernible, despite the return of the dawn with its purpose of bringing clarity to all things on the face of the earth.

  The air, as though agitated, redoubles its frozen rigors. The light seeps slowly into the atmosphere.

  They go back. Disoriented, defeated, to the bureaucrat’s office, to appeal for help.

  They will receive it: the same character who opened the door for them will guide them.

  With him, they will not cross, as they had in their ignorance, the terrain of the dead, who hoist their Nazarene emblems just above the surface of the earth.

  He leads them through one of the galleries to the side, where the niches sit as though posed on balconies over ledges of reinforced concrete. It’s a relief, this transit over the tile floor, beneath the relative shelter of the vaults.

  Among these hoards of dead, he thinks of how many have died. He cannot calculate the number. They appear before him, a bare few, but those are not there. The man asks himself: where are those dead? And he is not asking about their bodies. Who is he speaking with, who does he want to answer? Not his sister, who is turned inward, walking beside him, in mourning and relinquishment.

  The man hears music, and asks himself if she does as well. Why ask her? She will tell him: What do you mean? Music?

  And yet…

  It’s a song, maudlin and soothing, without lyrics, set to strings. Soon it stretches forth, like an arm, as though wailing, but not in a spirit of reproach. Chords like the sonorous steps of a ballerina who has choreographed her heedfulness and whose every footfall treads a feeling beautiful but sinister.

  The music comes and goes – a dance for two – spins vertiginously – a soloist’s turn on his axis.

  A voice turns majestic and harmonious, a voice of universal nostalgia, like a score performed by a symphony orchestra.

  It diminishes, and takes on the air of a song and the rhythm of a rocking raft on a tranquil lake.

  But then, more dynamic sounds, intensely warm sounds rise up, like love thriving in the twin hearts of a man and woman embracing.

  The classical tone and manner of the score that sounds – perhaps – for a single listener permit the intrusion, real or vulgar, of chirping birds, which is not impossible, as the dawn has announced its arrival and that chirping may come from the birds greeting the day.

  Without time to consider whether it comes from the border of trees, the nascent trilling turns to ayes, to the piping of despair. Another, crueler vision passes before his eyes: two fledglings fly or fall in concert, as if feuding, or fighting tooth and nail, never managing to gain a foothold in the air, unable to resist the force that unifies and binds them. With their frantic warbling, they plummet into the void, and their flimsy heads and bones shatter against the mosaic floor. There they remain, with a final shudder.

  The guard explains, without waiting to be asked:

  “The sparrows nest in the upper niches. The children hawking flowers or water for the vases climb up there and tie their feet together
, one bird to the other. After a few days, when the birds grow up and they try to fly for the first time, what you just saw happens.”

  The man pushes aside this cruel impression by returning to his earlier question: how many have died. He is not concerned with multitudes, but with individuals. Friends, acquaintances, the odd person he admires but never met.

  Manuel de Falla, Lorenzo Domínguez, the Chilean sculptor who came for Easter, Sergio Sergi, who made engravings in Trieste, rubbing elbows with Joyce, Neruda, his uncle Ángel, who pierced his chest with those five sharp prongs he had used to eviscerate the soil, Ramponi, who died of poetic rapture; Cúneo, a poet, not for nothing, nor was it for nothing that he bore the name Víctor Hugo, who set himself on fire in the Plaza Independencia, at the foot of the rose bushes, and the flames scorched them one morning, around breakfast time.

  Before advancing toward a patch of dead grass where there stands something like a shack or barn, the maudlin music grabs him, as though tugging him back to the trees: it’s returning, majestic, rife with harmony, the voice of universal nostalgia performed by a symphony orchestra.

  The hovel is like a workshop, for a carpenter or marble mason, with an abundance of tombstones and coffins, half-complete or half-dismantled.

  Among the officiants, gruff, thankfully silent, one gestures with his chin, to indicate he’s here.

  Before entering, he pulls away prudently from his sister. He goes in alone. The wooden lid has been unscrewed and the metal lining of the interior is exposed, with its small oval of glass. Beneath the glass, slightly misty but still clear, is the face of the eternal sleeper.