Henning Mankell - Chronicler Of The Winds

That night I did not go up to the roof. When I needed some air, I went out to the street and sat on the steps.

The following day I returned home to my brother and his family. They were very glad to see me. My sister-in-law wondered whether I was ill.

'A man who buys a new hat isn't ill,' said my brother. 'A man does as he pleases. He goes home if he wants to, or he stays away.'

I lay awake in my bed for a long time, listening to all the sounds coming through the thin walls.

I knew that something was happening inside me, but I did not know what it was.

Not yet.

Several weeks passed. I baked my bread, touched Maria's arm, and hung my hat on the hook next to the ovens. On a few occasions when I didn't feel like going home in the morning, I crawled through the ventilation shafts and watched Dona Esmeralda's rehearsals of the play about the revolutionary elephants. Different actors tried out for the role of Dom Joaquim, but none of them in Dona Esmeralda's eyes was suitable. The actors seemed more and more confused about the meaning of the drama. They tried playing it in various ways: as a tragedy a comedy and a farce. But no matter what they did, the elephant trunks got in the way. One time the beautiful, young and pampered Elena started to cry onstage. It looked so odd to see her trying to wipe her tears behind the trunk. That was the only time I laughed during those days after Nelio's death. A single laugh that floated weightless in the space where I no longer felt at home.

One night I followed Maria out to the street, saw her smile and watched her leave. I went back into the bakery, shoved the baking pan into the oven, and closed the door.

I knew then that this would be the last night I worked for Dona Esmeralda.

I would finish up everything. In the morning I would wash myself at the back of the bakery; I would take my hat and leave, never to return.

I had come to the realisation that I could no longer be a baker. I had a different mission for the rest of the days that were allotted to my life. I had to tell Nelio's story. The world could not get along without it. I would not allow his story to be forgotten.

After more than a year I can still remember that moment quite clearly. I didn't actually make a decision. The decision already existed inside me, but it wasn't until that moment that I knew what I had to do. I thought about how I would miss the fragrance of fresh bread. I would miss Maria and her gauzy dresses. Maybe I would even miss Dona Esmeralda and her theatre.

And yet that moment was not a difficult one. I think it would be more truthful to say that it was a relief.

In the morning, after I had washed and then taken my hat from its hook, I waited for Dona Esmeralda to tell her of my decision. But she didn't come. Finally I turned to one of the enticing girls at the bread counter.

'I'm quitting today,' I said, tipping my hat. 'Tell Dona Esmeralda that José Antonio Maria Vaz will not be working here any more. Tell her that I've enjoyed the time I've worked here. And tell her that I will never, for as long as I live, bake bread for any other baker.'

Was it Rosa I spoke to? I remember her surprised look. Who would be so stupid as to voluntarily quit working for Dona Esmeralda? With thousands of people already out of work, with no money and no food?

'You heard me right,' I told her, tipping my hat again. 'I'm leaving now, and I won't be back.'

But that was not entirely true. I had already decided to wait for Maria that evening. I wanted to see her because I wanted to say goodbye and wish her good luck in the future. Maybe deep inside I hoped that she would come with me? I don't know. But where would she have followed me? Where was I actually going?

My answer was: I didn't know. I was carrying out an important mission, but I didn't know which way to go.

After I left the bakery on that last morning, I felt a great sense of freedom. I couldn't even see why I should grieve for Nelio.

Maybe it would be better to grieve for Alfredo Bomba, who probably would not be happy where he was now. For a long time he would no doubt be yearning for his life on the street, for the group of street kids, for the rubbish bins and the cardboard boxes outside the Ministry of Justice.

That's the way it is. A person can yearn for a rubbish bin or for life eternal. It all depends.

I went over to the plaza where Nelio's equestrian statue stood. When I got there, I saw to my astonishment that it had fallen over. There was a great crowd in the plaza. The Indian shopkeepers had not opened their shops, but Manuel Oliveira, on the other hand, had thrown wide the doors of his church.

The equestrian statue had fallen.

I realised that the tremors of the day before had been strong enough to crack the foundation of the heavy statue. The bronze horse and rider lay on their side; the man's helmet was crushed. The last remnant of a bygone era had been toppled. Reporters from the city's newspapers scribbled notes, a photographer took pictures, and children had already started playing and jumping on Dom Joaquim's last monument.

Manuel's church was crowded with people. They were rattling off their prayers as a safeguard and incantation that the tremors would not return. Old Manuel stood under the tall black cross at the far end of the church, looking at the miracle that had occurred. He might have been crying; I was so far away that I couldn't tell for sure. I left the plaza, thinking that Nelio's spirit was hovering above my head. His suffering was over, the bullets in his body could no longer poison him. As one last salute, he had made the horse in whose belly he had lived topple to the ground. For hours I sat on a bench near the hospital, where there's a view of the whole city. From there, if I squinted, I could even see the rooftop where Nelio had lain for the nine nights he told me his story.

I had much to think about. Where would I live? What would I live on? Who would give a man who has only a story to tell the food that he needs? I sat there on the bench in the shade, growing more uneasy.

Then I thought about the children who live on the streets; I thought about Nelio, Alfredo Bomba, Pecado and the others. They found their food in rubbish bins, the free meals of the poor. That food was there for me too. I could live anywhere. Like a lizard I would seek out a crack in the wall that was wide enough for me. There were cardboard boxes, rusting cars. The city was full of places to live that cost nothing.

I knew that I could no longer live with my brother and his family. That was a home that belonged to the life I had left behind. I got up from the bench feeling strangely elated. I had been worrying for no reason. I was a rich man. I had Nelio's story to tell. I needed nothing else.

That evening I waited in the dark outside the bakery for Maria. When I saw her coming, I suddenly didn't dare approach her. I tried to hide in the dark, but she had already seen me. Her dress was gauzy, and she was smiling. I stepped out of the shadows; I felt almost like an actor emerging from the wings on to the illuminated stage. I hastily ran my hand over my face to make sure there was no elephant trunk stuck to my nose. Then I tipped my hat.

'Maria,' I said. 'How could I ever forget a woman who sleeps so soundly that an earthquake can't wake her? What were you dreaming about?'

She laughed and tossed back her long black tranças.

'My dreams are my own concern,' she said. 'But I like your hat. It suits you.'

'I bought it so that I could tip it for you,' I said.

Her expression was suddenly sombre. 'Why are you standing out here?'

I had taken off my hat and was holding it to my chest, as if I were at a funeral. I told her the truth. That everything was over. That I had quit.

'Why?'

'I have a story that I have to tell,' I said.