Ахмед Рушди - Quichotte - A Novel

“He really wants me to have this insula?” Sancho asked, dubiously. “I thought he just liked having me as a black-and-white accessory for his pleasure alone, tied to him, like a prisoner. I’m not sure he can handle an independent child.”

“You are wrong. He is like every parent,” the cricket said, soberly confining itself to English. “He wants you in full color, with full powers, able to lead a successful life. He promises you an insula. Already it is growing in you. Soon you will burst out in Technicolor and spread your tail like the winter peacock of Fellini in Amarcord and everyone will see you and then there you are! Life. The sweet life. Look at you: growing up fast! Almost the young Mastroianni.”

“And you?” Sancho wanted to know. “Are you going to stick around? Because I don’t think I want anyone to be my guide.”

“The insula,” replied the cricket, “unfortunately has nothing to do with conscience.”

“Nor do I,” said Sancho. “I’m like the sky at night. The universe has no interest in right and wrong. It doesn’t care who lives or dies and who behaved well or badly. The universe is an explosion. It rushes outwards, pushing, growing, making room for itself. It’s a never-ending conquest. You know what the motto of the universe is? Give me more. I want it all. That’s my motto also. That’s how I see things too.”

“That, I already perceive in you,” the cricket said, beginning to disappear. “That’s already completely clear. Ciao! Baci!” And it was gone.

When Quichotte awoke the next morning he heard the improbable sound of breakfast sizzling in a pan outside his tent. A dark-haired young man—tall, skinny, his build remarkably similar to Quichotte’s own—was frying eggs and bacon. The young man had his back to Quichotte and wore a red-white-and-blue-check lumberjack shirt over blue jeans with turn-ups and held the pan in his right hand over the flame. With his left hand he was waving at the campers in the neighboring tent, and they were waving back at him. Quichotte called out and when the young man turned to face him the old fellow’s heart pounded so hard that he feared his time had come. Then, still alive, he understood that a second miracle had occurred, because this was his Sancho in high definition, full color, and wide-screen aspect ratio. Farewell, monochrome phantom! Here was a visible, tall, handsome (if a little bony-faced), strapping teenage lad with a grin on his face and a hearty appetite for food. The disagreement of the night before fled from Quichotte’s thoughts. He found tears standing in his eyes.

“A real, live boy,” he said. “Truly, anything can happen today. Even such a thing as this.”

“Is this the sign you were waiting for?” Sancho asked him, but Quichotte had a lump in his throat and couldn’t reply.

“Seeing that this happened,” Sancho then said, “there are things I’m going to need.”

Quichotte was still in a daze, and shook his head in puzzlement.

“Don’t pretend there aren’t,” the lad cried. “You’ll have to get me everything. I can’t wear the same thing every day, can I. So, shirts, pants, underpants, socks, sneakers, boots, hoodie, coat, hat. Plus, I’ll need to eat regularly from now on, so we’ll need to get extra food. Also, when we get away from here I’ll need a room of my own, to get away from that steam hammer in your nose. And, as this plays out, it’s clear I can’t live with you forever. I’ll need a job, a place to stay, all of that. Which we’re not going to find me any of it out here, so we have to leave asap. You’ve had it pretty easy with me so far. But going forward, I have needs.”

“You will want for nothing,” Quichotte finally spoke up. “I have some money saved that will take care of it. There is also my severance-pay lump sum.”

“Oh, that’s right, money,” the young fellow said, snapping his fingers. “Can I get a bank account? That’s important. A debit card is important. An overdraft is important. If you’re not buying stuff, if you’re not making repayments, the system doesn’t recognize that you exist.”

“You must be patient,” Quichotte said to his son. “All in good time. At present I am a man on a great quest and that has priority, as I am certain you can understand.”

“In your dreams,” the youth said, impolitely. “What quest? As far as I can see, you haven’t even made a start.”

“On the contrary,” Quichotte answered him. “I am in the first valley, through which any seeker must pass.”

After breakfast, on a trestle table in the picnic area, Quichotte rolled out a large map of the continental United States. Birds wheeled in the sky overhead: a pair of ospreys with six-foot wingspans, from the osprey nest on a pole in the heart of the Lake Capote campsite. “The hawk is a great hunter,” Quichotte said. “Fish quail before its shadow. It is good to have them here. They grace our pursuit. Their presence is a blessing.”

“What are you looking for?” Sancho asked, jerking a thumb in the direction of the map. “Outlet stores?”

“According to one of the great classic descriptions of the quest,” Quichotte said, “the seeker must pass through seven valleys.”

“What TV show are you talking about now?”

“This is not a TV show,” Quichotte said. “This is old. From before there was TV.”

“Awesome,” Sancho said. The concept of a time before television impressed even his sarcastic self. That had to be a really long time ago. “Where are these valleys located, anyway?” he wanted to know. “San Fernando Valley where the Valley girls live? And the vampires, moving west down Ventura Boulevard? Or maybe Sun Valley? Death Valley? Happy Valley? Valley Forge? That’s all the valleys I’ve got.”

“It doesn’t have to be an actual valley,” Quichotte explained. “The valley is a metaphor. The seven valleys can be anyplace, anywhere.”

“Then why,” the youth asked, not unreasonably, “are we looking for them on a map?”

“Every quest,” Quichotte answered, “takes place both in the sphere of the actual, which is what maps reveal to us, and in the sphere of the symbolic, for which the only maps are the unseen ones in our heads. Still, the actual is also the road to the Grail. We may be after a celestial goal, but we still have to travel along the interstate.”

“You lost me there,” Sancho shook his head. “But that’s okay.”

“The first valley is the valley of the quest itself,” Quichotte said. “Here the searcher has to cast aside every kind of dogma, including both belief and unbelief. Old age itself is such a valley. In old age one becomes detached from the dominant ideas of one’s time. The present, with its arguments, its quarreling ideas, is revealed as fleeting and unreal. The past is long gone and the future, one recognizes, is not a place in which one will find a foothold. To be separated from the present, past, and future is to entertain the eternal, to allow the eternal to enter one’s being.”

“But if you cast aside unbelief as well as belief”—Sancho scratched his head—“then there’s nothing left. Right? All you’ve got is an empty head. That can’t be good? Can it?”

“Systems of thought will not help us on our journey,” Quichotte answered. “Systems of thought, and their antitheses as well, are merely codifications of what we think we know. When we begin by abandoning them, we open ourselves to the immensity of the universe, and therefore also to immense possibilities, including the possibility of the impossible, in which category I place my quest for love.”

“Sounds like one of those shows where you get marooned on an island and your city-slicker knowledge can’t help you. Wrecked, Marooned, Man vs. Wild, Dude You’re Screwed. Or is it more like The Quest or Galaxy Quest ?”