Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

“ But Mary stood outside by the tomb weeping, and as she wept she stooped down and looked into the tomb. And she saw two angels in white sitting, one at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain. Then they said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’ She said to them, ‘Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him.’ Now when she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there…”

Rosa opened her eyes and looked at César.

“You know what he found there, on that penal colony, my man . He found the miracle of God. One afternoon, he ran up those sun-bleached steps with sand encrusted into his knees, saying that Jesus came to him. My man , he looked straight up at the sun, with a bit of drool coming from the chapped crease between his lips. He looked as far as he could look, because his eyes were free, the freest part of his body. His sight now was his soul, he looked to see if he could see behind the clouds, if his soul could penetrate the invisible barriers, if it could penetrate the clouds and stratosphere and slip into the holy villa . His mouth trembled for prayer. Recitations from his childhood dribbled out. His voice was coarse and flaked between a man’s and a boy’s. He clasped his hands together and pressed them into his chest, pounding and babbling into the sun.

“I was there, too, actually. Just visiting, you could say. I was standing with the hot sand cushioning my toes. He did not see me. I was far off behind him. But even if I was right in front of him, he wouldn’t have seen me. Every now and then I had to remind myself of this. When you look at someone, it is very hard to believe that they may not be seeing you too…

“I walked toward the crouching man until I was within arm’s reach. With each step towards him, I told myself, even if he turns his head now, even if he stands up and turns around, he will not see me. I raised my hand and hovered it over his thick shoulder, watching him rock and shake and drone in his prayer. My hand felt very strong. Could I crumble this man’s whole head in it, like an unwanted letter? My man . I did not crumble his head. I placed my hand upon his shoulder and held it there. His body flinched then let go of the tremble. He became still and peaceful. He looked around himself, dumbfounded and asked with a shy voice: Jésus…?

“This was funny to me. I wanted to laugh. But as soon as my mouth began to smile, I felt very pained, very sad. I straightened my mouth and it went away. He looked about him slowly, attentive for a signal. The beach remained as it was. The clouds in the sky continued to roll. The sun pressed its thumb upon the land.

“‘ Jésus? ’ he asked with more confidence. I kept my mouth very straight. He glanced around him, to the sea, to the sky, back inland. No response. I can see him exactly as he was in that moment. Although I was behind him, I could see every muscle of his face. His face was singed with pink from the sun. He looked like a baby pig with cataracts trying to see his mother.

“I took my hand that was on his shoulder and smoothed it across towards his spine. At his spine, I spread my fingers and lightly drew them across the back of his neck, towards his hair line. At the first touch, he jolted his neck to the side. Then to the other.

“‘ Jésus! ’ I grazed the back of his neck again with my fingertips and he flinched his head once more and yelped, ‘ Jésus?!’ He was laughing now. He was crying. He fell forward and caught himself with his palms in the sand, then lifted himself up and wiped the tears from his face, covered his skin like sandpaper.

“ Perdóname. Sálvame. Bendice a mí. ‘Forgive me. Save me. Bless me,’ he kept repeating for lack of prayer. Those were the only words he could pull together in time, the only words that felt clean enough.

Perdóname. Sálvame. Bendice a mí.

Perdóname. Sálvame. Bendice a mí.

Perdóname. Sálvame. Bendice a mí.

“The more he repeated, the more tightly I grasped his neck and massaged it, around the sides and up the spine and into the back of his skull, through the buzzed hair, and down his vertebrae. His knees were pinned into the sand, but his head was turning loosely around and around like in a trance.

“I took my hand off and he fell mouth-first into the sand. His hands remained limp at his sides. He exhaled into the sand and some of it tunnelled up his nose. He spoke into the grains. He sido bendecido por tu amor. ‘I am blessed by your love.’

“I realised that there was a tear rolling down my cheek. It was small and oily and filled with pain. I leaned down over him. The tear rolled heavily down and dropped straight into that worm-skinned ear of his.

“ Vete a la chingada. ‘ Go fuck yourself,’ I whispered.

“He smiled so big and blessed with his mouth wide open, so the sand mixed in with his saliva and gullied down his throat.”

Rosa stopped walking. She turned away from César and put her face into her hands. It was not a gesture of sadness. It was more like suddenly her face became too heavy and would fall off unless she held it in place.

“Rosa,” César touched her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“The worst is to lose your gratitude for life. To no longer see the grace in the living…”

He wished he had the words to console her, to lessen her pain, to ease her memories. But before he could think of something else to say, he heard a familiar melody. His body leaned in. Rosa was singing.

“ Gracias a la vida…

que me ha dado tanto ”

Her voice was like nothing he had ever heard before. It seemed to be coming from miles away, lacquered and greasy. He felt it coursing through him like his own blood.

“ Me dio dos luceros, que cuando los abro,

Perfecto distingo lo negro del blanco ”

As she sang, she lowered her hands and turned towards César. Her hair was much thinner now, flat, parted straight in the centre. Her cheeks were rounded, her mouth wider, curved downward, and her eyes closer together.

César watched Rosa’s face changing. Her features were becoming someone else’s, and he recognised them immediately. His chest swelled with awe and his eyes grew tender.

“ Violeta Parra …” he said enamoured.

The woman smiled at him and continued to sing. César picked up, mouthing along with her words. He trailed Violeta’s voice like a child stumbling to keep up with the grown-ups.

As his voice stumbled on, he noticed an odd sound, underneath their singing, like a strange woodwind. His voice faded and it was just Violeta Parra singing. Still, that odd sound persisted, light, sweeping like dust underneath her voice.

A wind blew, and the half-breath whistle rose beneath her voice. Her eyes deepened like two cotton balls soaked in ink.

She was turning her head away from César. As she turned, César saw it. The bullet hole in the side of Violeta Parra’s head. It tunnelled precisely through from one side to the other. A gust of wind blew through the hole. Flute music came out of her head.

Violeta raised her hands and placed them over the holes in her head. Her wrists turned towards each other and covered her eyes. When she took her hands away, it was Rosa’s face looking at César.

“You’ll carry a bit of my pain, won’t you, César ?” Rosa said. “If you carry it long enough, it’ll become your own.”

She leaned into him and placed her lips upon his temple. She whispered each syllable into the flesh of his scalp, into the bone of his skull: Pres-ta-das cos-as nos po-seen. “Borrowed things possess us.”