Raduan Nassar: Ancient Tillage

as I suspected that, in their lack of spiritual sustenance, the last few seeds from the family fields were being cooked, over a will-o’-the-wisp glow, in a prosaic boarding-house room: ‘She told no one you had left, at lunch that day each of us at the table felt, more than the next, the weight of your empty chair; but we remained silent, staring at our plates as Mother served us, not one of us had the courage to ask where you were, our afternoon of work with Father dragged on, our thoughts were with our sisters at home busily working in the kitchen or embroidering on the veranda, stitching at the sewing machine, or cleaning out the pantry; no matter where the girls were, they were transformed that very day; no longer filling the house with joy, having already given in to their sense of abandonment and discomfort; you should have been there, André, you should have; and you should have seen our father locked up in his silence: as soon as dinner was over, he left the table and went to the veranda; no one saw him withdraw, he stood there next to the railing, watching who knows what in the darkness; only at bedtime, when I went into your room and opened your closet and empty drawers did I understand, as the eldest brother, the scope of what had happened: the beginning of the disintegration of the family,’ he said, then stopped, and I knew why, I had only to look at his face, but I did not, for there were also things inside me to be seen, and I could have said ‘The disintegration of the family started long before you think, in my childhood, when faith grew virulently inside me and when I had so much more passion than anyone else in the house,’ is what I could have said, with certainty, but it was no time to speculate on the obscure methods of faith, to take up its dissolute aspects, the sacramental consumption of blood and flesh, to investigate the voluptuousness and tremors of devotion, but even so I started to remember my Marian society ribbon, to recall that, as a pious child, I would set it next to my bed before sleeping and also, how God would wake me up daily at five o’clock for early communion, and I would lie awake, sadly watching my brothers in their beds as they slept through my bliss, I would amuse myself as shadows broke through the dawn, and with each ray of daylight shining through the cracks, I would rediscover the magical fantasy of the small figures painted up high on the wall like a border, just waiting for her to come into the bedroom and whisper again and again, ‘Wake up, sweetheart,’ gently touching me again and again, until I, pretending all the while that I was sleeping, would grasp her hands with a shiver and they in turn would play their subtly composed game beneath the covers, and I would laugh and she would lovingly remind me in a whisper not to ‘wake up your brothers, sweetheart,’ and she would hold my head against the warm pillow of her stomach, and bending her full body, she would kiss my hair again and again, and as soon as I got up, God was right next to me on my bedside table and it was a god I could grasp in my hands and put around my neck, filling my chest, and as a young boy I would enter the church like a balloon, the domestic light of our childhood was good, the home-made bread on our table, the hot milk and coffee and the butter dish; that luminous clarity of our home always seemed brighter when we would return from the village, the clarity that was later to perturb me so, making me strange and mute, leaving me prostrate in bed, like a convalescent, from the time of my adolescence onwards; ‘Things we never suspected within the limits of our home’ almost slipped out, but once again I believed it would have been useless to say anything, in fact I felt incapable of saying anything at all, and, lifting my eyes, I saw that my brother’s gaze was immersed in his glass, and motionless; as if in response to the message in my expression, he said, ‘The more rigid the structure, the harder the fall, the strength and the joy of a family can disappear thus in one fell swoop,’ is what he said, as a sudden look of mourning crossed his face, and then he interrupted himself, and instantaneously my imagination was flooded with the bright Sunday gatherings when our city relatives and friends would visit us, and in the woods behind the house, beneath the tallest trees, which along with the sun made up a gentle, joyous play of shadow and light, after the smell of the roasted meat had been long lost among the many leaves on the fullest branches, and the tablecloth, previously laid over the calm lawn, folded away, I would curl up near a distant tree-trunk, from where I could follow the tumultuous group of boys and girls busily getting things ready for the dance, among whom were my sisters with their country ways, wearing their light, bright dresses, full of love’s promise suspended within the purity of a greater love, running gracefully, covering the woods with their laughter, carrying the baskets of fruit over to the same place where the cloth had been, the melons and watermelons split open, with gales of laughter, and the grapes and oranges picked from the orchards lushly displayed in these baskets, a centrepiece suggesting the theme of the dance, and this joy was sublime, along with the setting sun, porous beams of divine light easing their way between the leaves and branches, occasionally spilling over into the peaceful shadows and reverberating intensely on those damp faces, and the men’s circle would then start to form, my father, his sleeves rolled up, would gather the youngest, who would join arms stiffly, their fingers firmly intertwined, making up the solid contour of a circle around the fruit, as if it were the strong, clear contour of an ox-cart wheel, and soon my elderly uncle, the old immigrant, a pastor in his youth, would take his flute from his pocket, a delicate stem in his heavy hands, and would begin to blow into it like a bird, his cheeks inflating like those of a child, and his cheeks would swell so much, would get so puffy and flushed, it seemed as if all his wine would flow from his ears, as if from a faucet, and with the sound of the flute, the circle would begin to move slowly, almost obstinately, first in one direction, and then in the other, gradually trying out its strength in a stiff coming-and-going to the rhythm of the strong, muffled sound of the virile stomping, until suddenly the flute would fly, cutting enchantingly into the woods, traversing the blossoming grasses and sweeping the pastures, and the now vibrant wheel would speed up, its movement circumscribing the entire circle, which was no longer an ox-cart wheel, but a huge mill wheel, spinning swiftly in one direction, and at the trill of the flute, in the other, and the elderly, who stood by watching, and the young girls, who awaited their turn, would all clap, strengthening the new rhythm, and before long, Ana would impatiently and impetuously sweep into the dancing circle with her country-girl figure and a red flower, like a drop of blood, holding her loose dark hair to one side; this sister of mine who, more than anyone else in the house, was diseased in body, as was I, and right away I could sense her precise, gypsy steps moving about the circle, dexterously and curvaceously weaving her way through the baskets of fruit and flowers, touching the earth only with the tips of her bare feet, her arms lifted above her head in languishing, serpentine movements to the slowest, most undulating melody of the flute, her graceful hands twisting and turning up in the air; she would be overtaken with wild elegance, her melodious fingers snapping, as if they were, as if they had been the first ever castanets, and the circle surrounding her would pick up speed deliriously, the clapping hands outside would grow increasingly hot and strong, then suddenly and impetuously, magnetizing everyone, she would grab a white handkerchief from one of the boys’ pockets, waving it with her hand above her head while she kept up her serpentine movements; this sister of mine knew what she was about, first hiding her venom well concealed beneath her tongue, then biting into the grapes, which hung in saliva-drenched bunches, she would dance amongst them all, rendering life more turbulent, stirring up pain, drawing out cries of exaltation; and presently, harmonizing in a strange language, the elders would begin to sing out simple verses, almost like chants, and a young mischievous cousin, caught up in the current, would make strident cymbals out of two pan lids and it would seem as if, following the contagious music, the herons and teals had flown in from the lake to join everyone there in the woods, and I could imagine, his solemnity dampened by wine, my father’s joyful eyes, reassured that not everything on board was to rot under the hatches; and sitting on an exposed root over in a shady corner of the woods, I would let the light wind blowing through the trees flow through my shirt, inflating my chest, and feel the soft caress of my own hair on my forehead, and from a distance, in this apparently relaxed position, I would imagine the lavender aroma of her fresh complexion, the full tenderness of her mouth, like a piece of sweet orange, and the mystery and malice in her date-like eyes; my staring was unabashed, I would untie my shoes, take off my socks and, with my clean, white feet, scrape away the dry leaves to the layer of thick humus below, and my unrestrained desire was to dig into the earth with my nails and to lie down in this pit and cover myself with the damp earth, and lost on this secluded trail I wouldn’t perceive when she would leave the others, searching everywhere with her wide, worried eyes, and the sound of her footsteps, as she came closer, would mingle with the onset of the sudden, timid noise of the small animals stirring alluringly and affectionately nearby, so I would only notice her presence as she approached, and then I would look down and concentrate on her steps, which were suddenly no longer rushed, but slow and heavy, distinctly smashing the dry leaves beneath her feet and smashing me confusedly within, and bowing my head, I would soon feel her warm, caring hand first removing a particle of dirt, then gathering and smoothing out my hair, and her voice, born of her calcified womb, would suddenly gush into the depth of my sanctuary, and it was as if it came from a temple built only of stones, yet filled with porous light beaming through stained glass, ‘Come, sweetheart, come and play with your brothers and sisters,’ and quietly curled up in my spot I would merely say ‘Leave me alone, Mother, I’m having fun,’ but my bitter eyes would never leave my sister, the soles of her feet aflame, branding and burning inside me … what bright dust, as I see the last of that distant time, the same period when, one day, with chained feet, I averted my eyes to avoid her face; my pack, fixed firmly to my back, weighing heavily on me as I left the house, the two of us walking like twins sharing shoulders, twin yolks from the same egg, one with eyes facing forward, the other, backwards; standing there looking at my brother, I was seeing so many faraway things, and that evening I embarked on my desperate decision to throw myself into the soft stomach of the moment; who knows, I still might have even asked my brother, in a kindly impulse, to leave and to ‘Give my best to the family,’ closing the door behind him; then, alone in my darkness, I would roll myself up in the soft layer of sunlight hanging on one of the bedroom walls, and protected inside that blanket, I would eventually surrender to wine and to my fortune. Читать дальше