Raduan Nassar: Ancient Tillage

(How could a man with bread, meat and wine on his table, and salt for seasoning, tell a story about hunger? How could Father, Pedro, have left out so much every time he told that oriental tale? The meeting between the old man and the starving man always ended confusedly, but Father should have told the oft-repeated story of his sermons making use of that therapeutic confusion; the most powerful sovereign in the universe was about to confess that he had, in fact, after much searching, just found a man of strong spirit and firm character and above all, that man had proven himself to have the rarest of all qualities known: patience; but before the compliment could be made, the starving man, with the surprising and unusual strength born of hunger, struck the old man with the handsome white beard violently, explaining himself before the old man’s fury, ‘My lord, master of my laurels, you know very well that I am your submissive slave, the man you have invited to sit at your table, and on whom you have bestowed a banquet of the finest delicacies fit for the greatest king, and to finish off, whose thirst you have quenched with numerous old wines. What more can you expect, my lord, for the spirit of the wine has gone to my head, I therefore am not responsible for raising my fist against my benefactor.’)

I swung agilely over the slab of stone weighing me down, at first my eyes were stunned, wide open and frozen, the eyes of a lizard that has recently abandoned immense waters and slid on to solid rock; I closed my lizard-skin eyelids to protect myself from the light burning into me, and my word gave way to the world: moss, mud and mire; and my first thought was in relation to space, and my first saliva was distinguished by the use of time; all space exists for journeying, I started saying, to express what I had never before even suspected, that space doesn’t exist unless it’s fertilized, like when someone goes into virgin forest and stays there overnight, like when someone penetrates a circle of people instead of circling it timidly from afar; and in naive, feverish clarity, I suddenly saw myself in the swift flight of a white bird, spying between succulent leaves and occupying new space every second; for the first time, I felt the stream of life, its strong fish-like odour, and this soaring bird traced a bold, white line inside my thoughts, from inertia to eternal movement; and just as I was emerging from my slumber water, already feeling strong hooves galloping in my chest, I said, blinded by bright lights, I’m seventeen years old and in perfect health and on this rock I am now founding my own church, a church for my own purposes, the church I will attend with my bare feet and bare body, naked, as I came into the world, and there was so much happening to me that all at once I felt I was the prophet of my own history, not a prophet looking upwards, but a prophet looking around confidently at the fruit of the earth; and I thought about it and standing there on that rock I said, all of a sudden I know I want, and I know I can!

I watched the sun filling with its ancient blood, tightening its perfect muscles, lancing copper darts into the atmosphere, immediately followed by hot gusts of wind blustering through my ears, prowling around my quiet, plant-like slumber, tangling up the silence of my nest, pecking at my hide with the points of its metallic lights, flinging me into sudden, burning insomnia; boils covered my pores, currents traversed my sleep as I thundered after a graceful doe, each word was a dry leaf and as I raced, I trampled upon the pages of many books, gathering deadly, sour food from among the twigs, so many women, and so many males, so many ancestors, so much accumulated pestilence, what thick syrups run from the fruit of this family! I had simply forged my fist toward the sky and decreed the time had come: impatience also has rights!

(I write this in memory of my grandfather: in response to the sun, rain and wind, as well as to the other signs of nature that either destroyed our fields or caused them to thrive, he would say (as opposed to our father’s indiscriminate insights, which contained grafts from various geographical locations) — with a coarse belch worth all of the sciences, all of the churches and all of our father’s sermons: ‘Maktub.’) [1] ‘It is written.’

Rustling red leaves, hundreds of wizards descended from the tallest branches in caravan, riding the wind, shaking amulets in their manes, machinating dark plans out of auditory nettles, and boasting an arsenal of poisonous thorns in open collusion with nature deemed malevolent, they filled the atmosphere with resins and ointments, replenishing our primitive odours, rubbing our obscene noses with the dust of our own pollens and the smell of our clandestine greases, carving out a morbid, fatal appetite inside our bodies; sensing two enormous hands beneath my steps, I hid myself away in the old house of the fazenda , made of it my refuge, the playful hiding-place of my sleeplessness and its pain; I locked away the darkest parts of my libido there between the pages of a prayer book, I moved around the house among grey rats, returning the roots of my feet to their origins, exploring the silence of the halls, investigating the creaking wood, the cracks in the walls, the slack windows, the darkness of the kitchen and, inflating my nostrils to absorb the family’s most distant atmosphere, I relived the squalid whispers and spiderwebs dangling from the rafters, the peaceful history leaning over the windowsills, and the stronger history in the beams; the only thing breaking into the damp silence of the well was an arm of sunlight reaching slyly through the cracked tiled roof, lighting a small flame, cold and porous, on the wood floor; with my sacred, profane torment in every corner, I filled the deserted rooms with my pleas, and lit the infamously frightening, esoteric shadows in the old house with my fire and faith; and as the underground creaking seeped up at me through the floorboards, I kept saying, as if in prayer, I’ll burn this wood, these bricks and mortar yet, then I’ll transform the largest room in this house into a barn for my testicles (such fertile earth and so much lamentation, such restless shoots bursting from these seeds!), I was spilling all my blood along that atavistic trail, resting my reborn foetus in the hay, lulling it with my hands, and scattering the premature petals of a white rose, I was already rushing through the waiting period, taking off in a drunken state (such lucid wine filled my eyelids!), and spying through the cracks like an animal, my presence in the old house sending signals through the mirror of my eyes, like the intermittent, jagged steel we used to use in the woods or pastures to send out our forbidden messages: such anticipated passion, such pestilence, such crying out!

Time, time is versatile, time works mischievously, time would play with me, time would stretch out provokingly, it was a time filled only with waiting, keeping me in the old house for days on end; it was also a nerve-wracking time, of muddled sounds, confusing my antennae, making me hear imaginary allurements clearly, awakening me to the weight of a harsher sentence: I am crazy! And the saliva of this word was so corrosive, caressing me in desperate fantasies, forming terrible masks over my face, occasionally, tossing me gently into the affectionate initiations of religious orgy: a colt ran through the fields with all its tack, scraping our bloody barbed-wire fences, guiding me to the enchanted orchard cove! Such virulent pulp stored amidst the silver leaves, staining my teeth, inflaming my tongue, blotching my adolescent skin! Time, time, time studied me calmly, time punished me, I heard the steps on the small front staircase clearly and distinctly: such a sudden shock, how upsetting to see my heart leap out at me unexpectedly like an injured bird, shrieking and jumping in the palm of my hand! I rushed toward the door: no one was there; I searched the dried shrubbery in the abandoned garden, but nothing moved, there was a silence-filled, still wind, not even the most timid heartbeat traversed the fields, there’s a limit to the imagination I could still reason, there was a time when nothing went wrong! I returned to the room I used to stay in, flying directly over to the window, peering through the slit (God!): she was there, not far from the house, beneath the old washboard shed, partially hidden by the old bougainvillea branches, shying away after her bold advance, and then watching my window distrustfully, barefoot with her country-girl figure and her gracefully dishevelled clothing, white, white, her face so white, and I was reminded of doves, the doves of my childhood, and I also saw myself peeking from behind the blinds, as I used to peek, huddled in a corner of the barn, from where I would spy on the fearful, aloof dove as it measured its own movements distrustfully, its meticulous, precise beak pecking back and forth, advancing steadily along the trail of kernels, and I would spy and wait, because there is a time for waiting and a time to be agile (that is a science I learned as a child and later forgot); that’s the reason I would follow it and, in my imagination, read the crooked, graceful little crosses imprinted in the dirt by its soft feet as it advanced and withdrew; and there was a time to be agile, then there was an abrupt rustling of wings as the wire netting closed over it surreptitiously, my hands quickly forming a nest, I soon held but a quiver between my fingers as I ran through the yard in turmoil calling out, ‘It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine,’ stopping only to look more carefully at its small, round eyes — shrewd, but by then only out of frightened panic, and I would determinedly pluck the feathers from its wings, temporarily curtailing its extensive flight — there would be a time for new feathers and new wings, and also for new love, and that was the sweet imprisonment awaiting it upon its once again taking full flight; the doves in my yard could fly away freely, they took long journeys, but always returned, because I had nothing but love for them and wanted nothing else from them, and when they flew far, far away I would recognize them on the most distant rooftops among the uninitiated flocks whom I also hoped to bring into my immense garden some day; she was there, white, white, her face so white and I could sense all her doubt, confusion and pain, and because I was so filled with faith, I believed I couldn’t possibly be mistaken in my burning, my passion and delirium; I began imagining how I should have drawn her in, with a winding trail of grapes leading to the front stairs, and bunches of fresh pomegranates draped in the front windows, and vibrant-coloured garlands entwined in the old railing of the big veranda surrounding the house; there was a time for waiting, but I was already stumbling, turning impatiently from the window, I violently kicked the straw I had collected little by little and built up day by day in the middle of the room; a gusty dust pile blew through my head, and for a minute, I was lost in that whirlwind, contemplating confusedly the disturbance in my own nest: there was life in the room! I went back to peeking through the slit in the window; she was no longer inside the shed and I was no longer inside myself, I had flown to the front door: time, time, this sometimes gentle, sometimes cruel tormentor, the absolute devil qualifying everything, deciding everything to this day and for ever — which is why I bow to it fearfully, held in suspense, wondering when, when exactly is the precise moment of crossing over? Which instant, which terrible instant marks the leap? Which gale and spatial depth conspire, toying with the limit? The limit where all newly vibrationless things no longer simply make up life in the day-to-day current, but have become life in the subterraneous memory; she then stood before me in the entrance, white, white, her face so white, filtering the ancient colours of extremely different emotions, composing in the door frame the picture I still don’t know where to hang, in the rush of life or in the current of death; and there we stood facing each other motionlessly, silently, our minds in a blind knot, yet she had only to cross the threshold and it became no more than a boy’s science, nonetheless, already a science made up of instants, a piece of string in one hand and my heart in the other, agility was impossible knowing the moments of patience that awaited me, any tumble would be premature, harming the bird, causing tumultuous, injured flight; kernel by kernel, second by second, as the dove approached the wire-net trap, it became more cunning, pecking firmly at the dirt, but with a trembling neck, like the indecisive arm of a water mill, midway to its destiny; with each peck and poke, it would shake its wings, threatening with its feathers to back away until, crossing over the arc-shaped frame, a sweet treat would obliterate the wire netting stretched out on the dirt; it was a boy’s science, but it was a complex science, one kernel too many, or one second less and the bird might become dispirited with excess or with longing, there was just the right, calculated amount, the amount that would maintain the dove’s trust once caught; in one hand, a flaming heart, and in the other, the agile string, just waiting to be geometrically tightened, swiftly tracing over the industrious calculations in the sand; no rapture, no jerking while pulling the string, not one extra second in the weight of the tense arm.