Mercè Rodoreda - War, So Much War

I didn’t see him at first because the bed was blocking my view. In a bedroom on the second floor lay a dead man, his open eyes staring at the ceiling. On one of his hands — short fingers, black nails — a fly was grooming its legs. The man had a wound in the middle of his chest, and the entire front of his shirt was crimson. In the next house, the furniture had been turned upside down, the clothes in the closets flung on the floor and trampled on, as if someone had danced on top of them. I entered the last house: In the fireplace in the bedroom I found some half-burnt papers and, by the balcony, a shotgun with a metal-studded butt. A French door with smashed windowpanes gave onto a courtyard lined with empty flower pots. Lying on one of the flower pots was a bald, eyeless doll with a deflated ball by her hand.

In the distance, endless mountains, the full spectrum of greys and blues. The peace of the earth breathed all around me. From so much looking, I could no longer see. From so much listening, I could no longer hear. Everything — mountains, houses, path, water trough — merged together and with me. I did not want to think of blood: I became one with everything.

At the end of the square the path continued. Half of a snake lay in my way — the tail half. A wheel must have split it in two, flinging the head into the woods. The path was not straight and, toward the middle of it, in front of some pine trees heavy with caterpillar clusters, I heard water flowing. The path then widened, ending in a village square bordered by an iron railing. The valley that extended beyond was a tract of vivid patches of land that died at the foot of a wooded mountain. At the lookout point I leaned over the railing and recoiled in horror. Just beneath me was a large, recently-dug pit filled with bodies — legs, arms, heads, guts — and heaps of red earth piled up on the sides, mixed with picks and shovels. . the whole a tangled mess streaked with blood and blood puddles that glistened in the singularly translucent light of that day. I fled, my head spinning. At the top of the path, by the honeysuckle, I vomited, disgorging all my bile.

The cleft snake again blocked my path. For two days and two nights I did not eat or drink, as I shoveled earth over the dead. Until they were covered. Before leaving them I faced the waning moon and entrusted their souls to God.

SOMEONE HAD BEEN FOLLOWING ME FOR A WHILE, BUT I COULD not remember when or where this someone had started to trail me. I couldn’t hear anything, not the sound of footsteps, not the rustling of leaves. And yet I was certain that someone was following me and did not want me to notice him. I didn’t dare turn around. I scarcely dared to breathe. I carefully placed my feet where the ground was barest to avoid the sound of crunching leaves. I could feel my pulse pounding. Who could be following me? If the person following me were real I would have heard him behind me and I would have only had to turn around to see him. But I heard nothing. Clouds scurried by overhead. I stopped to listen better. Do not turn around. The woods were at times flooded with light, at times filled with thickening shadows. Had that someone stopped when I stopped? It is asphyxiating to sense oneself being followed through the heart of the forest, where something could be lurking behind every tree. Do not turn around, I warned myself. If you turn around you will see something that is best unseen. If you turn around, whoever is following you will realize that you have noticed him. Do not let on that you have noticed him. Do not turn around! Was that rustling in the branches a voice? I wanted to run but I could not. My legs were frozen and I could not. A drop of cold sweat rolled down my cheek. I had heard chilling tales of horror, the kind that make your hairs stand on end. I had lived through that night in the castle and those nights in the house with the mirror in the foyer. I am past the point of fear, I told myself. But the terror I experienced in that forest was of a different nature; it was as though the dead man my father had killed on the train tracks were about to jump out from behind a tree, determined to harm me.

The resemblance between fathers and sons had, upon occasion, caused me to reflect. If a father dies of a malady of the heart, the son dies of a malady of the heart; if a father dies with a sickened brain, the son dies with a sickened brain. I pinched my arm to make sure I was not delirious. That I was wide awake and crossing a densely wooded forest, and that it was not the first time I had done so. I had always found comfort in the solitude of the woods. I tapped my ears with the palms of my hands. I tried to swallow saliva but had none to swallow. I ran my tongue over lips drier than cardboard. Some time later, very slowly, I dared to turn my head and look back out of one eye. Behind me, the crepuscular gloaming had spawned castles of red and grey beneath a sun as round as a gold medal. Between that sun and myself, a mountain of wilderness. I would have liked to find myself surrounded by people on a street full of lights — a happy street, with women holding children’s hands, with shop windows on either side — and to feel only the slightest of fears at the prospect of dying on that most unforeseeable of days. Why should I be afraid? I needed company. I made an effort to rid myself of fear, so that the evil that lurked behind me would not be the one to come and keep me company. I had become two people: the one sweating with fright and the one who believed there was no reason to be afraid. How could that be? I wanted to shout to drive away my fear but no sound issued from my mouth. The evening sky with its first stars was my enemy; it would come tumbling down on me to punish me for succumbing to fright on a night such as that. I sensed the ever stronger presence of that invisible someone powerful enough to read my thoughts. I suddenly let myself drop to the ground, my body curled into a ball, my eyes so wide they hurt. I must move, walk. Escape whatever it was that was weighing on me like a rock, slowly burying me beneath stones so large that I found myself powerless to dislodge them. I rose, holding on to a tree. . to be a tree to be a cloud to be the wind. I thought I glimpsed a furtive beast in the distance, standing on its hind legs, ready to pounce on me. Beasts did not frighten me. I was unspeakably thirsty. I trudged along, dragging myself until I tripped and fell flat on my stomach. Nothing was real. I had never run away from home. Everything had been a dream. I was still in my bed dreaming, the intoxicating smell of carnations wafting through the open window. And yet, I could feel the beast spying on me and I was on the point of calling to it: come here, come. The shadows spread, effacing the contours of the branches. I could not remember how or when the day had begun; perhaps it had begun in the forest with that fear. Who had sucked the day’s beginning from my consciousness? High above and far away a flock of birds cawed as they flew by. A moonbeam trembled at my feet. It seemed to me it was no longer I who was walking, but the trees, the entire forest. Had I entered the woods or had the woods entered me? I came to a clearing and found myself screaming as I crossed it, arms spread like the wings of the birds that had flown by. The fear was now of another kind: It was myself I feared. I was afraid of never being myself again, for the Great Fear was tightening its grip on me. The moonlight led me to the entrance of a cave. I entered with my arms extended in front of me, treading carefully until I reached the rock wall at the end. I pressed my back against it and let myself slip to the ground. I could glimpse a sliver of sky that was soon covered by a cloud. The blood began to flow through my veins again, my heart grew steadier. A small animal, perhaps a rabbit or a hare, bounded in as though it were being chased; it must have smelled me because it fled just as crazed as it had entered. A storm broke; the thunder and lightning came in quick, unrelenting succession, and the sky discharged water as though it were being emptied. I could not say if the rain lasted but a short moment or hours upon hours. The downpour made me feel safe and I fell into a deep slumber. And a dream entered my slumber: A giant hand approached through the rising waters and blocked the entrance to the cave so that I would never escape.