I laughed and held out an arm. 'Doing my best.'
Paco showed no reaction. He didn't even look my way.
'We're not brilliant company tonight,' Claire said with an apologetic smile. 'Paco's cousin…'
The reminder sent a jolt through me, and I dearly hoped they were not about to return to the topic of the rucksack. Paco raised the topic of the rats instead, but Claire was quick to demonstrate her disapproval with a sudden intake of breath as if to say rats was not a topic for the dinner table. My mind raced through scenarios, and I knew I had better come up with a plausible fabrication involving an email to the owner and consequent eradication. And I would need to contact island pest control to see how such an eradication would occur. Poison? Traps? I rued the moment I had come up with that lie and wished I had had the presence of mind to invent another cause for my sudden evacuation of the Tefía farmhouse.
Paco drained his glass then wiped up the gravy on his plate with a hunk of white bread. Claire sat and watched. Behind her, Zeus sat up and began to look expectant. I polished off the last of my stew and drank my wine and when they started to clear away the plates, I seized the opportunity to take my leave.
Alone in my quarters, I took the manuscript, opened my laptop and arranged myself comfortably on the bed. Keen to forget about the whopping lie I had just told, I translated another two hundred words, not paying much attention to the translation the website offered as I copied and pasted, ending on the word “marica”.
The translator had interpreted the word as “sissy”, but the narrator would hardly refer to himself as that. I went on a Spanish-English dictionary and discovered the more usual meaning: gay.
I leaned back against the pillows. The narrator was gay? I took a closer look at the translated sentences. Was this memoir? When was it set? The writing so far gave no hint of time or place, but judging by the way the last paragraph was written, I knew the story had to involve a gay protagonist.
The revelation launched me into a spin. Ever since I had come to the island I had been tortured by my own sexuality. And now this? As though life, fate, the universe was rubbing my nose in something I dearly wanted to run away from.
What could I possibly do with this document? I was straight, despite my teenage dalliance. I was not repressed or in denial, despite my wayward gaze. Angela was wrong about me. Only, given the story unfolding before me, it would be better for me if she wasn't. If I was gay, then I could write a book with a gay protagonist without fear of any backlash. But as a straight man, a straight white man? I could hear the chorus of derision. I would be crucified by the critics. Sure, I had read James Baldwin. I could pull off a female protagonist, not a problem. But pretending to be gay, in the first person? I would feel like a fraud. Then again, what right did the thought police have to crush my creativity? Didn't gay men write about straight men? Of course they must. The whole world wasn't gay. There was nothing for it. I decided I would transcend identity politics and press on, drawn as I was by this mysterious text. The opportunity it presented was much too good to pass up.
My eyes grew tired, and my head began to ache, but I refused to stop until I came to the end of the first page. Then I read over the words again and again, fixed the grammar, checked up on the meaning of certain phrases that had come out in the translation in a peculiar fashion, added some flourishes of my own here and there, and then some polish. It was three in the morning when I hit the save button, closed my laptop and readied for bed.
The Fault Is Not My Own
Shall we sit? Yes, dear friend, let us sit. Let us sit where the thermals rise and face where the sun will set. Let us rest awhile, you and I, entwined in a curious intimacy of bird and man.
Look to where the ocean meets the sky. There, on the horizon of all that can be known with the naked eye, see the pale haze. Where on other days, clear days, the eye will observe a line separating the two hues of blue, one a watery reflection of the other.
Blue, the result of the sun that illumes the world and gives it life.
My eyes behold blue beauty but that solar orb of blazing fire cannot penetrate the black that exists in this husk that is me. A void has grown in the place of life. I'm hollowed out of whatever had once filled me, and now I have only memory to pour back into that dark chamber, memory of what used to exist before it was wrenched away.
Can you see that? Or what do you behold? Do you see into me, my raven companion? Do you want to see into me? Should I let your black-feathered body penetrate my black soul? Or should I resist that final temptation?
I have no answer to satisfy your expectant eye. Perhaps I must set myself a task so that you can truly see into me. Reconstruct myself with all that I was. There was plenty of me, I can assure you of that. I would make a grand story, as grand as another, grander maybe, a soaring tale of adventure and aspiration. Shall I give myself permission to dramatize, add colour where colour is needed, invent a title for myself, leave you, dear raven, on a cliff hanger, leave you wanting more, of me, of my story?
There ought to be more, a sequel, maybe three, for I am young, twenty-seven, ready to re-enter the life I once knew.
The Prodigal Son returns! Aha, if only that were so. I fear the door will forever remain closed as it would on a leper. If it opens even a crack in a moment of intense curiosity, in the next fraction of a second, it will slam back in my face.
My name is José Ramos. My name is José Ramos and I once held a desire to be a journalist. My name is José Ramos, son of a lawyer. I am José Ramos from the ancient town of La Laguna, the middle child of three. I am dutiful, obedient, shy, eager, optimistic, craven and God-abiding José. At least, I once was all those things. I was on the dashing side of looks, too. Yes, I am José Ramos, the sinner. José Ramos, carrying a sickness for which there is no cure. I am José Ramos, and I am gay.
Did I shout all that? No, I only thought it. The raven hears me without my speech. My dark companion, all beady, curious, attentive.
I will tell you then, bird, since you clearly want to know. I'll make my outpourings a story for future generations. An autobiography of a young man. A portrait. Perhaps a young man a touch like the one Joyce created. A young man writing a book as honest and telling as any Hemingway. For Whom The Bell Tolls? It is tolling for me.
You may look at me with that cynical eye, dear raven, but please stay. You are my only friend.
You may wonder what will propel me forwards or backwards to my fate. Your feet are on the earth, but your wings will let you fly. My feet are dangling off a cliff, a drop of some fifteen hundred feet, and here at last, I have come, facing west, and somewhere beyond the milky horizon is the island of my birth, Tenerife.
I am due to return if I want, but for what? There is no life for me in La Laguna. There is no career to be had, no interest to pursue.
Oh, raven, such a depressing tale as this is scarcely worth telling! Yet I exist, and while I do I have a voice, I should, I must tell this tale. Are you listening now raven? Can you spare the time as I embellish the story of me?
Perhaps I should reinvent myself, become the protagonist José. Who would know if I did? Only me. I have absolute freedom. I can lose myself to my imagination and do as I please, but what sort of deceit would that be? Besides, I'm not sure I'm capable of fabrication or fantasy. It would do the world no good. I am a journalist at heart, not a poet, and while both deal in presentations of truth, one seeks facts, the other imagery. Here is my story, then, to add to the fabric of truth a single tired and frayed tassel.
A Wake
I awoke hot and sweating. The sun blazed through the eastward window. I got up, opened the casement and closed the external shutters, conveniently fastened to the wall by spring-loaded latches. After shutting the windows, I pulled down the blind, throwing the room into near total darkness. The sudden change was too much. Disoriented, I groped around for my underpants.
My eyes adjusted and I sat up in bed, wondering what time it was. I heard voices outside and went out to
my rooftop patio to find Paco and Claire in the rear garden. They didn't see me. They looked busy, each attending to something or other, and I decided not to disturb them by calling out. Zeus was sniffing around. He hadn't noticed me. He cocked his leg to water the perimeter wall, and I averted my gaze. At the northern end of the garden, I noted a restored barn, no larger than a single garage, along with two smaller outbuildings, still in ruins, their interiors planted with what appeared to be tomatoes. A lot of work had gone into this place, a lot of love and care, and it was obvious the couple derived much pleasure from their abode.
Secluded from the street by the high stone wall and the house and the garage, the whole of the garden faced open fields and hills and that one vast volcano, all reddish-brown and open-mouthed. The view was mesmerising and more appealing than the Tefía plain, more sheltered with the mountains all around. I would have preferred a sea view, but I guess you can't have everything. Besides, the mood here was made intimate by the lack of ocean blue. I sat on the cool concrete, hidden from view, and absorbed the new surroundings. Flickers of inspiration sent ripples from the edges of my awareness and I felt that inward pull, that familiar drawing within that was the muse.
I recalled the words I translated and then re-wrote the night before. I pictured the young man sitting with his feet dangling off the edge of a cliff. A young man talking to a raven. I wondered where that cliff was. A habitat for ravens? Or had he borrowed the bird to use as a motif? Was he situated somewhere real or imaginary? The story was definitely set on a Canary Island, for José had mentioned Tenerife.
He was obviously a very troubled young man and literary, too, with references to Joyce and Hemingway. I had to help him with the reference to For Whom the Bell Tolls, but I felt justified. Sometimes an idea needs a little expansion. And he was gay. That in itself made the story more compelling, more intriguing. In the warm morning light, I felt at peace with the issue of the gay protagonist. It occurred to me if the author of those words was also gay and that author turned out to be Paco's cousin, then did Paco know Juan was gay? There were a few leaps in my reasoning, but it might be worth finding out. I wondered how I would go about it.
Zeus cocked an ear and looked over in my direction. I anticipated a loud bark any moment. Feeling my skin begin to burn, I went inside and had a shower.
With no intention of leaving the apartment all day, I donned a t-shirt and shorts and went downstairs and sifted through the food I had brought with me from the farmhouse. There was enough to make an omelette and the stale bread would do for toast.
A juice, a coffee and a Clen tablet later, I wrote a shopping list for the supermarket in Antigua; probably not the closest, but I knew where everything was. And I wanted to self-cater. Grim dinners in the main house were not ideal. I would live the hermit's life in Tiscamanita. With the air of the writer-at-work, I would excuse myself from any invitations Claire might throw at me.
Feeling self-conscious in clothes more suited for the bedroom or the beach and not the supermarket, I ran upstairs and changed into long pants and a buttoned shirt. I was out and back in under an hour, putting away the groceries, when there was fast rap on the apartment door.
This time, it was Paco, dressed in a charcoal-grey suit. He had one arm raised, leaning against the doorframe. I took a step back, somewhat confronted by his looming presence.
'We thought you should know the funeral is today.'
At first, I was confused. Then realising who he meant, unease rippled through me.
'I'm awfully sorry,' I said. I didn't mean it, but there was nothing else to say.
'Claire forgot to tell you last night,' he went on. 'I thought she had so I didn't mention it.'
'That's alright.'
He relaxed his arm, let it fall to his side.
'We're having the reception here afterwards. You are welcome to attend.'
I hid my reaction. 'I don't want to intrude,' I said lightly.
'You won't be.'
He moved away from the doorframe and headed across the patio and disappeared.
A reception? That meant the family and friends, including the uncle at the gym, would descend on Paco and Claire's. This scuppered my plans for a quiet day in. Better for me if I wasn't around. Pity I forgot to ask when it was all taking place.
Funerals, as far as I knew, occurred during the day, and Paco was certainly garbed for the ceremony. Stood to reason, they were about to head off. The island was small. I calculated an hour's drive to anywhere, tops. The event itself would take how long? An hour? Then an hour to get back. I checked the time on my phone. It was eleven. My rough estimate of three hours if Paco and Claire were leaving now, meant the reception would begin at two. If I came back at five it should all be over.
That made six whole hours I needed to be away. Where would I go? Not the gym, I knew that much. I wasn't ready to face Luis and the others. My body thought otherwise, muscles wanting the punishment they had resented before. But shoulder day could wait.
I was about to grab my keys off the kitchen bench when the thought of leaving all that cash hidden in the suitcase under the bed triggered a rush of paranoia. I couldn't leave it there, not while the doyens of organised crime milled about in the house and no doubt out on the patio. Yet I could hardly take it with me. I wasn't about to drive around the island with fifty-thousand euros in the boot.
The dilemma brought me out in a sweat. My heart rate began galloping like a spooked horse. I reminded myself that no one knew the rucksack was here. Paco and Claire thought I had handed it in to the police and besides, my sixth sense told me they wouldn't mention it to anyone, at least not at the funeral. It was reasonable to assume they wouldn't want Juan's name besmirched in death. They also wouldn't want it known that they knew a thing about the rucksack.
I hung around inside, listening for sounds of movement in the main house, but I could hear nothing. I went out to the patio and glanced in the windows. There was no one about. Then I wandered around the back to find the garden empty. On the pretext of asking Claire if she needed me to get anything from the shops, I stepped inside the house and poked my head into the kitchen. Trays of glassware and stacks of plates filled the breakfast bar. Platters were ready to receive whatever nibbles were stored in the fridge. One was piled with cakes and covered in cling film. There was no sign of anyone and when I called out, I got no reply.
They had gone. Part of me fancied a bit of a poke around in all those rooms, but I curbed the urge and returned to my quarters and readied myself for the afternoon.
Armed only with my laptop and Juan's memoir – if that was what it was – I headed off without a clue where I was heading.
At the intersection in the centre of Tiscamanita, I was in two minds whether to turn left or right. Left meant Tuineje and the southern villages, and right meant Antigua and beyond. I could drive to Puerto del Rosario, but to do what? I didn't feel like a day out anywhere. I wanted to be alone, and it occurred to me the funeral made it safe to return to the farmhouse. On my way by, I called in at the Antigua supermarket for some lunch supplies. The checkout assistant recognised me from earlier that day and said something in Spanish and grinned. I grinned back and said nothing. What was the point? We couldn't communicate.
Driving across the Tefía plain, that feeling of desolation rose up in me, and I recalled Paco's depiction of the awful military accident. As the windmill came into view, I was reminded of the hostel beside it, picturing those low military-style buildings, the quadrangle, and the two plaques – discreetly located out of the way – which I had seen in a photo, plaques erected in memory of the men, the gay men who had served time in those three sun-baked cells.
Auschwitz, Alcatraz, Guantanamo, Evin, I conjured all the ghastly prisons and camps I had heard of, and now Tefía – yet it felt distasteful to compare and besides, the scale of the inhumanity varied in each case. The hostel was tiny and only housed about thirty-six prisoners at a time. But evil was evil wherever it was found, and numbers did not
weigh in the scales of justice. Paco was right. There could be no denying the Tefía plain was one of those dark places where memories lived on, imbuing the landscape with their unique kind of haunting.
I was almost relieved to pull up in the farmhouse drive so I could block out the worst.
It felt odd entering the familiarity of all those small, low-ceilinged rooms, rooms now bereft of my belongings. Keen to set to work, I deposited the groceries on the bench and in the fridge, and slunk to the patio with my laptop, shunting one of the chairs into the shade.
The online translator spat out the next few sentences of miniscule writing, and I busied myself giving the language some shape. Seemed to be a passage about a man extracting water from an ancient well. Where was this story set? Africa? India? Somewhere that still practiced primitive traditions, somewhere impoverished. Historical fiction maybe? The writing was disconnected from the passages that came before, although the prose remained in the first person and carried a similar tone. I could not be certain as this was a translation, and there was a marked break in continuity, but I got the sense the protagonist remained the same. The young man sitting on the cliff was narrating the tale of his life. I inserted his name into a sentence to concretise that fact.
I carried on, phrase by phrase, sentence by sentence, correcting and titivating as I went, until my belly rumbled, and I broke for a very late lunch, leaving the text on the screen.
* * *
The sun seared my back, scalding the open wounds left by the guard's lash. Flies buzzed around my head. Some bit. I leaned against the beam and pushed, pushed like a donkey, or like a camel, pushed the beam that drove the wheel that turned the cogs that winched the buckets of water. I was an animal. That was what they thought of me. The cog clicked – click, click – and the guard sat in the only shade there was, a lone palm in a field of rock. I leaned into the beam, pushed hard, pushed consistently. The wheel turned, and the sun glared into my face. The wind was hot, my sweat gone as fast as I produced it. Bitter resentment filled my heart. I, José, animal.
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