by A. G. Billig
She opened her eyes, feeling remorse. Was this the reason why the man scowled at her? Did he remember? Did he recognize her?
Her body shivered. Why scare people with such stories? Humans had only one life to live—nobody returned from the dead to disavow it, right? Why live in fear? In fact, having one more fear to think about: that you will never get away with it. Anyhow, fear and adrenaline were her faithful daily companions. She was scared of missing the deadline, of being abandoned by Darling for a younger chick, of getting a speed ticket or a flat bottom because of too much sitting, of hitting menopause too early. She imagined having a hard time gaining the big prize during the advertising festival, the Inland Revenue emptying her accounts because of an accountant’s huge mistake, the building officer’s unexpected check of the water meters in her house, losing her job. Life was a struggle, what the heck!
She was dizzy. She was experiencing the whole army of dark soldiers for the first time. They usually walked alone or in pairs, when she least expected them, hiding behind friendlier thoughts but always being there. She must have been very tough if she managed to live under such circumstances without going completely nuts.
Her stomach had been asking for his rights for some time but being caught in the train of thought, she did not pay attention. For the first time since she had started working in a corporate company, she felt a sound, healthy hunger. Usually, she would leave home in a hurry, without having breakfast. She would stop by a drive-in, grab a croissant and some coffee she would finish up in her car, after pulling into the five-hundred-space parking lot.
She put on a white, vaporous linen dress and her roman sandals, combed her hair in a ponytail and left. Her image, reflected in the mirror for a second, put a smile on her face. The sea was doing wonders and the angler had been right to consider her a “girl.” Colour came back to her cheeks, her skin was glowing and her eyes glittered with inner joy.
The warden was outside, trying to mend the storm’s effects. He was gathering up the rose petals scattered on the ground with tender gestures. As if he wanted to ease their suffering. Instead of throwing them into the bin, he put them in a terracotta bowl. It could have been this picture or maybe the image of the noose that made her stop and look at him with compassion and understanding. Their eyes met, for a second, before he turned his back on her, mumbling something, she was able to see his features soften into a smile.
The anglers’ village, so vivid and full of tourists in the height of the season, was deserted. There was nobody in the long, narrow yards that all looked the same. Various green plants, such as vines, multicoloured irises and flowering tobacco, mingled with date trees and jasmine, were hiding the houses, leaving only visible the roofs and the first floors, with its white and blue shades. Everything looked motionless, a stillness that was so consistent that someone could cut in into slices. She would have put aside a few of those, to have them at hand when she became agitated. To take a bite and instantly return to this place right here, right now. The stillness slices might have given better results than the violet, plush cushion she kept in the back seat of her car. It was a very nice cushion, with a yellow moon and a black-and-white little cow raised printed on one side. It came along as purchased with a baby magazine, as a gift. Each time she needed a break, she would get into the back seat of her car, put her head on the pillow, close her eyes, rest her mind and eyes until a creative idea for her advertising campaign appeared or her phone rang.
For the time being her hunger was the only real thing. A drab street directory pointed towards the pedestrian area, where the stores and restaurants were. During a normal summer day, young girls wearing traditional garments, would invite her to taste the freshly made dishes. The shades at the first floor would be open, pouring forth the curtains made of running flowers. The shops would lure her with one hundred per cent vegetal clothes, handmade, as the local custom implies. The shop assistants, charming, would tempt her with leather sandals, brown bags that smelled of new leather, large brim hats and colourful scarves.
Fridge magnets, mugs, wallets with the village name on it, blankets, plenty of stuff to fill her bag and eventually her cap, to bring them to those who stayed at home, in captivity. However, today the place looked like an angry woman, who kept her arms and legs crossed, unwilling to show anything. It seemed that Darling performed a miracle, in a desperate attempt to bring her home through starvation. She was determined to hang on. Even if she had to eat fried fish and fish soup from a cast-iron kettle, together with the anglers.
“This is a good idea,” she told herself. “I might join them for lunch and go into town for provisions later in the evening.” She retraced her steps. In the meantime, the clouds had travelled away and the ground was drying up. From up there on the sea wall, she saw some silhouettes moving down the gulf? Curious, she quickened her pace. The storm had buried three fishing boats into the sand. As the boats lay there parallel, with their bows coming out of the ground and pointing to the sky, they appeared to be a visual installation made by a gifted artist.
Three greybeard men, including the one she had met earlier, were hovering about in amazement.
“I never saw such a thing in my life. It looks like the devil’s work,” the oldest said.
“It’s a warning! We must have upset the sea. We have to take measures or she’ll eat us alive.”
As the three anglers seemed gentle, she intervened:
“Will you manage without boats?”
“Look who is here! The girl on the beach! The rain must have gotten you wet to the bones, hasn’t it?” her greybeard answered, showing a pair of golden metal teeth. Or maybe pure gold, assuming he had caught a fish that had swallowed a golden necklace.
“It got me wet, I admit.”
“This is exactly why it is best to listen to older people’s advice. You were saying?”
Before she opened her mouth, the angler spoke again:
“Well, well! I am not as soft-headed as I look. I remember your question. We do not use these boats currently. They were put ashore, for mending. Even if they were our only boats, our hands know what to do. We’ve seen much worse. Remember, Long John, twenty years ago, when the sea took your house, your wife and children away?”
This Long John, with long, greasy hair, a scar on his right cheek, thick and black eyebrows, might have been more or less in his sixties.
“It was tough, very tough but it’s over now,” he answered, sighing and opening his mouth in a toothless smile.
“The sea took everything from him. There was nothing left of the woman or the kids. It only brought back to the shore some of the roof’s rotten joists. He knew it was the roof because some pots were still hanging there. Miraculously.”
Long John kept smiling.
“The sun feels so good,” he said with sincere gladness.
“I don’t get it!” the woman said.
“What don’t you get?” the greybeard with gold teeth asked.
“I don’t understand his attitude. How can he be so calm? How can he put up with this situation? He didn’t love them at all? Forgive me, I don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings but, where I come from, this is how we see things.”
“You don’t enjoy so much, there, lately, do you?”
“Well, I admit there are things I hate. I don’t like myself too much. I live a pretty good life and yet, I don’t feel satisfied with it. Something is missing and...”
She stopped, suddenly. What had happened to her that made her open her heart in front of some random strangers, some yobs who probably could not spell their name?
“Still, people value me, there are many good things in my life,” she went on with a changed attitude. “Including the fact that such losses are grieved.”
“If, by grieving, you mean pulling your hair off and running away from life, I agree with you,” answered Long John. “I do believe that my wife and children are well off wherever they are now. I strongly believe they continue their existence in a place
I cannot see. If God decided to move them away, it means it was best for them. Why grieve? I admit, I miss them a lot. But my heart tells me we’ll meet again. Until then, I have a duty towards myself and the other people in the village that I have to fulfil. For as long as I can.”
“It is a reasonable point of view. Impossible to verify, though. Nobody knows what happens after we die,” she argued, because she was accustomed to always being right.
“As I told you, my soul knows and this is enough for me.”
She was speechless. Especially because deep down in her heart, she was aware of those things. She was aware that her “Darling” was not her real darling but a man who had gotten used to her.
“This sea air makes me very hungry. Don’t you feel the same, girl?” the first greybeard man broke the silence, while the third one was checking the boats with his knuckles. “Join us for a fresh fish borsch!”
“Gladly! I’m starving and all the shops in the village are closed.”
They aimed to the wooden shacks on the shore. A huge cast iron kettle, hung by three high poles was steaming above a merry fire, tickling her nose with a tasty smell. Long John entered one of the shacks and brought out four small bowls, made of clay, and four wooden spoons. They sat down to eat in the shadow of an old cloth.
The borsch, although a little greasy, was tasty. It was a bit sour and tasted like lovage. Each sip empowered her, making her feel alive, as if she fed herself with the sea’s vigour. She asked for a second portion.
The sun was about to set and she was still on the beach. The cell phone, abandoned in her room, kept listing Darling’s missing calls. As well as a message from the advertising agency manager, informing her that he had rejected her application for holiday and, unless she showed up the next day, he intended to fire her. But she had so much to live for, so much to find out. The anglers were both fun and wise. Cooking a fish borsch was serious business, impossible to learn in one day. The sand had a thousand different colours, and it ran through her fingers a thousand ways. The stars in the sky made up constellations. Those constellations had a meaning and a name she wanted to find out. She wanted to sail, to learn how to catch fish.
Late, after midnight, when she went to bed, she realized one week was too short for everything she wanted to do. At the end of the day how much did she know about the creature she was about to become? About her talents, needs and wishes?
She was determined to find out. As much as she could. All, if possible. And to stay in the village as long as it took.
THE ELEPHANT
(Dedicated to my childhood elephant)
The elephant was fluttering his huge frayed ears lazily, arousing joyful clapping and trampling from the kids who were watching him from behind the protective fence.
“He’s blinking, he’s blinking!” shouted a little boy with a face full of pink candyfloss.
“No, he’s not, bottle bottoms!” answered back a chubby little girl, with colored half-hoses, reaching out swiftly for his round spectacles and snatching them up his nose.
“See, now?” she asked in a mocking voice, raising up her arms and juggling the glasses from one hand to another. The boy, who was a head shorter, started to jump around her, whining:
“Give it back to me! Don’t make me squeaaal…”
“Go aheaaad, go aheaaad!” the plump one sneered, sticking out her tongue at him.
“You’re both losers!”
The velvet-like but dignified and superior voice put the kids at silence. It belonged to their colleague, the coolest girl in class. The only one who had a cell phone. And designer sunglasses. Who was so thin that anything looked good on her. Including the shorts that were now showing a pair of skinny, translucent legs, with bluish veins.
“Elephants keep their eyes closed all the time,” she added, while turning her back on them. The mouths of the children fell open, into a long “ahhhhh.” The elephant made some noises, as if he was laughing. The chubby girl let her arms fall down. The little boy snatched his glasses from her hand, put them on, and rushed off to the far corner of the enclosure.
“He’s blinking,” he shouted again, but this time, in his mind. Although he could clearly see the elephant batting his long-lashed eyelids, the skinny girl had spread doubt into his mind. What if he was imagining it? Nevertheless, the elephant was blinking and just for a moment turned his head towards him, rising up his trunk and opening his mouth as if he was mimicking a friendly smile. However, where were his teeth? Where were his fangs, the little boy asked himself.
The children kept on shouting and gesturing in a vain attempt of bringing him closer to the enclosure fence. Some would lure him with peanuts and potato chips.
“Stop fidgeting! You’re scaring him!” The teacher’s voice, loud and clear, put down the clamor for a second.
“But I want to play with him. At least, a little bit,” a reply came from some kid in the silenced group.
“And I want to feed him. My mother taught me that loving and feeding the animals is a good deed,” another tiny voice said.
“I want to know where he comes from. Is he born here?” another voice took over.
“Can’t you see he is tethered? This is as far as he can move!” Here she was again, the girl with legs as thin as chopsticks. The shrimps muffled. One of the flappers broke into tears:
“I don’t want him to huuuurt…”
A caretaker, who was passing by, overheard the conversation and got near. He was wearing high boots, made of rubber, trousers made of thick fabric, and a khaki shirt, with the upper buttons undone. A hat with a large brim shadowed his cheeks. He put down the bucket he was carrying and, with one flick, threw his hat back, showing a tanned face and a gentle but penetrating gaze that was lit up by a warm smile.
“Crocodile Dundeeeee!” a few kids exclaimed.
“Well, I’m not him. Crocodile Dundee has a knife. I don’t. I don’t kill animals, or crocodiles. I am just a caretaker. And I look after her as well!”
“Her?????,” the choir of surprised voices erupted.
“Yes, her! It is a ‘she’ elephant and her name is Gaya. Just like our mother earth.”
“Gaya, Gaya, Gaya,” the children choir started. The animal put her trunk up in the air, making a trumpet like noise.
“Where was Gaya born? Here?”
“Gaya is an Asian elephant and was born in a far-away country...”
“Where, where?” eagerly screamed the children.
“India!”
The little boys and girls silenced, wrinkling their noses and searching their unripe minds for some information about the whereabouts of this India they had not heard much of. “How can she understand us? If she was born in India…”
“Gaya is very special. She understands all languages. Especially the language of love. You see, she knows that you love her and she’s very happy about it.”
That very moment, the animal made another trumpet-like noise.
“This is her way of telling you that she loves you too. That she is happy every time you come and see her.”
“How old is Gaya? Her skin is so crinkled that she seems ancient…” said the bespectacled kid before he could control himself. The skinny girl nailed him with a defiant look.
“Good observation, you are a clever little fellow. What’s your name?” asked the caretaker.
“My name is Mickey and I’m six,” he answered like a gunshot, surprised that somebody, a real person, was thinking so highly of him.
“To tell you the truth, Mickey, Gaya isn’t very old. But she’s not very young either. You could compare her to a woman in her forties. As fine as possible!” The teacher smiled, flattered because the man seemed to have looked at her while uttering these last words.
“And how did she get here? Did she walk?” little Mickey kept asking. The pale little girl started laughing but the caretaker ignored her.
“Yes, she walked…but she also sailed. She travelled on wheels, in a truck. Some circus people fo
und her more dead than alive, while she was still a baby. They took care of her until she recovered. However, they grew fond of her. And she grew fond of them as well. The humans decided to keep her and turn the elephant into a circus attraction. Gaya knows how to use a towel after taking a bath. Gaya is a star!” The children listened, mesmerized. Even the elephant stood still.
“One day, bad fortune fell upon the circus. The owners went bankrupt. It was too late for Gaya to go back into the wilderness. The other elephants would have rejected her. They could have sold her to another circus but they weren’t acquainted with anyone decent. Instead, they chose to send her to a zoo, where she would be loved and looked after properly. After a thorough selection process, they chose this zoo. Thus, Gaya started the journey on water, crossing the ocean on a ship. She continued by land, in a big truck. And walked from the entrance to her enclosure,” the caretaker ended his story. The children clapped their hands, in delight.
“I understand that Gaya is a friendly and peaceful creature. The kids are upset to see her tethered. Is it really necessary?” asked the teacher.
“I’m sorry but we had to tie her up because she was chasing kids down the zoo’s alleys and stole the candies from their pockets. I’m joking! Although I heard, she used to do it to the children in the front row at the circus. I mean, checking their pockets for candies, in the cutest possible way. The truth is that, no matter how gentle she may be, she is still a beast. It is difficult to predict her reactions. There are also ill-disposed people that it’s safer to keep her away. Imagine Gaya would approach the fence in full confidence. And that somebody would sneak something into her trunk. Let’s say, a mouse. Or maybe put a stick into her eye. You wouldn’t want anything like that to happen, would you?”