Ancient Tillage

by Raduan Nassar

  “I wanted my place at the family table.”

  “So, that’s why you abandoned us: because we didn’t give you your place at the family table?”

  “I never abandoned you, Father; all I did, in leaving home, was to spare you the revulsion of watching me survive by eating away at my own insides.”

  “Yet there was always bread on the table, fulfilling equally the needs of each and every mouth, and you were never forbidden to sit down with the family, on the contrary, that’s what we all wanted, that you would never be absent when we broke bread.”

  “I’m not talking about that, in some cases to participate only in the breaking of bread can be simply cruel: it would merely serve to prolong my hunger; were I to sit at the table for this reason only, I’d prefer to eat bitter bread that would shorten my life.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It was blasphemy.”

  “No, Father, it wasn’t blasphemy, for the first time in my life, I spoke like a saint.”

  “You’re not well, son, a few days’ work at your brothers’ side will surely break down your proud words, you’ll recover your health, right away.”

  “For the time being, I’m not interested in the health you speak of, sir, there’s always a seed of disease therein, just as there’s a strong seed of health inside my illness.”

  “Confusing our ideas is pointless, forget your whims, son, don’t try to prevent your own father from discussing your problems.”

  “I don’t believe in discussing my problems, I don’t believe in exchanging ideas anymore, I’m convinced, Father, that one plant can never distinguish another.”

  “Conversation is very important, son, every word, yes, every word is a seed; among all things human capable of leaving us in awe, the strength of the word comes first; even before the use of the hands, it’s the foundation for all action, it thrives, and expands, and is eternal, as long as it is just.”

  “I realize not everyone agrees, but even if I were to live ten lives, in my opinion, the benefits of dialogue, when reaped, are like overripe fruit.”

  “It’s pure selfishness, the natural result of immaturity, to think only of the fruit when planting, the harvest isn’t the greatest reward for those who sow; in planting, we have enough gratification knowing that our lives are meaningful, the glory is found in the mere enjoyment of the long gestation period, which is already something valuable we hand down to future generations, if, indeed, we hand the waiting down to future generations, for there is intense pleasure to be found in faith itself, just as there is warmth in the stillness of a bird brooding over eggs in its nest. And there can be so much life in a seed, so much faith in the hands of the planter; it’s a sublime miracle that seeds scattered in past millennia, although they have not germinated, have still not died.”

  “Father, no one lives on sowing alone.”

  “Of course not, son, if others are to reap what we’ve sown today, we now reap what’s been sown before us. That’s how life goes on, such is the current of life.”

  “And I’m already disenchanted with it, I now know the capacity of this current; those who sow and don’t reap, nonetheless, reap what they haven’t planted; and I haven’t had my share of that legacy, Father. Why keep pushing the world forward? My hands are already tied, I’m not going to choose to bind my feet as well; that’s why I really couldn’t care less which way the wind blows, I don’t see what difference it makes, it doesn’t matter whether things move forward or backward.”

  “I don’t want to believe in the little I understand of what you’re saying, son.”

  “You can’t expect a prisoner to serve happily in the jailer’s house; by the same token, Father, it would be absurd to demand a loving embrace from someone whose arms we’ve amputated; the only thing that makes less sense is the wretchedness of the maimed person who, lacking hands, applauds his torturer with his feet; or perhaps to be as patient as the proverbial ox that, in addition to the yoke, begs to have the oxbow tightened. The ugly person who cedes to the handsome only becomes uglier . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “The poor man who applauds the rich man only becomes poorer; the small man, smaller for applauding the great; the short man, shorter, for applauding the tall, and so on. Whether or not I’m immature, I will no longer recognize values that crush me, I consider it a sad game of make-believe to live inside other people’s skin, nor do I understand how there can be nobility in the mimicry of the destitute; the victim crying out in favor of his oppressor makes himself a prisoner twice over, unless of course it’s the cynical enactment of a bold pantomime.”

  “Everything you’re saying is very strange.”

  “It’s a strange world, Father, which only unites by dividing; built up on accidents, there is no self-sustaining order; there’s nothing more spurious than merit, and I wasn’t the one who planted that seed.”

  “I don’t see how these things are related, and even less, why you’re so worried about them. What are you trying to say with all this?”

  “I’m not trying to say anything at all.”

  “My son, you’re terribly disturbed.”

  “No, Father, I’m not disturbed.”

  “Who were you talking about?”

  “No one in particular; I was only thinking of hopeless cases, where there’s no cure, of those who cry out in passion, thirst and solitude, who are moaning with good reason; I was thinking only of them.”

  “I want to understand you, son, but I don’t understand anything anymore.”

  “I’m mixing things up as I speak, I’m familiar with these digressions, the words are carrying me, but I’m lucid, Father, I know where I contradict myself, where I might be out of line, or even overstepping myself, and if there’s chaff in all of this, let me reassure you, Father, there are also plenty of whole grains. Even when I’m confusing, I’m not lost; for my own use, I’m able to distinguish the various threads of what I say.”

  “But you purloin the meaning from your father.”

  “I’ve already said I don’t believe in discussing my problems, I’m also convinced it’s extremely dangerous to shatter intimacy; to me, the larva is only wise while spun in its nucleus, I don’t see where it gets its strength once it breaks through the cocoon; it wriggles, of course, and goes through a metamorphosis, all with great effort, only to expose its fragility to the world.”

  “Rectify your slovenly point of view: it takes strength to face reality; and furthermore, this is your family, you would have to be insane to consider this environment hostile.”

  “Strong or weak, it depends: reality isn’t the same for everyone, and you cannot ignore the fact, Father, sir, that the unfer­tilized egg doesn’t hatch; time is abundant and generous, but it cannot revive the unborn; for those defeated at the outset, for fruit withered at seed, for the downtrodden who haven’t ever stood up, there is but one alternative: to turn their backs on the world, to nurture the hope that everything will be destroyed; in my case, all I know is, any environment is hostile, insofar as the right to live is denied.”

  “You shock me, son, although I don’t understand you, I understand your nonsense: there is no hostility in this house, no one here denies you the right to live, it’s absolutely inadmissible that such absurd thoughts cross your mind!”

  “That’s one point of view.”

  “Refrain from your customary impudence, don’t answer in such a manner as to cause me pain. It is not a point of view! Each of us knows our purpose in this household: your mother and I have always lived for you all; you and your brothers and sisters, for each other, no one in need has ever lacked for support in this family.”

  “Father, sir, you didn’t understand me.”

  “How could I understand you, son? You’re stubborn in your denial, and I don’t understand that either. Where cou
ld you ever find a more appropriate place to discuss the problems causing you so much distress?”

  “Nowhere, and even less likely, here; in spite of everything, our family life has always been precarious, there was never room for trespassing certain limits; Father, you yourself said only just now that every word is a seed: it contains life, energy and may even contain an explosive charge: we run great risks upon speaking.”

  “Don’t interpret my words with suspicion and levity, you know very well that you count on our love in this household!”

  “The love we’ve learned here, Father, I discovered only much, much later, knows not what it’s after; this indecision makes it of ambiguous value, at this point, no more than a mere hindrance; contrary to belief, love does not always unite, love also separ­ates; and it would make perfect sense for me to state that love in the family may not be as grand as is commonly thought.”

  “That’s enough of your eccentricity, you’ve gone far enough, your observations are worthless, and your thoughts are chaotic, stop your arrogance, be simple in your use of words!”

  “I don’t think I’m being eccentric, although it no longer matters to me if I say this or if I say that; but since you think I am, what difference would it make if now I were to be as simple as the dove? If I were to lay an olive branch down on this table, you, sir, might only see a nettle stem.”

  “There’s no room for provocation at this table, that’s enough of your pride, control the snake beneath your tongue, ignore the devil murmuring in your ear, answer me as a son should, above all, be humble in your manner, be clear as a man should be, for once and for all, stop with this confusion!”

  “If I’m confusing, if I avoid making myself clear, Father, it’s only because I don’t want to create further confusion.”

  “Be quiet! Our water doesn’t flow from this fountain, nor our light, from this darkness, your haughty words aren’t going to destroy now what it has taken millennia to build; no one in our household will speak with presumptuous profoundness, mixing up words, tangling up ideas, disintegrating everything into dust, because those who open their eyes too wide will only be blinded; furthermore, let no one in our household suffer from a supposed and pretentious excess of light, for it can be just as blinding as darkness; nor should anyone in our household set a new course for that which cannot be diverted, let no one ever confuse that which cannot be confused, the tree that grows and bears fruit with the tree that is barren, the seed that drops and multiplies with the grain that does not sprout, the simplicity of our daily life with unproductive thoughts; I’m telling you to hold your tongue, I will have no depraved wisdom contaminating the ways of this family! It was not love, after all, but pride, scorn, and selfishness that have brought you back home!”

  My father mixed so much bitterness in with his anger! And how foolish of me to have exposed the skeleton of my thoughts to him, to have ground a few shavings of bone onto that strange table, so scanty before the powerful strength of his figure at its head.

  I was shrunken, and at one point I felt my mother’s presence at the kitchen door, checking on the heated discussion, prob­ably trying to interfere in my favor; even without turning around, I could clearly sense the anxiety on her face, begging my father with her anguished eyes, “That’s enough, Iohána! Spare our son!”

  “I’m tired, Father, forgive me. I admit I’m confused, I admit I was unable to make myself understood, but now I’m going to speak clearly: I have not returned with my heart bursting with pride, sir, as you believe, I’ve come home humble and submissive, I have no more illusions, I know all about loneliness now, I know about misery, and I also now know, Father, that I shouldn’t have ever taken one step beyond our front door; from now on, I want to be like my brothers, I’m going to give myself over to the discipline necessary for my assigned tasks, I’ll be out in the field to till before sunlight falls over them, and I’ll stay long after sunset; I’ll make of my work my religion, of fatigue my inebriation, I’ll help preserve the union of the family, from the bottom of my heart, Father, I want to deserve all your love.”

  “Your words have touched my heart, dear son, I feel new light on this table, tears of joy in my eyes, erasing the bitterness you caused when you left home, erasing all at once the nightmare we’ve just experienced. For a minute I thought I’d sown long ago in infertile land, in gravel or in a field of thorns. Tomorrow we’ll celebrate the son who was blind and has now recovered his sight! So, go rest, it’s been a long journey and your homecoming has been filled with emotion, go rest, dear son.”

  Then I was immediately further compensated for my apparent change of mind: unexpectedly, my mother, who was by then standing behind my chair, took my head in her hands; I surrendered like a child to those thick fingers pressing my cheeks into her breast, my old resting place; leaning over me, she rubbed her eyes, nose and mouth into my hair, smelling it noisily, and spilling out the tender words she had used to address me in her ancient language since I was a child, “my eyes,” “my heart,” “my lamb,” and relaxing in that cradle, I noticed my father heading out into the back yard gravely, as if her effusive tenderness went against his will; he was carrying the same knife he had when he came in, and was now going out in back to join my sisters, who were standing around the rustic table in the shed, caught up in excited flurry, preparing the meats for my party; looking out toward them, I was asking myself why I had come back and I was still unable clearly to discern the dubious outline of my reasons when I noticed, beyond the patio, just inside the woods, Pedro’s shadow: with his head bowed, he was walking slowly through the trees, seemingly solemn and taciturn.

  26

  my father always used to say that suffering is good for man, that it strengthens the spirit and increases sensitivity; he implied that the worse the pain, the greater the opportunity for suffering to play out its most noble role; he seemed to believe that man’s resistance was boundless. For my part, I learned when I was very young that it is difficult to determine exactly where resistance ends, and I also learned very young to see resistance as man’s strongest trait; but it was also my belief that in strumming the string of a lute — stretched to the limit — a highly tuned note would resonate (assuming that it would be no more than a melancholy, shrill twang), yet it would be impossible to draw any note at all from the same string were it to be stretched until broken. That, at least, is what I thought until the night of my homecoming, having never before suspected that from a broken string, yet a different note could be drawn (which only confirmed my father’s belief that man, even when broken, has not yet lost his resistance, although there is nothing to prove that he has become still more sensitive).

  27

  i hadn’t seen Ana yet when I turned in (her taking refuge in the chapel upon learning of my return was easily understood), nor my youngest brother, since I had not dared break my silence to ask after his whereabouts. As I entered the bedroom, although I found it somewhat strange, I was not exactly surprised to see Lula in his bed, lying on his side facing the wall, covered by a white sheet from head to toe. The bedroom slept in peaceful penumbra, the clarity from outside the house was diluted, seemed even more calm, diffused as it was by the slats of the Venetian blinds; I didn’t turn on the light since I knew my way around the bedroom without difficulty, besides, I had been wearing my pajamas since my bath, so there wasn’t much left for me to do: close the door behind me, set my bags over in the corner, kick off my slippers, and slip into bed: weary of scaling mountains, I wanted only to imagine a great grassy plain, to lose myself in drowsiness, to fall sleepily into my dreams, and nightmares, and to wake up the following day with clear eyes, perhaps, as my grandfather used to say, even able “to distinguish a strand of white thread from a strand of black thread in the early dawn light.”

  Having taken care of the baggage, I immediately noticed that the box I had brought along was missing; still, I didn’t give it much thought, even though its contents were so bizarre
, the very items I had exposed to Pedro’s abashed eyes during that extremely tense encounter back in the distant boardinghouse room; the hemp string had been tossed on to the floor, making me wonder about the hasty hands that had torn open the box without bothering to untie the string (an unheard-of technique in our household) and carried it away only after its contents had been hurriedly studied; sitting there on the bed, I was wrapping the string around my fingers mechanically to save it, using them as a spool in my father’s manner, when it crossed my mind that perhaps the box had been stolen to satisfy Lula’s pubescent longings; looking over my shoulder to the other bed, I noticed not only was Lula feigning sleep but, with his insolent movements, he was very definitely letting me know that he was not asleep at all, and was merely showing me his full disregard by lying there facing the wall, ostentatiously turning his back on me; I sat there for a good few minutes sounding out his ingenuous, inexhaustible reserve of theatrics while he occasionally kicked away at his sheet, until finally I got up, and walking around my bed, went and sat on his: by then, the sheet was completely still; instead, all of a sudden, I began to hear someone snoring thunderously; slightly surprised at how distracted all of this was making me feel, I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Lula! Lula!”

  He took a while to uncover his head and then looked up at me without turning around, grumbling something angrily as if I had just woken him up, and yet, unable to disguise his pleasure.

  “Were you asleep?”

  “Of course! Couldn’t you tell?”

  “It’s just that I wanted to have a little chat with you, that’s all, that’s why I woke you up.”

  “Chat about what?”

  “Lula, I’ve just come home.”

  “So what?”

  “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know, I just thought so.”