Ancient Tillage

by Raduan Nassar

“Well, you thought wrong.”

  “If that’s how you’re going to talk, then we’d better just forget it.”

  “You shouldn’t have even started, good night,” and Lula pulled the sheet up over his head again, protecting his pride, but he had quit snoring, and had stopped kicking, most certainly expecting me to make another gesture, he seemed anxious to talk with me, he, who had always watched my every move (something I had not known), and for whom I had been a bad example, according to Pedro.

  “What’s wrong with you, Lula?” I asked, suddenly feeling kind. “I just wanted to talk with you like a friend.”

  “What’s wrong . . . what’s wrong . . . and you have the nerve to ask,” he said, without uncovering his head. “I’ve been here for over an hour, if you must know. An hour! Now you feed me this line about ‘friends.’ ”

  “I didn’t know, Lula.”

  “You didn’t know . . . didn’t know . . . where else would I be, if you hadn’t seen me yet? I wasn’t out in the pasture, with the sheep . . .” He tried to mollify his refusal, but wouldn’t give in.

  “OK, Lula, OK. Good night, then,” I said, and had barely stood up when he turned around unexpectedly, jerking his sheet, sitting up and leaning his bare chest against the headboard, and delving passionately into the revelation of his bold secret:

  “I’m leaving home, André, tomorrow in the middle of your party, but you’re the only one that knows.”

  “Don’t talk so loud, Lula.”

  “I can’t stand this prison anymore, I can’t stand Father’s sermons, nor the work they make me do, nor Pedro’s watching over my every move, I want to take charge of my own life; I wasn’t born to live here, our herds make me sick to my stomach, I don’t like to work the land, not in the sunshine, and much less in the rain, I can’t stand the boring life on this filthy fazenda anymore . . .”

  “I said not to talk so loud.”

  “As soon as you left, André, I started spending all my time sitting up on the gate, dreaming of the open road, looking out as far as my eyes could see, I couldn’t take my mind off adventure . . . I want to see lots of different cities, travel all over the world, I want to exchange my nosebag for a backpack, become a wanderer, traveling from place to place like a vagabond; I also want to see all the forbidden places, thieves’ dens, where money rules the game and wine is drunk by the gallon, where vice runs rampant and criminals plot their schemes; I’m going to have women, I want to be known in the brothels and in the alleys where tramps sleep, I want to do lots of different things, be generous with my own body, experience things I’ve never experienced; and when I’m left exhausted in the late hours of the night, I’m going to wander the dark streets, feel the early morning dew on my body, watch the day break while stretched out on a park bench; I want to live all this, André, I’m leaving home to take on the world, I’m leaving never to return, I’m not giving in to any pleading, I’m brave, André, I’m not going to fail like you . . .”

  A rush of dammed-up water (what a current! how frantic!) gushed forth from that adolescent imagination, anxious to spread its poetry and lyricism; most likely, after he had finished describing the plans for his adventures he was hoping for my approval, and while I was listening to all of those fantasies — blown up to useless proportions — I was thinking about lowering his heavily lashed lids and telling him tenderly, “Go to sleep, little boy,” but it wasn’t to close his eyes that I reached out, running my hand over his smooth chest: I found warm, soft skin, textured like lilies; my imponderable gesture gradually got out of control in that warm resting place, lapsed into unusual searching, making Lula interrupt his speech abruptly, meanwhile, his colt-like legs made up for the silence, reverting to their remarkable stirring under the sheets; and when I reached up to run the back of my hand over his beardless face, his apple cheeks were already feverish; his eyes were a blend of daring and cunning, in one moment advancing, in the next, withdrawing, like a certain other pair of eyes from the past, without any doubt, they were Ana’s primitive eyes!

  “What are you doing, André?”

  Held prisoner in that ancient temple, its feet still covered in salt (such prophecies of turmoil!), I stretched my hand over that young bird which, only moments before, had been beating its wings against the stained glass.

  “What are you doing, André?”

  I didn’t answer the dubious protest, sensing that the sudden cloud of incense filling the room was becoming more and more confused, forming circles, spirals and whirlwinds, obliterating the echoes of the excited, noisy work going on around the patio table, with which several neighbors had joined in. My party was only to take place the following day, and furthermore, I had decided to forestall using any discernment until dawn, not to mention that at sunrise cold dew would also spill out over Lula’s beautiful hair, when he would cover the route leading from the house to the chapel.

  28

  the earth, the wheat, the bread, our table and our family (the earth); within this cycle, our father used to say in his sermons, there is love, work and time.

  29

  time, time, time and its inflammable waters, the indefatigable, wide, flowing river, certain of its own slow, curving path, gathering and filtering from all directions the turbid broth of effluents and crimson blood of other channels to build the mystical purpose of history, forever tolerant of the vanity of these feeble, confused instruments, professing to have a hand in determining its course, yet incapable of competing for the riverbed wherein time must flow, and even less capable of flowing individually against the current, woe unto him, Father used to say, who tries to hold back its movement: for he will be consumed by its waters; woe unto him, the wizard apprentice, who tears open his shirt to confront it: he will succumb to its flames, for all change, before daring to utter the name, must be no more than insinuated; time, time, time and its changes, always aware of the larger scheme, and, forever attentive to the finished product, zealous over the smallest details, in every plot, in every inch, in every grain, and also present, with its seconds, in every letter of this passionate story of mine, transforming the dark night of my homecoming into a bright morning, setting the stage from the early hours for the celebration of my Paschal fete, artfully and playfully decorating the rustic landscape around our house, perfuming our still-damp fields, enriching the colors of our flowers, skillfully tracing the lines of its theorem, attracting flocks of doves beneath an enormous blue netting, and also attracting, from the earliest hours, our neighbors, and our relatives and friends from town with their entire families, among them amusing gossips and mischievous children, making up silly games and calling out appropriate greetings, Zuleika and Huda, with the help of girlfriends, were already merrily serving from jugs of wine, repeatedly filling everyone’s glasses, laughingly pouring generous, decanted blood into the bodies, always accepted with effusive appreciation, foretelling the rich joy to ensue, and in the woods behind the house, beneath the tallest trees, which along with the sun made up a gentle, joyous play of shadow and light, after the smell of the roasted meat had been long lost among the many leaves of the fullest branches, and the tablecloth, previously laid over the calm lawn, folded away, I curled up near a distant tree trunk, from where I could follow the tumultuous movements of the group of boys and girls busily getting things ready for the dance, among whom were my sisters with their country ways, wearing their light, bright dresses, full of love’s promise suspended within the purity of a greater love, running gracefully, covering the woods with their laughter, carrying the baskets of fruit over to the same place where the cloth had been, the melons and watermelons split open, with gales of laughter, and the grapes and oranges picked from the orchards lushly displayed in these baskets, a centerpiece suggesting the theme of the dance, and this joy was sublime, along with the setting sun, porous beams of divine light were easing their way through the leaves and branches, occasionally spilling over into the peaceful shadows and reverberatin
g intensely on those damp faces, and the men’s circle then started to form, my father, his sleeves rolled up, gathered the youngest together, who joined arms stiffly, their fingers firmly intertwined, making up the solid contour of a circle around the fruit, as if it were the strong, clear contour of an oxcart wheel, and soon my elderly uncle, the old immigrant, a pastor in his youth, took his flute from his pocket, a delicate stem, in his heavy hands and began to blow into it like a bird, his cheeks inflating like those of a child, and his cheeks swelled so much, got so puffy and flushed, it seemed all his wine would flow from his ears, as if from a tap, and with the sound of the flute, the circle began to move slowly, almost obstinately, first in one direction, and then in the other, gradually trying out its strength in a stiff coming and going to the rhythm of the strong, muffled sound of the virile stomping, until suddenly the flute flew, cutting enchantingly into the woods, traversing the blossoming grasses and sweeping the pastures, and the now vibrant wheel sped up, its movement circumscribing the entire circle, which was no longer an oxcart wheel, but a huge mill wheel, spinning swiftly in one direction, and, at the trill of the flute, in the other, and the elderly, who stood by watching, and the young girls, who awaited their turn, were all clapping, strengthening the new rhythm, and when least expected, Ana (whom everyone thought was still in the chapel) emerged impatiently, in a flurry, her loose hair lightly caught up on one side by a drop of blood (such provocative asymmetry!) and spreading torrential flames, fully displaying herself in exuberant debauchery, a greasy smear on her mouth, a charcoal beauty mark on her chin, a purple velvet choker around her neck, a piece of wilted cloth falling like a flower from her exposed cleavage, bracelets on her arms, rings on her fingers, more hoops around her ankles; that was how Ana, covered with the vulgar trinkets from my box, caught my party like a storm, sweeping the dancing circle with her diseased body, confidently introducing her fiery decadence into the center, shocking the surprised looks still further, dangling cries from each of the mouths, paralysing all gestures for an instant, yet still dominating everyone with the violent impetus of her spirit, and right away I could sense, in spite of the greasy oil beginning to darken my eyes, her precise gypsy steps moving about the circle, dexterously and curvaceously weaving her way through the baskets of fruit and flowers, touching the earth only with the tips of her bare feet, her arms lifted above her head in languishing, serpentine movements to the slowest, most undulating melody of the flute, her graceful hands twisting and turning up in the air; she was overtaken with wild elegance, her melodious fingers snapping, as if they were, as if they had been, the first-ever castanets, and the circle surrounding her picked up speed deliriously, the clapping hands outside grew hot and their rhythm strong, then suddenly and impetuously, magnetizing everyone, she grabbed a white handkerchief from one of the boys’ pockets, waving it in her hand above her head, all the while sustaining her serpentine movements; this sister of mine knew what she was about, first hiding her venom well concealed beneath her tongue, then biting into the grapes, which hung in saliva-drenched bunches, as she danced amongst them all, rendering life more turbulent, stirring up pain, drawing out cries of exaltation, and presently, harmonizing in a strange language, the elders began to sing out simple verses, almost like chants, and a young mischievous cousin, caught up in the current, made strident cymbals out of two pan lids and it seemed as if, following the contagious music, the herons and teals had flown in from the lake to join everyone there in the woods, and Ana, increasingly bold and daring, came up with a new movement, stretching out her arm, with calculated grace (such devilish versatility!) she stole a glass from one of the bystanders and, in the same instant, spilled the gentle wine over her own naked shoulders, forcing the flute into sudden, languishing regression, drawing acclaim from the onlookers, the crescendo of a choir of muffled voices, at once sacred and profane, the confused communion of joy, agony and torment, she knew how to shock, that sister of mine, how to moisten her dance, soaking her body, chastising my tongue with the liturgical honey of that sweet rapture, hurling me impetuously into bizarre ecstasy, throbbing me into my past, causing me to see my legs to one side and my arms to the other, with amazing lucidity, all of my appendages amputated and searching out for each other within the ancient unity of my body (I was rebuilding myself in this pursuit! Such brine in my sores, such wholesome burning in this rhapsody!), I was then certain, more certain than ever that it was all for me, that she was dan­cing only for me (time’s great turnaround! Such a bone, such a deadly thorn, such glory for my body!), and sitting on an exposed root over in a shady corner of the woods, I let the light wind blowing through the trees flow through my shirt, inflating my chest, and felt the soft caress of my own hair on my forehead, and from a distance, in this apparently relaxed position, I imagined the lavender aroma of her fresh complexion, the full tenderness of her mouth, like a piece of sweet orange, and the mystery and malice in her date-like eyes; my staring was un­abashed, I untied my shoes, took off my socks and, with my clean, white feet, scraped away the dry leaves to the thick humus below, and my unrestrained desire was to dig into the earth with my nails and to lie down in this pit and cover myself with the damp earth, and, lost on this secluded trail, initially I barely perceived what was happening, in my confusion, I first noticed Pedro, still taciturn up to that point, searching everywhere with a deranged look in his eyes, stumbling blindly among the magnetized bystanders in that marketplace — the flute played on deliriously, frantically, the snake in her belly played on deliriously, frantically, and standing up, I watched as my brother, more crazed than ever, located my father and fled in his direction, then, yanking his arm, and pulling him toward him violently, he shook him by the shoulders as he wailed his somber revelation, sowed that deranged seed into my father’s ears, secreting his excruciating pain, his cries and agony (poor brother!), and time, playing out the concert theme exquisitely, finished it off by halting the hands on the clock: corrupt currents set in flawlessly at several points, searing the atmosphere as they flew, leaving our trees barren, parching the green from our fields, staining our bulging stones with rust, prematurely creating space for the many cactus towers soon to be built in majestic solitude: my father’s noble forehead, he himself still glistening with wine, glowed for an instant in the warm sunlight as his entire face was bathed in unexpected, horrible white, and from that moment on everything gave way, lightning struck with deathly speed: the cutlass was within his reach, and severing the group with the onslaught of his fury, my father, in one fell swoop, struck the oriental dancing girl (such purposeful red, such a cavernous silence, such a sordid chill in my eyes!), a lamb going up in flames would not have been as momentous, nor the exasperated demise of any other member of the herd, but the patriarch himself, wounded at his very maxims, the patriarch now possessed by divine wrath (poor Father!), the guide himself, the tables, the law itself had gone up in flames — this fibrous, palpable material was so solid, not bare-boned as I had always imagined, it had substance and there was red wine running throughout, it was bloody, resinous and reigned drastically over our pain (ours was a pitiful family, to be prisoner of such solid phantoms!), and from the deadly silence that collapsed behind that gesture, there emerged right away, like a primitive birthing wail

  Father!

  and from a dif-

  ferent voice, a densely desperate, hollow moan, Father!

  and from everywhere,

  from Rosa, from Zuleika, and from Huda, the same defenceless weeping

  Father!

  it was strangulated bleating

  Father! Father!

  where is our shelter? where is our protection?

  Father!

  and from Pedro, prostrate on the dirt

  Father!

  and then I saw Lula, still a child, and yet so crazed, writhing on the ground

  Father!

  Father!

  where

  is the union of our family?

>   Father!

  and I watched my mother,losing her grasp on her mind, pulling out her hair by the fistful, grossly baring her thighs, exposing the purple cords of her varicose veins, beating her stone-like fists against her breasts

  Iohána! Iohána!

  Iohána!

  and all the cries for help were to no avail, and, refusing any consolation, wandering among those crushed, murmuring groups as if she were lost among ruins, Mother began to wail in her own language, drawing out an ancient lament that to this day can still be heard along the poor Mediterranean coast: there was lime, and there was salt; her cragged plea carried the sand-filled pain of the desert.

  30

  (in memory of my father, I transcribe his words: “and every once in a while, each one in the family should take time from more urgent tasks to sit down on a bench with one foot planted squarely on the ground and, bending over, your elbow resting on your knee and head resting on the back of your hand, with gentle eyes, you should observe the movement of the sun, the wind, and the rain and, with these same gentle eyes, observe time’s mysterious manipulation of the other tools it wields to effect all transformations, and you must never once question its unfathomable, sinuous designs, just as upon observing the pure geometry of the plains, you would never question the winding trails shaped by the trampling of the herds out to pasture: the cows always head for the watering pit.”)

  Copyright © 1978 by Raduan Nassar

  Translation copyright © 2015 by K.C.S. Sotelino

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