Ancient Tillage Read online

  also by raduan nassar

  from new directions

  A Cup of Rage

  ancient tillage

  The Departure

  Can we be blamed for this plant called childhood, its seduction, its vigor and earnestness? (Jorge de Lima)

  1

  my eyes on the ceiling, nudity in the room; pink, blue or violet, the impenetrable room; the individual room, a world, a cathedral room, where, during the breaks from my anguish, I gathered a rough stem into the palm of my hand, the white rose of desperation, since, among the objects the room had sanctified, the objects of the body came first; I was lying on the hardwood floor of my bedroom in an old village boarding house when my brother came to take me home; my dynamic and disciplined hand, just prior to his entrance, had been running slowly over my wet skin, my poison-filled fingertips touching the newborn fuzz on my still-warm chest; my head rolled numbly as my hair moved in thick waves over the damp curve of my forehead; I rested one of my cheeks on the floor, but my eyes grasped very little, remained practically immobile behind the swift flight of my lashes; the knocking on the door came through gently, settled in meaninglessly, like cotton-silk tufts nestling in the sinuous curves of my ear, where, for a few minutes, it slept; the repetitive noise, still soft and gentle, did not disturb my sweet drunkenness, nor my drowsiness, nor the dispersed, sparse, comfortless whirling; later my eyes saw the turning doorknob, but the spinning was forgotten inside my retina — a lifeless object, a vibrationless sound or a dark breeze in the basement of my memory; the pounding at that moment set the lethargic objects in that bedroom off balance and into desperation. I stood up lightly and silently, and bent over to pick up the towel spread out on the floor; I dried off my hands, squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head to jar them, picked up the shirt piled on the chair, tucked my obscure, purple organ back into my slacks, and walked quickly over to open the door, using it to shield myself from view: my older brother was outside; as soon as he came in, we faced each other, our eyes absolutely still, we were separated by a space of dry earth, there was fear and wonder in that dust, but no discovery, I don’t even know what there was, and we said nothing, until he held out his arms, grasping my shoulders in silence with his strong hands, and we looked at each other and in one precise second our memories stumbled and assaulted our eyes; I saw his eyes suddenly moisten, and that was when he hugged me, and I felt the weight of the entire family’s soaking wet arms in his embrace; we looked at each other again, and I said, “I wasn’t expecting you,” was what I said, confused with the awkwardness of my words, filled with regret at letting anything at all slip out, but even so, I repeated myself, “I wasn’t expecting you,” was what I said once again and I felt the powerful strength of my family overrunning me like a heavy rush of water as he was saying to me, “We love you so much, we love you so much,” and that was all he said as he embraced me again; still confused, dazed, I showed him to the chair in the corner, but he remained motionless and, taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he said, “Button up your shirt, André.”

  2

  in the sluggish, lazy afternoons on the fazenda, somewhere off in the woods, I would escape my family’s apprehensive eyes; I would soothe my feverish feet in the moist dirt, cover my body with leaves, and, lying in the shade, I would sleep with the stillness of an ailing plant curved under the weight of a red blossom; weren’t those stems surrounding me fairies, filled with patience, silently keeping vigil over my adolescent slumber? Which ancient urns were releasing the protective voices calling out to me from the veranda? What was the use of those calls, if faster, more active messengers rode the wind skillfully, cutting through the threads of the atmosphere? (When ripe, my slumber was gathered with the religious voluptuousness of gathered fruit.)

  3

  i recalled hearing my father preach over and over again that our eyes are the lanterns of our bodies, and if they were good it was because our bodies contained light, and if our eyes were not clear it was because they revealed a dark, gloomy body, and standing there before my brother, inhaling the exalted aroma of wine, I knew my eyes were two repulsive pits, but it didn’t matter to me, I was confused, even lost, and I saw myself suddenly doing things, fooling with my hands, moving about the room, as if my embarrassment grew from the disorder around me: I arranged the things on the table, spread a cloth over it, emptied the ashtray into the rubbish bin, straightened the sheets, folded the towel over the headboard, and had already returned to the table to fill two glasses when I slipped and almost asked about Ana, but it was only a sudden, stumbling impulse; what I could have asked, should have asked, was how he had found the inn, how he had discovered me in that old terraced house, or I could have tried to ingenuously discover the reason for his visit, but I wasn’t even thinking about any of that; I was just dark inside, incapable of working my way out of the flesh of my feelings, and standing there at the table, the only thing I knew for certain was that my exasperated eyes were looking down on the rose-colored wine I was pouring into the glasses. “The shutters,” he said, “Why are the shutters closed?” he asked from the chair in the corner where he was sitting, and I did not think twice and rushed to open the window and outside there was a tender, almost cool afternoon, made of fibrous orange sunshine, abundantly coloring my bedroom, that gloomy pond, and I was still latching the shutters when a first attack just barely ran through me — it was merely passing so I didn’t pay any attention, I thought only of finishing what I was doing — and as soon as it passed, I generously, almost scornfully, went ahead and placed the sublime glass of wine in his hands; and as an impertinent breeze was billowing out the heavy lace curtains (which were adorned with two woven angels scaling clouds, their puffy cheeks blowing into serene horns), I sat heavily down on the edge of the bed, my eyes staring at the floor, two dark, shriveled holes, and I have no doubt that his light-filled eyes above me were poisoning me, and I was almost overcome by a silent, short wave that nearly made me yell “Don’t worry, brother, all you have to do is hurry to find the solemn voice you’re seeking, that voice strengthened by disapproval, rush into questions about what has been going on all along, try out your gestures, disagree with me to my face, shatter the family china before my eyes,” just to make him angry, but I refrained, believing that to exhort him would not only be useless, but also foolish; instead, I fell to thinking about his eyes, about my mother’s, in the most silent moments of the afternoon, behind which the tenderness and apprehension of an entire family were hidden, and I thought of her opening my bedroom door at odd times and the emer­ging of her maternal, solicitous shape, “Darling, don’t stay in bed like that, don’t make me suffer, speak to me,” and, surprised and frightened, I felt that any minute my tears would explode, while at the same time, I thought it might be good to take advantage of the last dregs of my drunkenness that had not yet been cowed by his arrival, by confessing piously perhaps, “It’s my delirium, Pedro, it’s my delirium, if you want to know the truth,” but this was no more than a slightly tumultuous thought flashing through my mind, making me finish off my wine in two rapid gulps, I thought it senseless to say anything at all and began hearing my brother’s appropriately calm, serene voice (he was fulfilling the sublime mission of returning the wayward son to the bosom of the family) as he started speaking in prayer mode (it was my father’s tone) of the stones and mortar of our cathedral.

  4

  sudanesa (or schuda) was generously formed; beneath a sloping, thatched roof of thick, golden, coarse grass, she lived inside a pen built with stakes stuck firmly into the ground, one next to the other, between which I only just dared to glimpse; she gulped and swished water from a clay bowl, freshly filled every morning; she lay down and rested her head on a bed well stacked with sweet-smelling,
soft hay, even as the sun outside reached high noon; her trough was always clean, filled with corn kernels and carefully picked green grass into which I rubbed parsley to stimulate her appetite; the first time I saw Sudanesa with my sickly eyes was when I brought her out one evening among the flowering bushes surrounding her courtesan’s rural boudoir: I led her carefully, like a devoted lover, and she followed docilely on her high hooves, playfully, swinging her proud, ample body swaying on the pillars of her finely shaped legs; it was the body I had begun to take care of in the late afternoons, my humus-coated hands plunging into recep­tacles of soothing ointments with their various aromas, delving right afterward into her soft, fringed coat; but she was not a lascivious nanny goat, she was a boy’s nanny goat, her contours were defined by full, bloated nipples, and with her tremors, her darkest, most private parts were exposed and she was completely susceptible to the comb running through her luxurious, bulging coat; she was a smug nanny goat, an earring-clad she-goat with a small tail, no more than a healthy, bristle-covered, wire spring, which reacted to the lightest of touches, highly sensitive to the most subtle, gentle caresses of a finger; her entire body sculpted itself while maneuvering a green stem around in her patient mouth — chewing not with her teeth, but with time; in these moments, she was made of stone, two traces of sorrow engraved in her eyes; in this mystical posture, with her long, black lashes, she was a predestined goat; Sudanesa had been brought to the fazenda to add new blood, though she had arrived expecting, and required special care, that was when I, a timid adolescent, took the first steps outside my solitude: I left my idleness behind and — sacrilege — appointed myself her lyric shepherd; I perfected her shape, made her coat shine and gave her flowered jewels, winding around her neck yards of creeper vine, with its brightly colored fruit dangling like bells; Schuda was patient, even more, generous, as a swollen, mysterious and lubricious stem sought, through intercourse, the concurrence of her body.

  5

  love, union, and our work alongside our father was the message of austere purity stored safely in our shrines, solemnly absorbed at daily communion, in the making of our morning breakfast and within our evening scripture; without losing sight of the pious clarity of this maxim, my brother proceeded with his sermon, discreetly reminding me, each step of the way, of my immaturity in life, speaking of the mishaps to which everyone is vulnerable, and saying that it was normal that this should have happened, but it was also important to bear in mind the unique emotional and spiritual ties that bound us, which would prevent us from ever succumbing to temptation and which guarded us against a fall (no matter what its nature); at the very least, each family member had to do his part to be responsible for and look after these ties, each family member had to uphold his share, since if only one member were to make a false move, the entire family would topple; he said that as long as the house stood, each one of us also stood, and to keep the house from falling, our sense of obligation must be strengthened constantly, we must worship our blood ties, never wander beyond our doorway, always answer our father when he spoke, never avert our eyes from a brother in need, participate in the work of the family, bring fruit into the home and help to replenish the common table; thus, within the austerity of our way of life there would always be room for a great deal of happiness, beginning with the fulfilment of our individually assigned tasks, since a person would be condemned to bear a terrible burden were he to shirk the sacred demands of his duties; he went on to say that everyone at home had their own desires, but nevertheless, evil impulses must be restrained, all the while those that were good should be moderated prudently, without ever losing sight of the balance, cultivating self-control, protecting oneself from egoism and the dangerous passion by which it is accompanied, seeking solutions to personal problems without creating more serious problems for loved ones, and he reminded me that to think through any given situation the same solid trunk, faithful hand, loving word and wise principles had always been there, and that life’s horizon was not as expansive as some tend to believe; in my case, the happiness I had imagined existed beyond our father’s realm was no more than an illusion; disavowing the irreverent reasons for my flight (although suggesting discreetly my steps had set a bad example for Lula, the youngest in the family, whose eyes were glued to my every move), my brother blew hot wind into his sermon by telling me there was more strength in the pardon than in the offence itself, and more strength in the mending than in the misguided ways, leaving it very clear that these should be the two sublime counterparts to any fine character, the former represented by my family upon my return, and the latter — the mending of ways — represented by me, the wayward son: “You’ve no idea what we’ve been going through in your absence, you’d be shocked at the worn faces of our family; it’s difficult for me to tell you this, brother, but Mother can no longer hide her sobbing,” he said, blending a sort of increasingly tense feeling of tenderness with his reprimand; he was moving along serenely and surely, somewhat solemnly (like my father), all the while, I was succumbing to rapid vertigo, conjuring up the meager provisions of this poor family of ours, now deprived of its former strength, and in my darkness, I may just have had a flash of lucidity, as I suspected that, in their lack of spiritual sustenance, the last few seeds from the family fields were being cooked, over a will-o’-the-wisp glow, in a prosaic boarding-house room: “She told no one you had left, at lunch that day each of us at the table felt, more than the next, the weight of your empty chair; but we remained silent, staring at our plates as Mother served us, not one of us had the courage to ask where you were, our afternoon of work with Father dragged on, our thoughts were with our sisters at home busily working in the kitchen or embroidering on the veranda, stitching at the sewing machine, or cleaning out the pantry; no matter where the girls were, they were transformed that very day; no longer filling the house with joy, having already given in to their sense of abandonment and discomfort; you should have been there, André, you should have; and you should have seen our father locked up in his silence: as soon as dinner was over, he left the table and went to the veranda; no one saw him withdraw, he stood there next to the railing, watching who knows what in the darkness; only at bedtime, when I went into your room and opened your closet and empty drawers did I understand, as the eldest brother, the scope of what had happened: the beginning of the disintegration of the family,” he said, then stopped, and I knew why, I had only to look at his face, but I did not, for there were also things inside me to be seen, and I could have said “The disintegration of the family started long before you think, in my childhood, when faith grew virulently inside me and when I had so much more passion than anyone else in the house,” is what I could have said, with certainty, but it was no time to speculate on the obscure methods of faith, to take up its dissolute aspects, the sacramental consumption of blood and flesh, to investigate the voluptuousness and tremors of devotion, but even so I started to remember my Marian society ribbon, to recall that, as a pious child, I would set it next to my bed before sleeping and also, how God would wake me up daily at five o’clock for early communion, and I would lie awake, sadly watching my brothers in their beds as they slept through my bliss, I would amuse myself as shadows broke through the dawn, and with each ray of daylight shining through the cracks, I would rediscover the magical fantasy of the small figures painted up high on the wall like a border, just waiting for her to come into the bedroom and whisper again and again, “Wake up, sweetheart,” gently touching me again and again, until I, pretending all the while that I was sleeping, would grasp her hands with a shiver and they in turn would play their subtly composed game beneath the covers, and I would laugh and she would lovingly remind me in a whisper not to “wake up your brothers, sweetheart,” and she would hold my head against the warm pillow of her stomach, and bending her full body, she would kiss my hair again and again, and as soon as I got up, God was right next to me on my bedside table and it was a god I could grasp in my hands and put around my neck, filling my chest, and
as a young boy I would enter the church like a balloon, the domestic light of our childhood was good, the homemade bread on our table, the hot milk and coffee and the butter dish; that luminous clarity of our home always seemed brighter when we would return from the village, the clarity that was later to perturb me so, making me strange and mute, leaving me prostrate in bed, like a convalescent, from the time of my adolescence onward; “Things we never suspected within the limits of our home” almost slipped out, but once again I believed it would have been useless to say anything, in fact I felt incapable of saying anything at all, and, lifting my eyes, I saw that my brother’s gaze was immersed in his glass, and motionless; as if in response to the message in my expression, he said, “The more rigid the structure, the harder the fall, the strength and the joy of a family can disappear thus in one fell swoop,” is what he said, as a sudden look of mourning crossed his face, and then he interrupted himself, and instantaneously my imagination was flooded with the bright Sunday gatherings when our city relatives and friends would visit us, 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 on the fullest branches, and the table­cloth, previously laid over the calm lawn, folded away, I would curl up near a distant tree trunk, from where I could follow the tumultuous 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 easing their way between the leaves and branches, occasionally spilling over into the peaceful shadows and reverberating intensely on those damp faces, and the men’s circle would then start to form, my father, his sleeves rolled up, would gather the youngest, who would join 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, would take his flute from his pocket, a delicate stem in his heavy hands, and would begin to blow into it like a bird, his cheeks inflating like those of a child, and his cheeks would swell so much, would get so puffy and flushed, it seemed as if all his wine would flow from his ears, as if from a faucet, and with the sound of the flute, the circle would begin 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 would fly, cutting enchantingly into the woods, traversing the blossoming grasses and sweeping the pastures, and the now vibrant wheel would speed 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, would all clap, strengthening the new rhythm, and before long, Ana would impatiently and impetuously sweep into the dancing circle with her country-girl figure and a red flower, like a drop of blood, holding her loose dark hair to one side; this sister of mine who, more than anyone else in the house, was diseased in body, as was I, and right away I could sense 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 would be 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 would pick up speed deliriously, the clapping hands outside would grow increasingly hot and strong, then suddenly and impetuously, magnetizing everyone, she would grab a white handkerchief from one of the boys’ pockets, waving it with her hand above her head while she kept up 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, she would dance amongst them all, rendering life more turbulent, stirring up pain, drawing out cries of exaltation; and presently, harmonizing in a strange language, the elders would begin to sing out simple verses, almost like chants, and a young mischievous cousin, caught up in the current, would make strident cymbals out of two pan lids and it would seem as if, following the contagious music, the herons and teals had flown in from the lake to join everyone there in the woods, and I could imagine, his solemnity dampened by wine, my father’s joyful eyes, reassured that not everything on board was to rot under the hatches; and sitting on an exposed root over in a shady corner of the woods, I would let the light wind blowing through the trees flow through my shirt, inflating my chest, and feel the soft caress of my own hair on my forehead, and from a distance, in this apparently relaxed position, I would imagine 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 would untie my shoes, take off my socks and, with my clean, white feet, scrape away the dry leaves to the layer of 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 I wouldn’t perceive when she would leave the others, searching everywhere with her wide, worried eyes, and the sound of her footsteps, as she came closer, would mingle with the onset of the sudden, timid noise of the small animals stirring alluringly and affectionately nearby, so I would only notice her presence as she approached, and then I would look down and concentrate on her steps, which were suddenly no longer rushed, but slow and heavy, distinctly smashing the dry leaves beneath her feet and smashing me confusedly within, and bowing my head, I would soon feel her warm, caring hand first removing a particle of dirt, then gathering and smoothing out my hair, and her voice, born of her calcified womb, would suddenly gush into the depth of my sanctuary, and it was as if it came from a temple built only of stones, yet filled with porous light beaming through stained glass, “Come, sweetheart, come and play with your brothers and sisters,” and quietly curled up in my spot I would merely say “Leave me alone, Mother, I’m having fun,” but my bitter eyes would never leave my sister, the soles of her feet aflame, branding and burning inside me . . . what bright dust, as I see the last of that distant time, the same period when, one day, with chained feet, I averted my eyes to avoid her face; my pack, fixed firmly to my back, weighing heavily on me as I left the house, the two of us walking like twins sharing shoulders, twin yolks from the same egg, one with eyes facing forward, the other, backward; standing there looking at my brother, I was seeing so many faraway things, and that evening I embarked on my desperate decision to throw myself into the soft stomach of the moment; who knows, I still might have even asked my brother, in a kindly impulse, to leave and to “Give my best to the family,” closing the door behind him; then, alone in my darkness, I would roll myself up in the soft layer of sunlight hanging on one of the bedroom walls, and protected inside that blanket, I would eventually surrender to wine and to my fortune.