A Poet of the Invisible World (16 page)

He'd gesture toward the sheep and the girl would say:
“Ovejas.”

Sometimes she'd nod as he pronounced the sounds. Other times she'd laugh, and correct him, and he'd try again. There were times when it seemed hopeless, a mass of dark phrases that he would never penetrate. But he persisted, and in time he began to understand the new tongue.

Once he could make sense of the words, he learned that the girl lived on a farm on the north side of the mountain, that she had a younger sister and an older brother, that she came to Enrico's to exchange the salt pork that her father cured for the milk from Enrico's sheep, and that she had a name.

“Soledad,” she said, when he finally asked.

Nouri did not know what it meant. But he knew that when she said it, it made him feel safe.

Even with the language uncorked, Nouri found that the words failed to flow with Enrico. He was now able to say “thank you” and “good morning” and “good night
.
” He was now able to ask if he needed help chopping the wood or if there were a few extra spoonfuls of soup. Enrico would say
sí
or
no
and an occasional
allá
or
más tarde.
Otherwise they continued on in silence as before.

There were moments, as he and Soledad sat talking, when Nouri sensed a movement inside him and he thought that he might actually feel something again. But despite the vague stirring, his heart refused to quicken. So he sat on the bench and tried to be grateful that, in this cold, empty time, a friend had appeared.

 

Thirteen

It snowed and it snowed. Great fat flakes poured from a creamery sky, endless white shrouding the house, the hills, the trees. Sometimes Nouri and Soledad would sit in the barn, watching the torrent fall outside the open door, obliterating everything except the cold, dry space where they sat. Other times, when the sky would clear, they'd climb high into the mountains, where broad vistas would appear and great birds would swoop over their heads.

Once Nouri understood the girl's language, they spoke less and less, as if words had been needed to forge a connection that, once made, needed no words. They could spend hours without a sound passing between them, aware that it was pointless to give shape and color to things that could not be expressed. At times, however, something would rise up to remind them of the distance between them. And then the questions would appear.

“Why do you wear that?” asked Nouri, as he pointed to the wooden cross that hung from Soledad's neck. So she told him about the child of Bethlehem and how he'd offered his life to redeem the sins of mankind. Nouri listened carefully to the tale, and saw how the light gleamed in her eyes as she spoke. But he was too far away from his own god to make sense of anyone else's.

“Why do you wear that?” asked Soledad, as she pointed to the tattered head cloth Nouri never removed. Nouri, feeling compelled not to lie, merely said that his ears were sensitive—omitting the fact that he had four instead of two.

One morning, when Nouri peered out through the window above his bed, he found Soledad waiting outside the barn. So he hurried down the ladder, threw on his clothes, and went out to meet her. When she saw him, she cried, “Come!” Then she started over the field toward the path that led down the side of the mountain. Nouri wanted to ask where they were going, but before he could say a word she was halfway across the field. So he tightened his scarf about his throat and doubled his pace to catch up. As they hurried along, he could feel Soledad's excitement. But only when the path suddenly branched and they took the route that led to a house and a well and a pen of stout pigs did he realize that she was taking him to her home. As they approached the pen, he saw a girl a few years younger than Soledad laying out scraps for the pigs. When she saw them, a great smile spread across her face and she ran into Soledad's arms. Soledad held her. Then she turned to Nouri.

“This is my sister, Concepción.”

Nouri nodded.

“And this,” she said, turning back to the girl, “is Nouri.”

The young girl's smile flashed again, and Nouri's heart cracked—ever so slightly—and a trace of her sweetness trickled in.

They moved toward the house, the pigs loudly grunting their disapproval as they started away. As they approached the door, a man with a head of thick black hair opened it wide. He beamed at the sight of the two girls, and Nouri knew that he must be their father.

“My angels,” he whispered, as he kissed the tops of their heads.

“This is Nouri, Papa,” said Soledad. “The boy who lives at Enrico's.”

The man turned to Nouri and his black eyes bored into him.

“Welcome,” he said.

Before Nouri could answer, the man turned and went into the house, and Soledad gestured to Nouri to enter as well. So he crossed the threshold and the two girls followed behind.

It was a simple place, with a large, open hearth and a few pieces of rough wooden furniture, yet it exuded a warmth that Nouri had not felt in a long time. A small, broad-faced woman crouched beside the hearth, turning a loaf of bread over the flames. Nouri guessed that this was Soledad's mother, and when Soledad's introduction confirmed this, they exchanged a smile.

The woman pulled the bread from the fire and placed it in a woven basket. Then she carried it to a table by the wall, which was laden with salt pork and fresh cheese and a bowl filled with oil. Soledad led Nouri to the table, and when the others had joined them, they clasped their hands and lowered their heads. Then Soledad's father closed his eyes and murmured a brief prayer.

“Thank you for the food. And for our health. We are grateful.”

They whispered, “Amen
.
” Then Soledad's mother drew the bread from the basket, tore it apart, and began handing the pieces around the table. Nouri watched as the others dipped the bread into the oil, and placed the pork and cheese on top. So he pushed aside the feeling of being an outsider, and did the same.

No one spoke as they ate the simple meal. Nouri found the bread a bit dry and the pork a bit salty, but he was grateful to be welcomed to the table. Just as he was beginning to relax, however, a voice called out: “Save some for me!”

Concepción's face flashed with joy and everyone turned toward the door.

“There's always food for you, Fortes,” said Soledad's father. “Put down the shovel and come join us.”

Nouri turned to look at the young man standing in the doorway. Broad-shouldered, with long black hair and the imperious air of an avenging prince from one of Habbib's bedtime tales, he was clearly the older brother that Soledad had told him about.

“Who's this?” said Fortes, leaning his shovel against the frame of the door and entering the house.

“Nouri,” said Soledad. “My new friend.”

The young man looked into Nouri's eyes and Nouri felt a wave ripple through him. It reminded him of the yearning he'd felt for Vishpar. And the pain he'd endured in the chamber of The Right Hand. And since the feelings that these memories evoked—sorrow—anger—shame—threatened to seep through the crack in his heart, he nodded brusquely to the fellow and averted his gaze. Then he returned to the table. And the food. And to feeling nothing at all.

*   *   *

THE STREAKS OF RED STOOD
out from a great distance against the sweep of white. At first, Nouri thought that some rogue had stumbled into the drifts and upended the contents of his wine pouch or that some strange current had bubbled up through a fissure beneath the snow. As he moved closer, however, he understood that the streaks were blood, and when he reached them he saw the ram lying half-hidden in the snow. Its eyes were closed, and the blood, which had come from a gash in its side, was caked in its curling wool. Yet there were no footprints leading to it or from it, for the wind had scattered the snow during the night to conceal the source of crime.

As Nouri stared at the lifeless form, it seemed to bear no relation to the creature that he had brushed and watered and grazed. But he knew that he had to tell Enrico about it. So he trudged through the snow to the house, where he was tending the hearth. When he described what he'd found, the old man showed no emotion.

“No tracks?”

“No tracks.”

“And they just left it there?”

Nouri nodded. “So it seems.”

The old man said no more. Then he threw on his coat and they went out into the snow to retrieve the dead body. When they reached it, they hoisted it up and then carried it to the shed behind the house. Nouri assumed they would dig a small grave, say a prayer, and then bury it. But instead, Enrico fetched a pair of sharp knives and began to butcher the creature. First he cut the skin back from the legs and broke them just beneath the knees. Then he tied a stick between the legs and hung the carcass from a strong elm. Then, as if he were peeling a shiny apple, he began stripping away the skin. When the creature was bare, he broke open the sternum to remove what was inside. And though occasionally he would ask Nouri's help—to carry away the intestines—to feed the heart and stomach to the dogs—for the most part Nouri simply watched, in a state of wonder, as a life devolved into a series of random parcels before his eyes.

Over the following days, Enrico prepared roast mutton, braised mutton, mutton broth, mutton stew. But though the smells of the various dishes were enticing, Nouri could not eat a bite.

*   *   *

THE WINTER WANED,
and the snow began to give way to fresh patches of grass and tiny wildflowers and longer days. Nouri took the sheep out to graze and helped Enrico with the pruning and the planting. He also spent more time at Soledad's, helping her father with the salting, helping her sister with the pigs, and joining the family for the odd meal. He could tell that Soledad's father was somewhat wary of his presence; Soledad was young, and Nouri was a boy from a distant land. But he knew that he could never explain that it wasn't his daughter he desired.

Soledad understood this without being told. She'd been to the village and had seen how the men stared at her—as if she were a piece of pastry—as if she were walking down the street without any clothes on. Nouri's eyes were always chaste when they fell upon her. She felt safe when she was with him. There were times, though, when she saw him gaze at Fortes like the men in the village gazed at her. And one evening she decided to speak to him about it.

They were sitting on the small wooden porch behind her house. Nouri had just come from feeding the sheep and was content to watch the sun descend while Soledad mended her father's trousers. After a few moments, however, Fortes arrived to fix the broken wheel of the grain cart that languished beside the shed, and Nouri's attention was drawn to the handsome youth. The arc of his body as he labored over the cart. How the muscles tightened beneath his shirt. He was different from Vishpar—more solid—less tinged with light—yet he stirred in Nouri the same longing. Nouri tried not to show it: he shifted his body away from the shed and only darted occasional glances in his direction. But Soledad could tell what Nouri was feeling.

“He's beautiful, isn't he?”

Nouri said nothing.

“I've always thought so. Even when we were small.”

“He reminds me of someone I once knew.”

“Someone you cared for?”

Nouri nodded. “Someone I loved.”

Soledad drew the needle through the cloth and tightened the stitch. “I know how you feel,” she said. “Love is a powerful thing.”

They said no more. But Nouri could feel that the bond between them had deepened.

As the days grew warmer, Nouri began to find his sleep interrupted by violent dreams. They usually involved The Right Hand, who would appear like a dark
djinn
out of nowhere and pursue him through forests, down rivers, across vast, sun-dried plains. When he reached him, a struggle would ensue, which always ended with Nouri taking The Right Hand's life. When he awoke, however, there was no feeling of triumph. Only a harsh, metallic taste on his tongue and the effort to press the memory from his mind.

Nouri worked hard to fill his days with activity. He offered to help Enrico enlarge the vegetable patch, which meant digging up the rocky soil that lay along its southern border, putting down fresh, fertilized loam, and helping him decide what to grow. When it rained, he made sure that the hay stayed dry. When the sun beat down, he filled buckets from the pump to keep the sheep well watered. And in the evenings, despite the feelings that it evoked—or perhaps because of them—he climbed down the mountain to visit Soledad's farm.

One morning, as Nouri was washing himself at the pump, Enrico came to him.

“It happened again,” he said. “Come.”

He turned and headed off toward the enclosure and Nouri knew that another ram had been killed. So he dried himself off, put on his clothes, and followed the old fellow to where the body lay sprawled. This time, there was no snow, so the blood had seeped into the ground. And Nouri could only wonder what strange flowers would grow from such sullied soil.

A few weeks later, a third ram was killed. Enrico made no attempt this time to conceal his despair. He hacked up the creature as before, but he could not eat it. A shadow descended over the farm. There were still enough ewes to give milk, but with only one ram—and the fear that it too would be attacked—the future seemed grim. So Enrico began sleeping with the flock, his gutting knife sharpened and ready in his hand.

For Nouri, it was a time of confusion. Why would someone kill three healthy rams, yet leave their bodies behind? Why only the rams and not the ewes? Was it some sort of warning? Did someone have an ancient grudge against Enrico?

Nouri couldn't say. But the killings only increased the bleakness of his life on the little farm.