A Poet of the Invisible World (17 page)

 

Fourteen

One night, as Nouri was returning to Enrico's from Soledad's, the answer came. He'd been invited to join Soledad's family for supper; the eldest sow had given birth to a litter of six, and there was a feeling of celebration in the air. Soledad's mother made fritters, which she served with a bitter lemon compote, while Soledad's father roasted loin chops and brought out a jar of trotters he'd smoked the previous fall. When the eating was done, Concepción sang a song and, with the help of the others, persuaded Soledad to join in. Then Soledad's father and Fortes became engaged in a discussion about the best methods for harvesting grain. They seemed, point by point, to disagree with each other, yet their exchange was playful. And though they left Nouri out of the conversation—which was wise, since he knew nothing about harvesting—the evening made him feel as if he was a part of something again.

As he climbed the mountain path, he was free of thought, the air cool and dry, the small copper lantern flashing its light as he moved along. When he reached the farm, he paused for a moment and looked up at the endless pinpricks of light that punctured the darkened bowl over his head. Then he made his way toward the barn past the small enclosure where Enrico slept with the sheep. As he approached it, a wave of gladness washed over him, followed by the need to piss. So he placed the lantern down, lowered his trousers, and released a warm stream upon the ground. He felt strangely content. Relaxed. At peace. As he raised his trousers, however, he noticed something glinting near his feet.

He knelt down and brushed away the dirt. A blade appeared. He tried to wriggle it free and managed to loosen a small knife from the soil. It was heavily crusted with something dark and dried. But it was only when he grasped the handle and felt the weight of it in his hand that the memories came rushing back.

The anger.

The fury.

The struggle.

The bloodshed.

The pain.

The pain.

The pain.

The pain.

The violence of Nouri's dreams had been real. But rather than vent his rage on The Right Hand, he'd killed the rams. And the only thing more shocking than this realization was the fact that he'd managed to bury it so far down in the dark corners of his mind, he hadn't even known that he had done it.

*   *   *

WHEN NOURI RETURNED TO THE BARN,
he fetched a bucket, filled it with water, found an old rag beside the pump, and in a hidden corner beneath the loft began to scrub away the dirt and dried blood that befouled the knife. He rubbed and rubbed until the slender blade gleamed. Then he carried it up the ladder, slipped it beneath the thin straw mattress, and lay down to sleep.

It soon became clear, however, that sleep would not come. His heart was too anguished at what he'd done, and he was concerned that if another dream came he might do it again. He knew that he would have to go to Enrico in the morning and confess his crime. But he feared that when the old man found out, he would reach for his knife and kill him on the spot. If he didn't, he would be sure to ask why he'd done it, and Nouri would not be able to answer without explaining what had happened with The Right Hand, which he knew that he couldn't do. So he lay there—counting the knots in the beams—listening to the buzzing of the insects—as the hours crept by.

The following day, he avoided Enrico, fearful that the exchange of even a glance would betray his guilt. And the following night he lay awake, on the theory that if he could keep from sleeping, he could keep from enacting the violence of his dreams. After three tortured nights, he could no longer resist. He slipped beneath the waves and remained submerged until Enrico came to rouse him several hours after the sun had risen. What he found, however, when he shook off his slumber, was that the simple awareness of what he'd done had changed the structure of his sleep. It was as if a sentry now stood guard in his head, monitoring his thoughts in the night. So he let himself drift off the following night, and the next night, secure that he would neither wander from his bed nor do any harm.

One morning, about a week after he found the knife, Nouri awoke to a terrible itching. It started in his legs, a crawling sensation, as if a band of ants had burrowed beneath his skin. Then it spread up his body to his belly, his arms, and finally his ears. He knew that if he removed his head cloth and began to scratch, he would never stop. So he gave up trying to figure out what had caused it—a bug bite?—something he'd brushed against?—something he'd eaten?—and tried to find something to take it away. He soaked his body in both warm water and cold. He rubbed it with acacia honey. He covered it lightly with salt. But none of these things seemed to bring the least bit of relief. So since he was still somewhat chary of Enrico, he took the problem down the mountain to Soledad.

When he reached the farm, she was kneeling beside a small basin of water, washing a stack of clothes.

“I need your help.”

Soledad looked up.

“I have a terrible itch. And I can't seem to get rid of it.”

“Where is it?”

Nouri took a deep breath. “
Everywhere.”

Although Soledad did not profess to have any medical knowledge, she asked Nouri if she might examine his body. Nouri agreed. So she took him inside the house, led him into the small room that she shared with Concepción, and told him to remove his clothes. As she studied his legs and his chest and the warm hollows beneath his arms, they were both keenly aware that this moment was creating a new intimacy between them. But when she asked him to remove his head garment, he declined, for the memory of The Right Hand's reaction when he'd discovered his ears still filled him with terror.

When Soledad was finished with her examination, she told Nouri to slip back into his clothes. Then she asked him to remain where he was and she left the house. About an hour later, she returned with an old woman with milky eyes, whom she introduced as Señora Inez. The woman spread a large cloth over Soledad's bed and told Nouri to remove his clothes again and lie down. Then she proceeded to sponge his body with a solution of vinegar and antimony. She followed this by massaging oil of violets into his skin. Then she covered him with a red chalky substance, wrapped him in muslin, and left him to rest.

At first, Nouri thought that the odd treatment had worked. The vinegar was cooling, the violet oil was numbing, and the chalky substance seemed to draw the itching away. His body relaxed and he fell into the first sleep he'd known in days. A few hours later, however, he awoke to find the muslin torn from his body and his fingers clawing his flesh.

It was only then that Soledad's father stepped in. Nouri was sitting in a chair by the window, wrapped in a thin blanket. He was lost in thought and had not even noticed that the taciturn man had entered the room. Only when he heard the low voice did he turn and see him standing in the shadows.

“I hear you've got an itch.”

Nouri nodded.

“An itch is bad.”

Nouri nodded again and there was a long silence. Then Soledad's father folded his arms.

“I know a fellow who can help you,” he said. “But you'll have to travel far to see him.”

“If it would stop the itching,” said Nouri, “I'd go to the moon.”

Soledad's father did not respond. So Nouri spoke again.

“How do I get there?”

The gaunt man was silent. Then he shrugged. “I guess I'll have to take you.”

The offer came as a surprise to Nouri. “Thank you,” he said.

“We'll leave in three days.”

Soledad's father stared at Nouri a moment. Then he left the room.

Nouri could not imagine going off on a journey in such a condition. But the thought of remaining where he was, with no relief from the itching, was far worse. So he closed his eyes and prayed that he could keep from removing his skin before it was time to depart.

*   *   *

THE FOLLOWING DAYS WERE
filled with preparations for the journey. Soledad sewed a small tablecloth into a sack and her mother spent hours baking bread and wrapping olives and sausages and cheese into small bundles to fill it up. Concepción gathered handfuls of dried grass and wove a pair of broad-brimmed hats to protect the two travelers from the sun, while Fortes fashioned a pair of sharp knives to slice the sausages and the cheese—not to mention the throats of any strangers on the road who might try to harm them.

The most difficult thing for Nouri was to tell Enrico about the trip. He'd avoided him for weeks and still found it hard to look him in the eye. He finally managed to mumble it to him one morning as he stood drawing water from the well, and though the old fellow barely said a word Nouri knew that the news had struck him hard. The most Nouri could do was reassure Enrico that he would come back soon, and that the sheep would be safe while he was gone.

The morning of the departure was overcast and gray. Soledad helped Nouri and her father gather their things together and load them into a pair of satchels. Concepción gathered handfuls of wildflowers to hand them and Soledad's mother gave Nouri an ointment of beeswax and juniper berries to ease the itching until they reached their destination. They said their good-byes: Soledad giving her father a tender embrace and Nouri a heartfelt look, Concepción running into the house, Fortes hanging back on the porch. Then they hoisted their bags and set off down the mountain.

They walked in silence, the sky clearing to a searing blue as they made their way down the winding path. When the land leveled off, they came to a small farm, where an elderly man gave them a pair of brown steeds. Soledad's father drew a rasher of pork from one of the bags and gave it to the man. Then they loaded their things into the satchels and headed out over the dusty terrain.

They rode all day, not exchanging a single word. When night fell, they tied the horses to a tree and laid a pair of blankets on the ground. Then they ate a bit of the pork and cheese and, with the intricate beadwork of the stars overhead—not to mention the aid of Soledad's mother's ointment—they managed to get some sleep.

On the second day, they set out at dawn, the dust clouding their eyes, the heat parching their throats, the sun blazing down like an evil
djinn.
Nouri knew that the journey would be less oppressive if he and Soledad's father conversed. But the heat dulled his brain, and Soledad's father said nothing. So they rode on together in silence. On the third day, they came to a tiny village where they bartered their salted pork for fresh hay for their horses. Nouri wanted to linger awhile to gaze at the new faces. But Soledad's father said they still had a long way to go, so they mounted their horses and continued on.

They traveled until Nouri lost track of time. Days of riding, the heat a dull weight pressing down on his body, the itching a steady presence beneath the skin that threatened to break loose at any time. When hunger came, they stopped to eat. When night fell, they laid out their blankets and slept. But mostly they just rode and rode and rode.

One afternoon, they reached the crest of a large hill that they'd been climbing most of the day, and Nouri looked out to find an expanse of sea so blue, so light-dappled, so seemingly endless, he could hardly believe his eyes.

“We're close now,” said Soledad's father. “The boat will be waiting for us at the water.”

Nouri did not point out that there'd been no talk of a boat or any passage across the water, especially not a sea as vast as the one they faced now. Instead, he merely followed as Soledad's father gave a sharp kick to his horse and continued on toward the coast.

When they reached the sands that bordered the sea, they reined in their horses and dismounted. Then Soledad's father told Nouri to wait with the tired steeds while he went to search for a man named Alfonso. About an hour later, he returned with a ruddy-faced fellow with piercing eyes who told them to entrust their horses to a boy who tied them to a tree. The fellow led them to a small wooden boat, helped them aboard, and proceeded to pull up anchor. Then, with a gentle breeze at their backs, they set off.

It was the first time in Nouri's eighteen years that he'd ventured out upon the water. So it took him a little while to get used to the buoyancy and the salty flavor of the air. As they moved away from the coast, he saw the water change from dark green to turquoise to a silvery blue. But even more alluring than the water was the light: it seemed to pour in from every direction, sending a warmth through his body that licked at the ice that surrounded his heart.

They slept that night on the boat, Alfonso laying blankets over the seat planks and making
ceviche
for them to eat from the carp that he caught. Nouri, however, spent most of the night wide awake, thinking of the relief from the terrible itching that would finally come when they reached their destination. In the morning the sun rose golden and sleek, and when Nouri looked out he found that land was within sight. As Alfonso guided them in, he saw boats hugging the shore and people scattered across the beach. And as the smells wafted in from the food being cooked on a series of open fires, it was clear they were entering another world.

When they reached the shore, Alfonso dropped anchor. Then Soledad's father stepped from the boat and gestured to Nouri to do the same. They waded through the low water until they reached the sand. Then Soledad's father paused.

“How do we find him?” Nouri asked. “The man who can help with my itching?”

Soledad's father raised his eyes to the clay-colored towers that loomed at the far edge of the beach. “There is no man.”

Nouri stared at him, not comprehending.

“I know you killed the rams,” he said. “I don't know why you did it. But I know.” He was silent a moment, his eyes still locked on the distance. “On top of this, I see how you look at Fortes. This is not natural.” He was silent again. Then he turned to Nouri. “So I've brought you to a place where this god of yours abides. Let him deal with you.” He stood there to make sure that his words drove home. Then he waded back to Alfonso's boat.