Dead Awake: The Last Crossing (6 page)

Even though my photos were
far from professional, (mostly off center and blurred by the sun),
they still caught the image of her beauty on a paper not worthy of
such radiance. How grateful I am of those moments in time,
captured. They were made to stand still-little ripples reflecting
from her foot as she touched the water and a gentle smile as I
instructed her. Perhaps the pictures weren’t professional, but they
were something more than special. They captured beauty and life,
her life, and were worth more than a Picasso or DaVinci to
me.

They were monuments of our
beginning, and every time I’d look on them, from that day on, meant
that I could begin to live once more; to relive the moment of birth
when I began to take unto me the sweet breath of her life. Again,
those memories come to me now. The echoes of my words. “My sweet
Noelia run! There is a place to sit! You will look so pretty on
this wooden bench!” Memories of her beauty and my attraction. “You
will look so pretty here. You will look so pretty
there.”

The sun was beginning to go
down, creeping over the horizon and onto the rocks, casting a
perfect shadow. Even I could tell this would be a great picture:
great focus, perfect center; she smiled and teased, cupping her
hand inside the water, just the way I showed her, so that we might
get that perfect pose. “Smile now, and blow me a kiss.” I said, but
she didn’t understand until I made the kissing gesture. Even then,
she wasn’t sure if I was flirting with her, or wanting her to do
the same. I admit, I wasn’t sure either. I think I wanted the kiss.
Then, “click-click,” and she was caught puckering at me. I’ll keep
that one forever. I think I caught her having the best time of her
life, or maybe I caught myself.

We walked back, laughing and
smiling, because we liked one another. I was sad to have to leave
her. I don’t know if I should have felt that sad so soon, but I
longed to be with her and leaving now was very opposite to what I
wanted to do. I’m not sure why my heart seamed to ache at the
thought of even a second away from her, but at least one thing I
was sure of: I was missing her already, and I hadn’t even left
yet.

The rest of the formalities
were pleasant. Her parents treated me nice and gave me a cake to
eat on my way back. Higinia had baked it for me and had wrapped it
in a cloth. The kids said good-bye to me by swinging from my arms,
and the Jose-Luis gave me a friendly nod. Higinia wanted to make
sure that I would come back, and that this wasn’t just another one
time visit, “North American style”. She asked me in Guarani, and
was very meticulous in making sure I knew that I was welcome and
that they wanted me back. Noelia was behind her mom, equally eager
to know when I’d return, and whispering to her mom’s ear the
questions she wanted answered. That part I didn’t know, until she
told me later on one of our exploration-walks through the island
jungles.

On the walk to my room, I
tried to convince myself to turn back, thinking up various plans,
but never came up with a decent excuse. If I turn back, I proposed,
they’d ask why I’ve called on them so soon. I’ll have to stay on my
course. That’s the only thing to do.

I approached my room and
once again I saw a note attached to my door. “Must be another
poem.” I thought out loud, with a mixture of joy and dread. It was
great that I had received another, for the first had been so great,
but I also thought of the trouble it would bring with Blanca and
sighed with heaviness. I took the paper off the nail.

Indeed, it was another poem,
written in Guarani, or some other local language. In either case I
didn’t understand it and that meant that Blanca would have to know
about it. It would upset her more, no doubt. That was too bad,
because I didn’t like to see her troubled.

I went inside. My door was
slightly ajar; and I thought for a moment that the person who
dropped the note had come inside as well. Instead, I found an oddly
shaped individual with a long black beard sitting on my bed. He was
holding a small book and nodded the moment he saw me, as if he’d
been expecting me. I suddenly recognized the man as Irvin, a
medicine priest that I had met on my early morning walk that day. I
had completely forgotten about our appointment! I had asked him to
come and look at the poem I had received, in an attempt to prove to
Blanca that it was not evil. I was glad I hadn’t missed him, and
hoped he had not been waiting long.

Irvin opened his book and
then asked for the note. I presumed he wanted it when he pointed to
me with his old stringy finger. I tried to explain that the note I
was holding was not the original note, but a new one. I don’t think
he understood, but took the note anyway. Irvin translated and wrote
down the poem for me in Spanish. He nodded his approval of it, and
smiled to me as if the spirits had blessed and poured out their
mirth on me. Most likely he hadn’t brushed his teeth since he was
twelve, and the putrid smell that came from his mouth with that
smile diverted all my attention from the gestures of fortune he was
giving me.

He went on to explain what
the poem was about. In his broken dialect of Spanish and bits of
English, (which was a surprise), he told me that the poem was a
sort of blessing. It had magical and spiritual qualities that would
foretell the future for me, and in some cases forge it. He
explained that I would still be left to make certain decisions, but
that the poem would stop the consequences of any wrong decision and
correct my fate to run its proper course.

In this case, he said, it
was all good. I asked Irvin if the poem had anything to do with
“The Malagra”. He stopped for a moment, and then told me that this
was not “El Malagra”. It was like it, except that “El Malagra” was
a curse, and this was, in opposite, a blessing. He told me that I
had probably found favor with some other, much stronger, “Worker of
the spirits,” and that it had probably been that person who had
sent me the blessing as a gift for some kindness. He then asked me
if I had done something kind for someone lately. I thought for a
moment, and then remembered I had helped a woman carry her
groceries at the market. She had looked like a witch... Or maybe
the two boys.

He told me that it couldn’t
be any one of those persons; that on the island neither young boys
nor women would be the ones to cast such a spell. Children could
neither cast nor be affected by any type of magic that he knew of,
except in the case of healing, where even children had been known
to cure their parents using prayers and other omens. Women, on the
other hand, could wield magic, but not the type nor rite that these
blessings required. It could only have come from some very powerful
and old “Worker of the spirits.”

There was that phrase again
“Worker of the spirits.” It had such a ring to it, and it sent my
imagination soaring. I couldn’t, for the life of me, think of
anyone who met that description whom I had made a good impression
on. There was that old magician I had plundered just some days ago,
but he would rather have sent a curse than a blessing. I asked
Irvin again if he was sure that the poem was good, but again came
the reassuring explanation that it was indeed a blessing and that
no cursing could bring such good luck. He explained that the poem
read that I would find, or had found (I couldn’t make out if he was
using past or future tense), the love of my life. Such a blessing,
he said, could only take me to places where I would feel complete
and true about myself.

Even though I was not
superstitious, and believed nothing about the magic and spirits,
and was only talking to this man to set Blanca’s mind at rest; I
couldn’t help but be affected by Irvin’s fortune telling. If
anything was to be said about these types of people (soothsayers,
fortune-tellers, and palm readers), it is that they almost always
have something to say that comes close to home, out of the many
generalizations they speak.

In any case, I had been
correct. The poems weren’t curses of any kind. Instead, they were
omens of good fortune – blessings from above. I was glad Irvin had
come, and had translated the work for me, even though I couldn’t
understand all of it yet. But to find someone to translate from
Spanish to English would be much easier, than to find someone to
translate it from Guarani. I could even get Blanca to translate it
for me, now that I had proof that the poems weren’t
evil.

Irvin left and was on his
way to Blanca’s door to explain the outcome. I didn’t feel the need
to gloat over my correctness, but I’d probably go over there as
soon as Mr. sewer-breath was good and gone, so I waited and gave it
a few extra minutes.

Blanca was in the kitchen
cooking something for me. I didn’t know what it was, but it sure
smelled appealing. I would be glad to eat with her, now that all
this Malagra business was over. Unfortunately, as I found out, it
wasn’t. As soon as I asked her something about it, she professed
Irvin’s incompetence, when earlier she would have been happy at my
decision to get a second opinion. Now she cried because of how
foolish the man had been.

He had probably been
drinking and gotten his eyes clouded on some cute girl, she said,
because his interpretation was absurd. She pointed out that there
hadn’t even been a slight reference of any girl in the poem, so how
could he have come up with such a tail about some destined love if
he had not been preoccupied on some barmaid?

“
An off the wall reading
and translation. It was all rubbish. Basura!” She was crying, even
more so now, because instead of helping me see the light, that old
fool had sent me to an abyss of deceit where the truth would be
screened from me, and there was no way of making me see it now. I
tried explaining it to her. I told her that it was all a mistake,
that there had been another poem, of the same kind, which I had not
told her about because I had just received it. This was the one I
had given to the man, instead of the first, and this one did
mention a girl in it.

A look of appalling concern
came over her face, and then I thought I shouldn’t have told her
about the other poem. She shook her hands to me in warning defense.
“It is the Malagra! Dons you see. Dis is why he no tell you toos. I
so stupid, mi Tupa. Why you not tell me there is more dan wan note?
He no see. Don’t you see, if you tells him der is more than wan,
then he tells you the same as me.”

“
Blanca, again with that.
What difference is it if there is one or two? They are both written
the same. There is no mention of bad in either one of
them.”

“
Yes, but you no see, it
makes a difference. Plis sir, do dis for me. Let Irvin see the
first and he tells it too yous, too.”

There was no concern in my
part about the matter, and it all had been resolved to my complete
satisfaction. The whole ordeal had been made to calm the poor lady
down, and it had not, so I decided to agree with whatever it was
that she wanted me to do. I most likely wouldn’t go back to
stinky-man, as she said, to get my fortune re-told; but I’d tell
her I would. A small fib wouldn’t hurt in the line of it being used
for something good.

Her look of trepidation
frightened me. For a moment, I thought that I might give heed to
her warning and believe that there might be something to this.
Anyone would have been scared by the look of that lady. She looked
scarier than any Halloween spook I’d ever seen, so I’m not ashamed
of any momentary lack of reason; but I came to my senses, brushing
it off gingerly.

Certainly there was nothing
alarming nor disturbing written in either of the two poems. On the
contrary, they were what Irvin had made them out to be: both
beautiful and full of good luck, if nothing else. Thus I set off to
find someone else to translate the new poem into English for me,
seeing as Blanca was so set on being superstitious; but told her
that I was off to find Irvin again.

Even though I had lied to
her for her own good, I couldn’t stop feeling a little guilty when
looking on her face. The expression told that she felt a little
better and that she held her confidence in me.

A little while later I
arrived at a bar where I found someone to help me with the
translation of the poem. I would have second-guessed any man’s
translation, but fortunately I found an English teacher from the
local elementary, who had decided to play hooky for the day. He
only charged me three dollars for the task, and had it ready for me
to read by my second glass. I must admit, it made for good reading
with my drink and the strange snacks they had on the
bar.

POSER

Pictures here pictures there
pictures in so many poses

First you put your hair up
then you let it down.

Turn around -Twice for
me

Smile – It’s for the
picture

Come on now come on don’t be
yourself

They would die rather than
to see you as you are

So fill it up, fill up your
cup.

Please them for you-for your
reflection.

CHAPTER 4

Noelia

Morning came too quickly. My
head was spinning, and the light from the open shutters was
pounding on my eyeballs. It was a hangover. I wouldn’t be able to
get back to sleep again, now that I was awake. I knew the feeling
all too well. Once awake, with a hangover, closing my eyes would
only take me on a roller-coaster ride to a place where I didn’t
want to go.