Southern Cross
It was about that time, when my world was spinning madly, out of control and then suddenly, without notice to a complete halt, that I discovered one of life’s secret pleasures. The chilled air, blown in off the ocean, not the azure sea of my youth but a crueler, less sympathetic one, made my bones ache in ways that seemed impossible in my youth.
It was a Tuesday, the day that the small aircraft tumbled out of the sky, killing my only son, Justino, instantly and leaving my husband, the pilot, incapable of forgiving himself or of walking again. I, for my part resumed my aimless wanderings, an exile in a town that was too small to not be titillated by my unceremonious descent into hell. My husband had been the mayor of our small town; an important man in an unimportant town, a man who needed to fill not just his seat but usurp the air around him.
Tuesdays were the days that he would visit his lover, always escaping into his work, and into her, at work, and on any other one he would have been in her arms. But this particular Tuesday was Justino’s 17th birthday and his father, a petit bourgeois man, not unkind, but misguided in his choice of wife and of life, showed an interest in his son that he had never before. June 23, the day that my life changed forever, the day that I vowed never to have sex again to never experience the pain of child-birth. The day that I realized that I no longer loved my husband. That very same day, 17 years later, fate took its dagger and twisted.
I had always been an outsider, and so, when I could no longer sleep nor eat, aching for something to change, anything really, I took to the streets, accompanied only by the indigent dogs that shopkeepers malnourished, if and when they could be bothered. My name was Rossana then, or it may as well have been, beautiful and saddened by the world. I imagined a life as something other than the Mayor’s wife, the life of possibilities that had lain itself before me like a sparkling gem, just before sunrise. I didn’t know, couldn’t have known, that my actions would unfold into such tragic circumstances, and yet…
In some deep, intimate corner of my former self I must have known what I was doing. It was like a Siren’s call, her hands reaching out for me, beckoning, welcoming, a life, no longer an anchor, but a sail, billowing, ravaged by the wind. Free from circumstance, from tradition, from the whispers and glances and laughter that trailed behind. And in my selfishness, Justino, my lovely man-child, a boy really, thin and awkward, angular as I had once been, was forgotten, just for a moment, but that was all it took. The stranger’s name was as easily forgotten as his lips and mouth and mind were not. A Monday, when I was wandering, before I was lost, or before I was found and then lost again, his eyes on my hands as I rested the basket on my hip. He called to me, asked my name, to which I did not reply but kept walking…
Straight to the ocean, eyes down, but knowing that the stranger’s gaze followed the curve of my neck, the arch of my feet as I stepped delicately, purposefully towards the abyss, I could not, did not resist and turned my face, enough for the invitation to be apparent, enough to hide my true intentions, my fears, my desires. The sky darkened, winter’s clouds churning the grey, cold, unforgiving water. I felt his hand upon the small of my back, the other, fingers entangled in my fiery hair, pulled my neck back and breathed warm air into me. Who was this stranger who would disappear as suddenly as he materialized? The minutes turned to hours, and I was too distracted and full of pleasure, my cup spilling the excess wine, elixir of life, and Justino, well he was just a boy, what could he know or understand of these things, how could my actions hurt him?
IT became a ritual, these seaside meetings. Mondays were market days and what brought the stranger to the village, the man who had not witnessed my transformation from something to nothing and who did not care what I no longer was. When we had met, the Mayor and I, that is, he was not a mayor but the son of the local vintner, he was beautiful and full of aspirations, and had promised to take me around the world with him. I was a cruel trick of nature, my body being such fertile ripe soil, that before I could learn to experience the pleasures, I was well embarked on a journey that would end in carnage, blood, wine and death, seeping into the very soil that had given life. The stranger was different, he saw inside me, the mask of indifference ripped apart, leaving me naked, and aching with want.
The last Monday, before the stranger disappeared, before the plane crashed, before my life ended, there was a storm brewing on the Eastern horizon. The high rises, boarded up for winter, closed their eyes in complicity as we wove our way to the dunes. The high grass, tore at my skin, raw with cold and aflame. The stranger had a sad look in his eyes, one that said good-bye, even before it knew what it was saying. He took me in his arms, pressing, lips upon lips, breasts heaving in response, a sudden chill and the words “Mamá”, pounding waves and pounding feet, the stranger, a dark-skinned outsider, ran in fear, and I was left holding my robes around me, face to the wind, sand and salt burning my eyes,
I never saw Justino again in life. His flight, his mother’s betrayal, his father’s rage. I can only imagine. No I can’t. As my body, cold and wretched, holds another life within, I find the burn of the hot water, running over my hands, for hours, the only comfort from the storm.
It was a Tuesday, the day that the small aircraft tumbled out of the sky, killing my only son, Justino, instantly and leaving my husband, the pilot, incapable of forgiving himself or of walking again. I, for my part resumed my aimless wanderings, an exile in a town that was too small to not be titillated by my unceremonious descent into hell. My husband had been the mayor of our small town; an important man in an unimportant town, a man who needed to fill not just his seat but usurp the air around him.
Tuesdays were the days that he would visit his lover, always escaping into his work, and into her, at work, and on any other one he would have been in her arms. But this particular Tuesday was Justino’s 17th birthday and his father, a petit bourgeois man, not unkind, but misguided in his choice of wife and of life, showed an interest in his son that he had never before. June 23, the day that my life changed forever, the day that I vowed never to have sex again to never experience the pain of child-birth. The day that I realized that I no longer loved my husband. That very same day, 17 years later, fate took its dagger and twisted.
I had always been an outsider, and so, when I could no longer sleep nor eat, aching for something to change, anything really, I took to the streets, accompanied only by the indigent dogs that shopkeepers malnourished, if and when they could be bothered. My name was Rossana then, or it may as well have been, beautiful and saddened by the world. I imagined a life as something other than the Mayor’s wife, the life of possibilities that had lain itself before me like a sparkling gem, just before sunrise. I didn’t know, couldn’t have known, that my actions would unfold into such tragic circumstances, and yet…
In some deep, intimate corner of my former self I must have known what I was doing. It was like a Siren’s call, her hands reaching out for me, beckoning, welcoming, a life, no longer an anchor, but a sail, billowing, ravaged by the wind. Free from circumstance, from tradition, from the whispers and glances and laughter that trailed behind. And in my selfishness, Justino, my lovely man-child, a boy really, thin and awkward, angular as I had once been, was forgotten, just for a moment, but that was all it took. The stranger’s name was as easily forgotten as his lips and mouth and mind were not. A Monday, when I was wandering, before I was lost, or before I was found and then lost again, his eyes on my hands as I rested the basket on my hip. He called to me, asked my name, to which I did not reply but kept walking…
Straight to the ocean, eyes down, but knowing that the stranger’s gaze followed the curve of my neck, the arch of my feet as I stepped delicately, purposefully towards the abyss, I could not, did not resist and turned my face, enough for the invitation to be apparent, enough to hide my true intentions, my fears, my desires. The sky darkened, winter’s clouds churning the grey, cold, unforgiving water. I felt his hand upon the small of my back, the other, fingers entangled in my fiery hair, pulled my neck back and breathed warm air into me. Who was this stranger who would disappear as suddenly as he materialized? The minutes turned to hours, and I was too distracted and full of pleasure, my cup spilling the excess wine, elixir of life, and Justino, well he was just a boy, what could he know or understand of these things, how could my actions hurt him?
IT became a ritual, these seaside meetings. Mondays were market days and what brought the stranger to the village, the man who had not witnessed my transformation from something to nothing and who did not care what I no longer was. When we had met, the Mayor and I, that is, he was not a mayor but the son of the local vintner, he was beautiful and full of aspirations, and had promised to take me around the world with him. I was a cruel trick of nature, my body being such fertile ripe soil, that before I could learn to experience the pleasures, I was well embarked on a journey that would end in carnage, blood, wine and death, seeping into the very soil that had given life. The stranger was different, he saw inside me, the mask of indifference ripped apart, leaving me naked, and aching with want.
The last Monday, before the stranger disappeared, before the plane crashed, before my life ended, there was a storm brewing on the Eastern horizon. The high rises, boarded up for winter, closed their eyes in complicity as we wove our way to the dunes. The high grass, tore at my skin, raw with cold and aflame. The stranger had a sad look in his eyes, one that said good-bye, even before it knew what it was saying. He took me in his arms, pressing, lips upon lips, breasts heaving in response, a sudden chill and the words “Mamá”, pounding waves and pounding feet, the stranger, a dark-skinned outsider, ran in fear, and I was left holding my robes around me, face to the wind, sand and salt burning my eyes,
I never saw Justino again in life. His flight, his mother’s betrayal, his father’s rage. I can only imagine. No I can’t. As my body, cold and wretched, holds another life within, I find the burn of the hot water, running over my hands, for hours, the only comfort from the storm.
posted by ilana at 7:20 p.m.
1 Comments:
While it might appear unrelated and not very deep, the "Motorcycle diaries" is an excellent movie, and is set, for a few scenes, in Miramar, of all places. It's also a story of travel, and of change.
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