Up A Tree
Sunrise. Erdosain is walking down the path beside a cracked field. The newness of morning is penetrating the deepest cells of his tired lungs. Though the sky above is black, and all is descending darkness, distant shapes are forming on the horizon. In the distance, where the street ends, a verdigris stripe is building.
Erdosain is moving forward, thinking:
– This is a wasteland sadness. She’s sleeping with him now. [2]
Now, the watery light of dawn is filling the streets with white mist. Erdosain is telling himself:
– Still, one has to stay strong. I remember when I was young. I saw giants walking on the clouds, their hair breezing and the sunlight bathing their bodies. The were walking into the land of joy that was within me. Ah! To lose a dream is like losing a great fortune. In fact, I’d say it’s worse. You have to be tough: that’s the only truth. And show no mercy. And even if you feel tired, remind yourself: I’m only tired now, I only have regrets now, but I won’t tomorrow. That’s the truth. Tomorrow.
Erdosain has closed his eyes. A scent he can’t quite place, tuberose or carnation, floods the air with mysterious, carnival atmosphere.
And Erdosain is thinking:
– Despite it all, one must inject happiness into life. It’s not possible to keep living like this. It’s not right. Over all our misery, joy is floating, but what do I know. Something more beautiful than the ugliness of human faces, more beautiful than the horrible truth of mankind. The Astrologer is right. We have to inaugurate the Empire Of Lies. Worship someone? Blaze a trail through this forest of stupidity? How?
Erdosain continues his soliloquy as pinkness flows into his cheeks:
– What does it matter if I’m a killer or a degenerate? Does it matter? No. It’s a secondary concern. There is something more beautiful than all the vileness of all men put together, and that is: joy. If I had joy, my happiness would absolve my crimes. Joy is the essence. And so is loving someone…
The sky is greening in the distance while darkness is lifting up away from the trees. Erdosain has frowned. From deep in his spirit come waves of memory, golden clouds, shining rails lose themselves in the countryside beneath the sunlit dome of the sky. And the delicate, pale face of a girl, with verdant eyes and black curls below a small canvas hat, this projects from his spirit.
Two years ago. No. Three. Yes, three years ago. What was her name? María. María Esther. Was that her name? The small, beautiful face now in dreamlike twilight. He remembers so much! He sat beside her, the wind moved her black curls. Impulsively, he extended his fingertips to hold her flushed chin. Where is she now? Under what roof is she sleeping? If I saw her now, would I recognize her? It’s been three years. I’d see her on the train. Talked for a few minutes over a week and a half and then she disappeared. That was it and nothing more. And she never knew I was married. What would she have said if she knew? Yes, now I remember. Her name was María. But why does any of this matter? It doesn’t. Something more beautiful about all that: the sweet feverishness the dropped from here eyes sometimes green and sometimes brown. Her silence. Erodsain is remembering the train. He’s sitting beside the girl who has let her head rest on his shoulder. He has enmeshed his fingers in her curls and she stays silent. What would she say if she knew he was plotting to kill a man? She might not even comprehend. And Erdosain is remembering her shyness as she lifted her hand and held it against his rough, unshaven cheek. Perhaps that lost happiness is what could erase the ugliness from human faces.
Now Erdosain is taking stock of himself. Why is he thinking of all this? What right does he have?
Since when do aspiring murders introspect? And yet, the universe has planted something in him. Is it love or humility? He doesn’t know, but understands that there is sweetness in incoherence, and it occurs to him that a soul falling into insanity will leave behind all it’s earthly sufferings on the way, grateful for madness. At the bottom of this mercy, an immovable force, almost ironic, sneers with contempt.
Gods exist. They live hidden beneath the shrouds of certain men who remember when the earth was still a girl. He also holds a god. Could it be possible? He’s touching his nose, tender from Barsut’s slaps, and the immovable force affirms: he carries a god hidden beneath his aching skin. But has the Penal Code enumerated a penalty that applies to a homicidal god? What would the judge say if he pleaded: ‘I sin because I carry a god within me?’
But wasn’t it true? This love, this strength, that runs through him before the dawn, in the humidity falling from the trees in darkness. Is that not a god’s power? And once more, on the surface of his spirit, as though carved in relief, the memory: a pale, oval face that held verdant eyes and black curls, sometimes brushing against her throat in the breeze. How simple it is! She doesn’t have to speak, so perfect in her rapture. It’s not unreasonable to think he’s gone crazy thinking about the girl, there under the trees dripping humidity. If not, how can it be that this soul is so different to the one possessing him through the night? Is it that dark thoughts can only take form in shadow? It doesn’t matter. He’s a different person now. He’s smiling with the trees. Isn’t this magnificently stupid? The Melancholy Ruffian, the Debased Blind Woman, Ergueta of the Christ Myth, the Astrologer, all these incomprehensible phantoms who speak human words, who incarnate a word: what are they next to him, who is leaning on a fence post, beside privet hedge, feeling life rush into his breast?
He thought of the girl in the train car, resting her head on his shoulder, and he has now become a different man. He’s closing his eyes. The smell of the earth is chilling him.
A dizziness is rising from his weary flesh.
Someone is walking down the path. A sharp whistle leaps from the station. Other men in caps or tilted hats are crossing a distant street.
What the hell is he doing here? Erdosain blinks, and becomes aware that he’s pulling a fast one on God. He’s in a comedy, playing the role of a man who can’t escape God’s punishment. A few bursts of darkness in front of his eyes, and a sort of worn-out inebriation enervates his senses. He wants to violate something. To violate common sense. If there was a bale of hay right there, I’d set it on fire…Something repulsive is on his face: it’s the look of insanity. Suddenly he’s looking at a tree, jumping, grabbing hold of a branch, and with his legs wrapped around the trunk, he’s now pulling himself up into a fork in the acacia tree.
His shoes are slipping on the shining bark, the thin branches are whipping his face, he’s pushing them aside with one arm, guiding his head through the leaves. Below, the street is sloping down into an archipelago of trees.
He is up the tree. He has violated common sense. Just because, without a purpose, like someone who kills the next stranger to cross his path, to see if the cops would catch him later. To the east, industrial smokestacks cut into the greening sky. And beyond them green hills like a herd of monstrous elephants traverse the lowlands of Bánfield. And the old sadness is back in him. He has violated common sense but it hasn’t made him feel happy. But even so, he gathers himself and shouts:
– Slumbering beasts! Hey! I vow…wait, no…I want…to violate the laws of common sense. Calm down, little animals…No. What I want is to proclaim my new life. I say, from the top of the trees – not ‘in a palm tree’ – just this acacia: hey! Slumbering beasts! –
His strength is diminishing. He’s looking around, almost in shock at finding himself in this position. Suddenly, the face of the long-ago girl is blooming in him like a flower, and, immensely ashamed of the comedic production[3] he’s put on, he’s lowering himself down to the ground. He’s defeated. He’s a disgrace.
[2] Commentator’s Note: Only later on did Erdosain learn at that very moment, Elsa was in the care of The Sisters of Charity. A single unkind gesture by Captain Belaunde was enough to make her think the better of her situation, and she jumped out of his moving car. So she decided to check herself into the hospital, and was looked after by the mother superior, who could see she was a woman on the verge of collapse.
[3] Commentator’s Note: Erdosain provided two explanation for this comedic production. The first being that he felt an immense pleasure, not unlike a state of madness, comparable to that of “a man who’s had one glass of wine yet pretends to be drunk in front of his friends, so he can trick them.” Erdosain smiled sadly when giving me this explanation, and reported that when he climbed down from the acacia tree, he felt the same kind of shame as someone who dressed up extravagantly for Carnaval, but instead of smiles and laughter, attracts only insults. “I was so disgusted with myself I thought of blowing my brains out, and regretted not having my revolver with me. Then when I was getting undressed at home, I found I had the gun in my pants the whole time.”