Tears of Leyden (11 page)

He turns his face to see me and I follow. I feel my cheeks lose their color. His face is only inches from mine, and the heat of his breath is too very delicate. I feel fear trigger an unknown emotion inside me, which I am afraid is the only thing keeping me from breathing in his breath. He realizes our closeness not a moment after and seems to see the paleness in my face. He moves away.

“Forgive me,” it is gentle and sincere and I am tempted to do as he requests.

After another moment he steps away back to the stove. I let myself close my eyes and relax.
It was an accident…
I remember his eyes as I’d looked into them so close to me. The very detail makes me feel unstable. I open my eyes and read on.

Chapter 15

“The basic principle on this page is that all are one. There are only two separations between the whole…”

I shake my head. “What if…”

He sighs then steps in closer. “See…” He reaches for my dough I am working at, and takes his own from where he had been working. “The book is not for just the individual, it is for all. If you look…each one of us is the same, no matter our rank or age or size. There are only four separations in our whole,” I watch as he molds the two lumps together to make one very uneven side-ways clump of dough. “This is the whole, and I am the creator. The separation is not made by me, but by the people themselves. If we are connected however, I feel the separation but cannot help it alone. The separation takes place here…” I concentrate on his hands as he works the dough into two pieces, equal for two lumps. “The only separations are made by the mind, and they are of man and of woman, female and male, half and half.”

I think over it a moment until I understand.

“The fourth of the whole is made by the difference in belief. If they believe or not in a whole,” he breaks the lumps in half to make four clumps of dough. “See, women who believe, woman who do not believe, men who believe, and men who do not believe.”

The whole demonstration is hilarious with the thought that the dough he used we just spent ten minutes preparing to smooth for the oven, but I understand.

“Life is a gift. It is a gift from somewhere we can never really know or comprehend. It is a gift you cannot return, or refuse. It is a gift which is not yours to take, or others to take. The spirit of your body is you. It is yours gifted to live. It is in each one of us, and thus we are here as one another despite our differences. It is a part of the source of creation. And the source of creation is that unknown.

People call it or him or her God, which is the being in the old that human beings felt free and open to talk to. It was their vent, their meditation, their secret parent. It was a being that was unknown, and that knew best, that held no judgment to them whatsoever. Until we transformed the unknown into something we made known. It became God, the God, to whom speaking became a guilt session. A confession, as religion calls it.

God will not strike his wrath upon you. The church or temple may say that karma is made by God, though even if it is, the choice of doing wrong is yours to make. By making the choice, you are guilt driven into an unhappy future by negative emotion and mindset. By expecting the worst, you have created the worst. For if you ask God for something you wanted, and you keep thinking of the opposite, well God is up there in your mind and if he hears you constantly thinking of the worst, what can you expect? The secret is that life is not for purpose, life is for service. Living does not mean becoming prosperous, it is purpose.”

“Do you understand it?”

Nadeje is softly spoken, seeming to know my stupor. I sit curled up on my chair, my knees to my chest and the book propped against them along the table. I cannot respond a moment as I rescan the letters, not taking in anything, just blurring out and feeling the message.

“It is…beautiful.”

It is all I can say for now. I think it summarizes my emotions. He is quiet as I close it and bring it near to me, absently hugging it to my chest.

“You are lucky.”

He turns to me. “How?” He seems interested.

I look back at him enviously. “To have knowledge like this.”

He seems unsure a moment, and then becomes tender. “You make the mistake of not seeing that you are lucky too. To be given such things.”

I watch him a moment, and then past.

“You like it.”

I am drawn back to the gentle statement, and for the first time feel the book’s presence against my chest. I glance down and seeing my clutch on it, I loosen my hold and lay it against my legs. “Yes.”

He turns away to the entry and I catch his head nodding out of the corner of my eye.

The next morning, I curl up on a chair and instead of reading, I listen. I listen to the bustle outside and wonder if it even notices the young girl who used to be a part of it. Every day the same bustle goes on, every day it waits for no man. Everyday life goes on, you just are one of the players, special and with a purpose that might be lost in the bustle.
Then why do I want to go outside and into that bustle?
Freedom from thought, for others to direct me, for me to follow the whole; not for me to follow the unknown. Then again, maybe it is merely because I miss it.

I turn my cheek to the table and gaze absently at the figure in the chair across from me. I couldn’t imagine him ever becoming one of the lost souls in the bustle. It seems too impossible to find him there.

He is busy reading something from a stack of letters, reading through something I have no part in.

I glance down and avert my gaze instead to his copy of the book lying on the table. I have nothing to do, nowhere to be, and I don’t need to listen more. I lift my chin from its crib in my knees and shift to turn towards the table. I reach for the book and taking it feel that the fabric and thread used to sew it up is the exact same as on mine. It feels heavier though. I open the cover to somewhere in the middle where I left off and my throat tightens.

The page is scribbled with red ink, and the letters mixed about. I cannot understand it. I frown trying to read a sentence at the top. I give in. It is in another language and the text is no longer graspable to me.

I lightly feel my fingertips over the curved letters, no longer direct cursive, but still I can see a resemblance between the writing here and in my own. As I do this, I come to a word I do understand. I stop as I realize what I was looking at; what I had been looking at for the past several days.

“Your copy is in Spanish,” I say it softly, weakly, unbearably. I can’t even comprehend what I am thinking.

I feel him look up from his obligation.

I don’t remove my hand from the book, too touched to do so. I turn my head and look at him, in awe, and in disbelief. “You wrote it,” it comes out soft but for once I don’t mind. “All of it.”

He watches me calmly, but I can see the emotion in his eyes. “I hoped you wouldn’t know…but I supposed you would soon.”

“It is beautiful Nadeje,” I look down at my fingers still lying on the page. “It should be the religion people follow.”

He smiles. “If I proposed it in our time, do you think anyone would accept it?”

I look up into his eyes, and for once I feel the light in them bring me confidence. “No…but it can’t be let to waste,” I look back down at it, and wonder how long it took him to write such a piece. I wonder if he wanted someone to trace the letters as I had, and
still
am. I brush my fingers to the edge of the bottom of the paper and fiddle with it. “Acceptation though, is not what we have to worry for, it is notice, notice and recognition will actually become something if we let it.”

When I look up, as usual his eyes haven’t moved from me. I am beginning to feel that this is his calm way of interaction, to make eye contact and not distract himself with other objects. It used to make me uncomfortable, and it still does, but it also promises me that he is always listening full-heartedly.

“Why did you write it?”

It is a soft question, but his face seems to draw back from me somehow, the kindness never leaving, but the eyes speaking for mercy. “Why?”

I keep his gaze. “I am curious.”

He leans back into his chair and looks down to his hands, setting down the letter stack before him. He seems to think a moment, and when finished he looks up. “I was interested in different things…particularly religion and politics. I didn’t understand them really until now, but I favored them over math or science in schooling. I suppose I just gathered material and wrote down how I felt.”

I still look him in the eyes. “Religion in Spain is so strict. Weren’t you raised to be Roman Catholic?”

He nods dully, looking down again at nothing. “I was in my family. I was hardly let alone if I broke their obedience and rituals. I just rebelled in my quiet way. I rebelled through this…book. It is more a journal though,” his eyes are casted onto the copy in my hands.

“Rebelled,” I repeat the word.

How often I had wanted to do just that as a child. I still want to now, to escape pain and rebel with comfort. Only…
where would I find comfort in my position?

He meets my gaze again and his eyes are kind. “Yes. It is rather exciting. I suppose I shouldn’t encourage you to try it though, I am supposed to actually daunt that.”

I almost smile. “You treat me like I am equal,” I say it firmer than I had intended.

His eyes dance silently. “You are,” it is quiet but it is also powerful.

I set aside his book. “I am a woman.”

“Your meaning?”

I am surprised by the comeback. Though I have heard it from Arturo, I feel almost joy to hear it come from Nadeje too. I watch him uncertainly. “You believe in equality of sexes as well as freedom of beliefs.”

He shakes his head. “No. Freedom is just a word. We are always free. We just choose to believe in the opposite, in what is wrong. I believe in doing and seeing what is right.”

I watch him once more surprised, though this time it feels a little offensive. The kindness in his eyes has changed to concentration, and I can see he holds strong grounds here. It takes a moment for him to soften again, and when he does, the conversation is lost, and I can’t rebuild it for a second time. I look away, to the wall through which I can hear the world, my last connection to the real world.

I wonder if he is still watching me, but no sooner has the thought come he rises, dismissing himself. I don’t look at him until I know he is at a fair distance, and when I do, he has led himself out into the other room. I curl up in a ball and hug my knees, laying my head on them and resting. The thought occurs that I just spoke to him, with trust.

Chapter 16

“Is there a lot of fruit in Spain?” It comes out without much thought and I flush as he looks up at me curiously. I rush to explain my meaning. “I meant is there a large variety…here we mostly grow what we can…mainly corn and squash but…”

He looks at me unreadably, but I feel as though he might break into a smile. “We have hundreds of fruits and flowers and crops…if that is your meaning,” he begins to stir the porridge again.

“So nobody starves?” I ask curiously.

He stops stirring and takes a knife and starts chopping the pear into a bowl in cubes. “Not altogether.”

I watch as he adds milk to the table.

“It can be that you are born into a poor lifestyle, or that you are left with one parent instead of both…that is usually when your heritage is very sour until you are of age to make your own future…unless you are a girl, for then you must only be wed well if it is possible.”

I watch him, trying to figure out whether he was rich or fair or desperate. I long to ask him but I know it is improper to ask him such a question.

“Why?” His question breaks through my thoughts.

“I was just…curious.”

He stirs and there are a few seconds of silence until he speaks. “What is your favorite fruit?”

I watch him confused but entertained by the light conversation. “I love berries…but that is mainly all we grow here.”

“Have you ever eaten dragon fruit?”

I frown. “Never…and I am unsure of the want to.”

His lips turn up a bit. “Dates?”

I am now very confused. “Dates?”

He looks up and I watch as his smile is definitely noticeable. “We are still on the topic of fruits, are we not?”

I blush. “I have never heard of a
date
before except for the type of date used for addressing time.”

He smiles more. “Avocado?”

I shake my head silently.

He frowns thoughtfully. “You do not grow much here.”

I look him in the eyes. “No…most comes in shipments from other places…but since the protestant killings started we keep losing what we did have.”

He watches me, the smile now gone. “I am sorry for this place and its people.”

It is despondent and not what he should be sounding like...
would
be sounding like if he was just a soldier. And he was just a soldier.
Is
just a soldier. A soldier and a writer. I am no more than a prisoner though.

I swallow hard. “You can’t be. You’ve never felt starvation before.”

He is watching me softly. “How do you know so?”

“You are not my equal,” I say it slightly, tepid water seeming to drown out the momentary fun we’d enjoyed together.

He looks to me, then back to his work on the stove again. “How so?”

I pour the beans from my hands back into their bowl, sieving them without purpose. “I am your prisoner, and you are my supervisor.”

He does not turn, but thinks over my answer before he replies.

“No.” It is gentle but powerful. “You must see that we are equal despite being in different positions. For instance I don’t see it like that; you are my guest, no more and no less. I gain nothing from it, so what is the point of keeping a prisoner?”

“If you gained something from keeping me a prisoner, would it be unequal?”

This time he almost turns. “No.”

“You gain something from keeping me as a guest though?” It is quiet and indecisive. I myself don’t know what I am asking for by requesting explanation.

He does not look at me. “I don’t understand what it is you are asking me.”

I swallow. “Never mind.”

It takes me a moment to find another topic as the heat in my chest wavers. The last conversation we had flickers to my mind.

“Why did you ask me the question of favored fruit?”

He puts down the ladle and I know the answer.

“You were going to the market.”

He watches the porridge then nods. “I am.”

I feel the air being caught in my chest as I forget to breathe.
He doesn’t trust me…not after the Hanging Gallows.
My throat tightens and I don’t have the nerve to address it.

He turns back to the stove and draws the ladle from its resting place and scoops it into the porridge. I watch his movements absently, and the thought occurs that I had gotten used to his actions. The thought is absent too though, so I do not punish myself for it.

“Gilch.”

He looks up at me and my heart runs away from control. I force myself not to follow it. “I…” I feel my heart speed. “I am sorry for running.”

His eyes watch me and I watch their movement as they run over my features. “I won’t again…and I do want to go outside.”

He continues to watch me.

“I was running from my past…I thought running towards what was present I might wake up…but…I…” I look down remembering the vulnerability I’d felt before he had sheltered me from danger. I remember his body being so close to mine. “I overestimated my handling skills.”             

I feel his eyes wandering over me, as though trying to read clearly what I have said. “I do that too.”

I look up and meet his gaze.

“I run from something and it ends up that it is also towards something…and then I overestimate what I can handle.”

He watches me back.

I feel a small flicker in my stomach begin to grow to something bigger and bigger as we continue to watch each other. Finally, he takes accountability and looks to the oatmeal, picking up the ladle once again ready to stir.

“Are you hungry?”