The sponge, she said, the sponge a bit higher, my mother said, sitting in the bathtub in her room. Higher, yes, the sponge, she urged me, and I was struck by the effort she had had to make to utter that simple phrase. And I rubbed her back with the sponge, drew circles on her shoulders, ran over her shoulder blades, slid down her spine, and before I finished I traced on her wet skin the words I hadn’t been able to say to her until now, when we crossed the border together.
A CHAIR FOR SOMEBODY
THIS IS YOUR CHAIR, you see? please, sit down.
I have unfolded the backrest, checked the wheels and wiped them with a damp cloth so that your hands remain white. White, not innocent: we aren’t much interested in innocence, you and I. Whiteness, yes, because it requires effort, it has to be safeguarded.
I’ve been preparing it, you know? for months, years, I don’t really remember. The same thing always happens to me with this chair, I become so focused on it that the days roll by and I forget how long I have been waiting for you. Come, I’m going to tidy your hair, I’ll comb it as patiently as on any great occasion, as though your hairs were the strings of one of those instruments you love so much. Because today, this morning or this afternoon, what is the time? today, for the first time, we are going to use this wheelchair which doesn’t upset you, the way the mild light can’t upset you, or the smell of coffee from the terraces or the breeze that will ruffle your hair. And that’s as it should be, don’t you think? We don’t tidy things so they will remain intact, we tidy them in order to invite time to do its work.
So, we are ready, well, almost. We are ready, except for the small matter of the bonnet. That green bonnet, shall we keep it on you or not? Granted it gives you a jaunty air, perhaps it makes you look younger. Although I know it restricts your view and makes a little balcony of shade. Best we take it off. You can always carry it in your lap, in case the sun decides to be fickle.
The sun is fickle, you reply, that’s its nature. I hold back the push I was about to give your chair. You’re right, Mama, quite right: that is its nature. The sun’s unpredictability is what gives it its miraculous quality. We can agree on that. What I am not clear about is whether that means you are going to wear the green bonnet or not.
Have we forgotten anything? Let’s go through it. Whenever we go out together I become easily distracted, you can take that as a compliment, how coquettish you look. Have we got everything? Your charm bracelet? Your light jacket? Your yellow shawl? I think we’ll be warm enough, the sun here is fickle but strong as well. I promise you radiant streets. I promise you more birds than cars. I promise you we’ll laugh. And then if we need to cry, we’ll cry.
What a lovely breeze, can you feel it? Imagine how it will caress us once we get going. I like saying it like that, in plural, we get going, because I think that’s what is good about using this chair, we engage with each other’s body, one push makes two walk. I like your feet more than ever today, I can see the longing in your heels, each toe as impatient as the next, are those sandals new?
Now, please release the brakes. That’s it, slowly. One, now the other. Perfect. Considering it’s your first time, you seem like an old hand. I’m moving, we’re moving. This is much better than I’d expected. Do you like it? Are you having fun? Let’s pretend we’re on a boat. You be the lookout and I’ll be the helmsman. Off I go, off we go. I can hear you singing now. I can see the sails swelling. We’re rolling so fast, we must do this again. Look at the wheels, let them spin, let them never come to a halt. Are you all right? Are you comfortable? This outing really was a great idea. Rapid chair, chair of time, empty chair through space. Chair filled with somebody who might have sat down.
BAREFOOT
WHEN I REALIZED I would be mortal like my father, like those black shoes in a plastic bag, like the pail of water where the mop wiping down the hospital corridor was dipping in and out, I was twenty. I was young, so old. For the first time I realized, as the trails of brightness slowly cleared from the floor, that health is a very thin layer, a thread that vanishes with each passing step. None of those steps was my father’s.
My father always had a strange walk. Swift and clumsy at the same time. When he began one of his walks, you never knew if he was going to trip over or break into a run. I liked his way of walking. His hard, flat feet were like the ground he stepped on, the ground he fled from.
My father now had four flat feet, in two different places: in the bed (joined at the heels, slightly open, evoking an ironical V for victory) and inside that plastic bag (imprinted on the leather, as a kind of reminder on his shoes). The nurse handed them to me the way you hand someone scraps. I looked at the tiled floor, its shifting squares.
I sat there, in front of the doors to the operating theatre, waiting for the news or dreading the news, until I took out my father’s shoes. I stood up and placed them in the middle of the corridor, like an obstacle or a border or a geographical accident. I positioned them carefully, so as not to disturb their original contours, the protrusion of bones, their absent forms.
Soon afterwards, the nurse appeared in the distance. She came down the corridor, skirted round the shoes and continued on her way. The floor was gleaming. Suddenly cleanness frightened me. It seemed to me like a disease, a perfect bacterium. I squatted and moved along on all fours, feeling the scraping, the hurt in my knees. I put the shoes back in the bag. I pulled the knot as tight as I could.
Occasionally, at home, I try on those shoes. They fit me better each time.
ROTATION OF LIGHT
THE ASHTRAY WAS FULL. Luis was holding his gin and tonic like a transparent sceptre. The ice cubes had melted in his glass. A ball of wax, the sun was pulsating high in the sky. Amid laughter, Luis ordered another round. That’s enough for me, thanks, I said. Luis insisted noisily. I shrugged. I lit a cigarette, we sat in silence, and then I heard someone calling us.
It was a sing-song voice that gradually became stronger, more defined as it drew closer. A familiar voice. We both turned at the same time: fresh from the sea, Anita was waving at us. She quickened her pace, or rather she slowed down first, raised her hands to her hair, tossed it back, and then ran towards us.
She kissed her father on his unshaven cheek. She said “Hello” to me with a smile. I hadn’t seen Anita since the previous summer. Her hair was longer than I remembered. She smelled of salt, waves, mint chewing gum. The sun had burnt her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She was wearing a red bikini with very thin straps. While Anita was hugging her father’s neck, I stared at the thick blonde down on her arms.
Daughter, Luis said to her, shouldn’t you be more careful in the sun? Oh, Papa, I’m still white, she answered, stretching out a leg. But you’re tanned enough already, Anita! protested Luis. Anita laughed, let go of his neck and said, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye: That means I need a bit more. Would you like a Coke? Luis offered. Thanks, Papa, but I can’t, she said, shrugging her shoulders, I’m going out soon and I have to go home first and change. What a shame, Luis sighed, downing his gin and tonic. Laughing a second time, Anita stood, arms akimbo and said: My dear papa, you wouldn’t be trying to blackmail me, would you? Luis looked at me in astonishment, recovered his light-hearted expression and said: Well then, give me another kiss. Anita leaned over to give him one.