crowd baking in the sun. The women all wear brightly coloured dresses and veils, white for the virgins, black for the widows and married women, blue for the rest. Husbands get upset when their wives go to visit the saint, but the women can’t be stopped.
We have a long wait before we can get close to the convent stairs where a better organized line is beginning to form. Since I’m small, I end up crushed by huge buttocks and breasts that assault me from every direction. They trample me, squeeze me, wrap me in piercing odours as I grab on to my aunts’ skirts to keep from being carried away by the heaving surge of flesh. The heat only quickens the women’s impatience, the sun beats down and worst of all, there’s the disheartening spectacle of all the other pilgrims who got there before us, and who are now climbing the narrow staircase that leads within the walls. It’s a stampede, a mad rush. The crowd has become a mighty beast, jealous of the early arrivals, flailing about for fear that the saint will be swallowed whole before its turn comes. The women surge forward, wave after wave, like a flood tide. Soon I lose my way, I disappear and lag behind. They have to come back and get me, but I’m swept away again as my aunts try once more to pull me back. My limbs are nearly ripped off, I’m scratched and grabbed by the hair as I struggle not to lose my shoes. It’s one endless horror until we reach the narrow metal gangway. I always expect the worst, and usually it happens. People smack me in the head, their bony elbows jab my face, they pinch my arms and my back. Literally smothered by the compacted, greasy mass funneled into dresses and girdles, I feel like a stalk of sugar cane in the gears of the press.
But I survive. Though I’ve slowed them down, nobody thinks of punishing me. Strange. At home, I get a hiding without so much as a word of explanation. Matters of the heart soften women up, like my father says. Besides, the feast of St. Anthony is a holy day, which is the argument Mother always uses against the old man’s blasphemous grin. Maybe it’s a mixture of all those things. A greater sense of charity arises from the proximity of the plaster statue painted in shades of pink beneath its homespun cassock. If there were men in the crowd, blood would flow for sure. But among themselves, the women just push and shove, each one convinced she’s better than her neighbour.
Grim and unstoppable, the human wave surges forward like a whale stranded in a tidal pool. Women of all kinds, rich and poor, young and old. Only the poorest blacks are stuck at home, working.
Time drags on, my hair sticks to my sweaty forehead, and I let myself go, carried along by the crowd. Scuffling breaks out one last time as we reach the gangway and begin the long climb up the wall.
Already people have become more civilized, casting triumphant, disdainful glances at the crowd milling around in the square below. The women adjust their veils and mop their brows, their faces grow calmer, their hands join in prayer. They forget about me.
Suddenly total darkness replaces the blinding sunlight. The narrow, sinister corridor is as cool as a crypt. The press of bellies against the back of my head eases, and suddenly I’m cold. The chattering comes to a halt. Their faces serious now, the women start to pray, and dream. Lit by candles, the image of the venerated male gleams yellow at the far end of the long passage. We make our way slowly towards him, brushing the narrow walls. My head grows heavy: the odour of incense and candle smoke mingles with the sugary perfumes and the whiff of sweat, and other smells, too. My eyes smart as I wipe away my tears with my clammy hands; the smoke grows denser the closer we draw to the saint.
I can hardly see. The saint’s face and the Christ child he holds in his arms have almost vanished among the searching hands that stroke his feet and reach frenetically under his homespun cloak. From my level, I can clearly make out the women’s hands sliding down the fronts of their skirts, squeezing their thighs and in between, trembling. Lili has to pee, and her legs press tightly together as she kisses the saint’s feet. Gazing down beatifically, the statue accepts the adoration of women whose faces are contorted into curious shapes, frantic, their mouths twisting into strange grimaces, their tongues hanging out and their eyes rolling. It’s a sacred moment. I can feel the tension in the air. Next to the statue, a monk stands impassively, holding out the collection plate and muttering in Latin lest he succumb to temptation.
Suddenly they pull me forward, breaking the spell of my first mystical experience. I feel uncomfortable and afraid, though I don’t know why. The crowd moves off from the saint and surges into the church to pray. The women leave me to my own devices. I wander through the flock looking at the statues, paintings and gilded ornaments of the baroque interior. In the dim light, candles glitter against the gold-studded firmament of the blue walls. I can breathe again. In the silence, the sound of the women murmuring their prayers is like ebbing rain. Now and again, a piping cry of contrition escapes one of the veiled heads, far away, followed by its soothing echo. The melancholy, pervasive desire for Prince Charming accompanies them on their pilgrimage. Curious, I explore the church, discovering the beauty of the place, touching the carved pews polished by countless generations of unappeased backsides. In their alcoves, the statues undulate in the chiaroscuro of flickering candles while incense dulls my weary eyelids. With heavy steps, we make our way out through the far door of the convent. My aunts didn’t notice I’d gone exploring. They’re being nice to me. They even buy me an ice cream cone that runs down my fingers, sticky in the heat of the sun.
2
THE MUGGY HEAT OF THOSE DAYS exists only in my memory. Here, flowers of frost coat the windows with a dense grey tracery that grows back as soon as it is scraped away. The intense cold of long Januarys. No snow. Streets of indeterminate colour, dirty-white ice patches, splotches of ochre rust and urine. Everything bears a patina of soot that smoothes over surfaces and dulls the edges of sidewalks. Long-fallen, leftover snow gleams dully, hardened, compacted, glossy. The light is deadened. Some of the thick slabs are deeply fissured, exposing their ferocious skeleton. The sky is the colour of primordial, oxidized lead, but nothing falls from it. The slanting sun that slices the world diagonally has made itself scarce this winter.
Seen from inside, everything looks frozen. But I know the wind is blowing. It is always blowing. Aside from the sporadic whisper of the radiators, the silence is complete.
So complete it takes on the form of a dull humming in my head. If I pay attention to it, the sound of tobacco burning in my cigarette crackles like a brush-fire. I am walled up in my basement apartment, protected by the foundations of the ice-encrusted house. It is as if the world no longer existed.
The mailman has come and gone. I saw him. Actually, I was waiting for him, waiting for him as always, just in case a letter arrived, so I won’t be startled. But he delivers nothing, nothing but bills and flyers. Still I wait, and I’m always disappointed. There is no one to write to me. The last letter from down there showed up fifteen years ago. I can order books by mail, but it’s not the same as a letter. I have no idea what kind of letter would satisfy me, what kind I could expect. Strange news, revelations, someone who remembers me, or maybe another invitation of the kind I refuse as a matter of habit. Anything, as long as it’s personal. But nothing comes. I watch for him, embarrassed to be waiting. Once he’s come and gone, I can return to my thoughts. As consolation, I warm up the coffee and light a cigarette.
And stare out the window. The blank grey world of winter is held fast, suspended in a cotton-wool mist. It reminds me of the handful of childhood snapshots I’ve saved; they, too, are frozen in time, their edges frayed. No matter how hard I stare at the faded sepia images, my past remains closed off. My attempts at bringing it back to life produce only a pale reflection. Even the photograph of who I was remains foreign and artificial. Slowly, I’ve developed a kind of tenderness towards this little boy, gained a bit of sympathy for him. But nothing more. The pictures are the only evidence that a childhood ever existed somewhere in time, far from the icy vision that reaches me through the frosted window.
In this exile’s existence that is mine, only a handful of compelling images have kept the colour and movement they had when they were engraved in my mind like wounds. No stories accompany them, the living past has faded, but strangely the images that obsess me have kept all their wild exuberance. These ghosts, this legion of characters pulsating with light, continue to pursue me, demanding reparation. Some of them shriek, their bodies contorted like paralytics, others squat motionless, clutching themselves in silent, pathetic suffering.