Arid Dreams Page 5

  A body cannot survive sitting still in a confined area forever, so my limping heart tells me. Since I have legs capable of walking and running several kilometers at a time, and arms and hands fit to do tens or hundreds of thousands of things, isn’t it a shame to leave them idle? And then there are my ears, my poor ears that should get to hear something, anything, with more significance than simple two-word commands, repeated over and over, bouncing only between numbers one and eight … The words “first floor,” “fifth floor,” “fourth floor,” “seventh floor”—these words in and of themselves have as much meaning as the dirt under my nails, and that meaning is gone in the blink of an eye. Apart from these two-word instructions, my ears hear only deformed conversations, sometimes without a beginning, sometimes without an end, and sometimes without either. But I listen—I have to listen. And why is that, when I should be able to listen to what I want to listen to and have the right to avoid everything else? Is it true or an illusion that I have that right, a right that I’ve been deprived of?

  DURING THE MONSOON season, our ears could pick up the sound of storm winds over a hundred rais away. The rustling of wild salacca leaves served as the vessel for the sound, sending a warning signal that a storm was coming. In that moment, we would be on high alert, tense down to every pore. We would sprint home as if there were no tomorrow, the fatigue from the day’s work in the fields forgotten like it had been wrung out of our limbs. As my little sister and I would run ahead of the pack, our mother would yell from behind, telling us what to put away and do when we got home, and how. The house was far from the fields, but we would run without stopping. Each time, our parents probably prayed that the storm would bypass us or wouldn’t be severe enough to blow the crops to the ground and cause damage. But my sister and I found it fun, although we would be dead tired. The wind might arrive first, followed by the rain, or they might arrive together at once, but not a single time did my sister and I ever reach our house before at least one of them hit, run as we did with all our might. Gray clouds would move swiftly from the west. Looking up, I used to think they resembled curtains being drawn over the sky. My sister liked to pretend that she was the one pulling the curtains. She would wait for the clouds to move a little ahead of us, and I would end up having to drag her along. The raindrops carried along by the storm winds were huge and fell with force. As they lashed down on us, we would feel the sting, urging us to run faster, until we arrived at our destination.

  I desperately want to run. If I get to, I promise this run will be like no other in my life. I will pour all my energy into it, go as far as possible, as fast as possible, wearing myself out like never before, letting my mouth get so parched it tastes bitter. Every part of my body would join forces solely for this run. My arms would be rejuvenated, as well as my legs, my blood, and my heart. Every part of my body would come alive so that I could run, run on a path of my own choosing, run far and wide. I want to run without ever turning back. Please, don’t let me run only to have to turn back. I’m not an elevator door that opens only to close again, nor am I an elevator user who steps in only to step out—oh, somebody help me, help me be able to run far and wide. Yes, it ought to be far and wide.

  SPACE IS TIGHT in the elevator, too tight for running or even walking. In such a confined space, one is meant to stand. Considering its shape, the elevator is nothing more than a coffin for the living. People zip into the elevator, all of them with energy in their steps. I get a glimpse of them before they turn their bodies around behind me and face the doors, which close from both sides. Then they stand still and utter their two-word commands at my back. Lifting my right arm, I press the button of the requested floor and watch the green light move through the numbers, flashing upward, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight; flashing downward, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. When the elevator doors open, the living humans step out and in. I get a quick look at them from the front, and a quick one from the back. The elevator doors shut, and then again come the commands, jabbing me in the back as I sit motionless in my chair, forcing my right hand to rise up and press … The more time passes, the more heavy-handed, and pointed, those two words become. When the voices dig into my back, I feel excruciating pain. Who could tolerate sitting still, allowing pain to be inflicted on them time and time again, endlessly? The living humans have no idea that they’re hurting me. Of course the ones that do the hurting don’t feel the pain; the victims are the ones that bear it. And how long do I have to wait until the former are the ones that suffer, so they will stop hurting me? Or do I have to turn into a baby chick before they realize what it’s like to hurt somebody, to be the ones in pain?

  I KNEW THAT it was suffering, condemned to spin around like that, unable to stop. After wasting a lot of time, I discovered a way to help, which was to curl my index finger into the shape of a hook and grab it by the neck. But after some time, the symptoms would return—the twisted neck, the frozen eyes, the running in circles. The poor baby chick was attached to me, following me around constantly, and I don’t know if what came to pass was the chick’s misfortune or mine.

  The seizures the chick endured became less and less frequent, and I thought it would soon be cured. We were together all the time; I never let it out of my sight. So whenever its neck started to contort, right before it started running in circles, I would rush over and grab its little neck with my hooked finger, a task I had to execute quickly if I wanted to prevent the symptoms from taking hold.

  My chick was by my side even during meal times and when I went to the toilet. When I slept, it would huddle in a cardboard box next to me. When I went out to work in the fields, it would wander near my feet, constantly moving as they were, which meant that I nearly crushed it to death on several occasions. But then, in the blink of an eye, its fate took an ill turn all over again. As I was swinging my hoe toward the ground, destiny whispered to the poor chick and summoned it under the blade. Its left leg and a bit of its wing were sacrificed to this cruel fate. My good intentions rebuffed, I felt frustrated and wondered why I had made any effort at all. I caught myself thinking: What was the point of this chick’s existence? Its life was nothing but struggle; straight out of the eggshell, it was stricken with the strange seizure disorder. Its cries made me want to dig a grave and get it over with.

  The following day, I went out to the fields without the chick. It stayed at home alone, withering in the cardboard box, where I’d left some rice and water in little cups. Out in the fields, I was in a foul mood, finding fault with everyone and everything. It didn’t help that I felt tired and hot. My obligation to the chick, which wasn’t even supposed to have lasted this long, was now getting dragged out. What was more, I didn’t like having to take on a burden that reeked of pity like this. I had never felt so tired and hot as I did that day—those conditions make it so easy for abject thoughts to plant themselves in people’s minds. I even resented my little sister, who was sitting comfortably in a classroom. When the sun was directly overhead, I headed home without waiting for anyone, vowing to myself that as soon as I washed my face and ate my lunch, I would reserve the bamboo daybed under the mango tree for myself until two in the afternoon.

  When I got home, I immediately heard a scraping noise. It persisted in frequent intervals as I stood there listening. Soon it occurred to me to go look in the cardboard box. The rice grains had spilled all over the place, and the entire bottom of the box was damp. The chick, neck crooked and eyes frozen wide, was struggling with its remaining leg to kick and scratch its way in a circle. I hooked my index finger around its neck, tending to it for a while before the seizure finally stopped. It let out a raspy cry and then lay still, eyes half-shut, cradled in the palm of my hand. Its condition appeared to have worsened. I couldn’t say how I felt in that moment, but I wondered for what purpose this chick had been born.

  Under the mango tree, I lay back on the daybed, nestling the chick on my chest.

  I was fed up … I wanted to kill it … but I pitie
d it.

  I fell asleep for over an hour, instinctively waking up when it was time to go back to the fields for the afternoon. I sat up, completely forgetting that the chick could tumble off my chest. But in fact, it wasn’t there. When I leaned over to look on the ground, I saw it lying there, its beak clamped onto the edge of a sheet of corrugated iron beneath the daybed, its body jerking so persistently that the sharp edge had sliced into the corners of its mouth. Its right leg was digging, leaving scratch marks on the ground. Four or five fire ants had found their way to its eyelids and the bleeding corners of its mouth. I looked at it for a short while and then got up and went inside the house. I picked out an old black work shirt too ratty to be worn. When I returned to the mango tree, the chick was in the same state as before. I spread the shirt out on the daybed, picked the chick up, brushed the ants off it, and carefully set it down on the cloth. Bending over, I observed the convulsing body up close and stared into the little eyes for a while before straightening myself up and folding one side of the shirt over the chick. I made a tight fist with my right hand and started counting, my eyes focused on the lump under the cloth; it twitched lightly, a bit like a beating heart. Then I suddenly felt so depleted that I had to unclench my fist, peel the cloth open, and hook my finger around the chick’s neck until its spasms stopped. Right then, my parents walked by, their path leading in my direction. They were already heading back out to the fields. My mother looked at me and smiled, amused. For the past few days I’d been so preoccupied with the chick that I must have seemed ridiculous. I watched my parents as they walked off into the sweltering sun. I would soon follow them.

  I folded the cloth over again and pounded. The first time, a squeal snuck through. I pounded twice more, and then stopped—it appeared to be enough. I grabbed the bundle of cloth and headed for the fields, my hoe on my shoulder.

  Who believes me when I say that I did it to put the chick out of its misery? I was the one suffering from having to lay hands on it. Isn’t it twisted? When I hurt others, I’m the one that suffers; when others hurt me, I’m the one that suffers again. I stopped hurting others because I don’t want to suffer anymore. But why do they continue hurting me? How long must I wait for them to stop?

  NONE OF THE living humans want to go to the fourth floor, so I don’t know what time it is or how much longer I have before I can escape. Other than looking up and down and raising my right arm and hand to press a button and then dropping them back down, I haven’t attempted to move the other parts of my body to see if they still function. I should honestly come to work with only my head and my right arm. My legs are strong; my body is strong, a farmer’s body built for physical labor. The world has farmers, and I’m a good farmer. But right now I’m an elevator attendant, even though such a job shouldn’t exist in this world. Is it so troublesome to lift your hand up and press a button that they have to pass this task off to someone else, someone who could do so many other things? If I had been born with only a head and an index finger, this job would be suitable for me. It’s a shame I’m really about to be left with only those two parts. The rest of me is slowly dying … Soon enough everything will probably end up the way it ought to.

  But now I want to find out how long I have before I’m let out. The elevator opens on the first floor: I see the fried chicken stand, a kid stuffing a drumstick into his mouth … The elevator opens on the fifth floor: I see a shopgirl resting her arm on a stack of bras, talking to a man … The elevator opens on the sixth floor: I see a group of middle-aged women sitting around a suki hotpot, sharing a good laugh as they lean in and ladle … The elevator opens on the eighth floor: I see a shopboy napping, draped over a loudspeaker, and next to him three men standing there looking at televisions … The elevator opens on the seventh floor: I see the concession stand with popcorn and the cinema box office, but not a soul in sight … The elevator opens on the second floor: I see a young couple staring into each other’s eyes over cups of coffee … The elevator opens on the third floor: I should see the girl behind the beverage counter, but a group of men is blocking my view … The elevator opens on the fourth floor—at last. I steal a look at one of the clocks in the timepiece store: in less than an hour, I will be free to go. But I haven’t tried to wiggle the other parts of my body to see if they still work. I hope they haven’t gone and died on me, especially when my heart hasn’t stopped and is now begging to leave. I so painfully want to escape, to shoot out of this place like an arrow.

  Only those completely ruined by exhaustion would want to sit still and not even move a finger. I would find no joy in such immobility unless my muscles burned with pain and my legs couldn’t take another step. I’ve sat immobile for so long; I’ve sat in misery for too long, and I don’t want to sit any longer. My heart is still beating, and I want to completely wear myself out—completely, not moderately or momentarily. It wouldn’t be right to spend one’s entire life idle and then mobilize only for a momentary burst of energy. It would make me happy to exert myself to the limit for as long as possible, and it would make me happier still to then rest for a short time.

  I LUGGED A bushel of cassava roots on my shoulders, its weight bearing down on me. I could barely shuffle my feet, my legs feeling like they might give at any point, as I consoled myself with the fact that this was my last haul. When I finally reached the bottom of the wooden ramp leading up to the bed of the ten-wheeler truck, I rallied, trotting up the incline. The man I had to pass the bushel to was very high up because the cassava was piled past the top of the truck’s grated wooden frame. I gathered whatever strength remained in me, bent a little at the knees, and thrust the bushel up as far as I could. As it was pulled from my hands, I felt as though all my energy had been hauled away with it, and I just let myself drop down from the ramp and collapse on the ground with the others.

  One by one, we got up as the sun started to disappear. The bare land was strewn with scraps of tapioca plants. Large clumps of soil that had been dug up with the tubers were left upturned all over the fields. All of these cast long, neat shadows to the east. We scattered in different directions before daylight vanished, leaving the fully loaded truck quietly parked on that empty tract of land.

  That evening a horn sounded from a distance. I bounded down from the house and ran toward the source of the honking, which was followed by the revving of an engine. As I stepped onto the road, waiting on the side, I spotted the cassava truck turning up from the top of the fields, and I could make out people’s heads, appearing like dark shadows on top of the heaping mound of tubers. When the ten-wheeler drew near, the crew on top of the pile of roots leaned out to look at me and had a good laugh. I laughed back, realizing that I was the last to show up. But then instead of stopping, the driver accelerated, driving the truck right past me and kicking up a cloud of dust. I had my mouth open mid-laugh and nearly didn’t get it closed in time, and I had to struggle to open my eyes. The others had a hoot at my expense. The truck parked about fifteen meters ahead. I stood there, trying to calm down, waiting until the dust had settled a bit before I walked over. Glancing down at my soiled shirt and pants, I wanted to cry. I didn’t even have to think about my hair, which I’d made an effort to wash and style with oil. When I reached the truck, I yelled at the driver, who was my foreman. He sat there shaking with laugher and refused to gratify me with a response. All I could do was climb on top of the cargo to join the rest of the crew. Seeing me up close, they laughed even harder. I’d gotten so dressed up, no wonder I was the last to show, one of them teased.

  Hardly anything was visible now that dusk was upon us. The truck switched on its lights and set off once again. To make room, I dug out a small space in the mound of roots to lower myself into. I was still mad at the others for another half hour or so, but eventually I relented and started chatting and joking with them. Crawling along the bumpy dirt road, the truck took nearly an hour to reach a paved street. Even though it was dark by then, the air was still heavy with heat. Only when the truck had gained some s
peed and the breeze started blowing was it a pleasant ride up there.

  As a child, I always dreamed of cruising on top of one of these heaping loads of tapioca roots. My mother and father and the other adults wouldn’t let any of the kids sit there. Back then, I could only imagine what it would be like to sit so high up. Those lucky riders could probably see far into the distance and could tell where everybody’s farm was all along the way. They could most likely see the roof of every house. Especially when I thought about the truck going fast, I could hardly wait … The day I was allowed to sit on top of the mountain of roots for the first time—I still remember vividly how my heart raced. I looked down over the side at my little sister, who was squirming in defiance as our father tried to shove her into the cab of the truck, where our mother was already seated. Even after I backed away to find myself a place to sit as our father climbed up, I could still hear her shrieking.

  The air was starting to get cooler, and the stars in the sky were twinkling. Along both sides of the truck, there was only darkness. Only once in a while would we see lights flicker from inside isolated houses. When the breeze eventually made it too chilly, we dug away the tubers and slipped ourselves deeper among them, reclining. The roots’ starchy aroma, intensified by their warmth, made for a cozy place to lie down. Now and again I happily dozed off, until the truck reached the town. The bright lights woke us up instantly; wide-eyed, we immediately started looking around at all the shops and stylish people. When the truck stopped at a red light, the women strolling along the side of the road glanced at us, then turned their noses up and refused to look our way again. Together we hooted and hollered at them before the truck continued on its way. The city girls, how pretty and how slick they were. I used to wonder, if one of those ladies became my wife, would I be able to afford her wardrobe … Oh, how I wanted one of those smug beauties for my own, to hold close in bed every night.