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(Continue)
It
is all a means of livelihood wrested from Death. They are all teasing
themselves; thinking it's the other chap who's got it! That final
moment for which she has been waiting- the final halt. I wonder
why Death has been given a feminine tense? Since woman engenders
genesis, then why does she also have the sole right to kill? I seek
Death in others' faces; primarily, I seek her in the inexactitudes
of ambience. That is to say, I see this ambience in the individual
who professes to love life to its fullest extent, and who assumes
a mask of joy to show that he loves life more exuberantly than any
of his contemporaries. No place could be deadlier or more morbid
than a "night club." There the customer traditionally
assumes a countenance of gaiety. In such a place one should not
try to refute the idea that Death is present as well as anywhere
else. As I do not wish to witness such an awkward scene, I have
shied away from frequenting any pleasure haunts, including the so-called
"music halls."
In
fact, I have never been to a "night club" anywhere in
the world. What spectacle is more tragically idiotic than some naïve
Americas celebrating New Year's Eve? Donning paper caps on their
heads and pretending to be merry? All of the time whirring away
with noisy clappers in a frenzied attempt to forestall Death- at
the precise moment when the fleetingness of Time is more markedly
severe than ever. If they could only divine my thoughts, when I
regard such antics- simply a parade of capering skeletons! Sometime
ago I recalled a visit to a town somewhere in the midlands of my
native heath. The years have since come and gone.
At
that time I used to stay in a downtown hotel. Outside my window,
on the opposite side of the street, a balcony was clearly visible
from which a young woman would emerge at frequent intervals. Her
youthful suitor (also a "teenager", or so it seemed to
me) kept a close watch below. I could see them gesturing to one
another, arranging a rendezvous and so forth. Once she fluttered
a tiny scrap of paper held to a small weight. He nimbly caught it
in mid-air, read it, and then nodded assent. She must have been
quite young, I thought. But what a magnificent sight she was to
behold! With abundant breasts and dark eyes that seemed to fathom
the air around her. It was a superlative show- this wordless courtship!
The play amused me for several days. Then, shortly afterwards, I
left. Now, after many years I have once more returned to the same
place. When I checked in at the hotel, the former incident leapt
form my memory and so I asked to be given the same room. Fortunately,
it was available. Once more I posted myself at the window assuming
that the players were still alive and living there. Not very early
in the morning, a woman appeared on the balcony eyeing the street
up and down. I recognized her swelling breasts (as in her youth).
Her
hair was now touched with grey. Her eyes, I perceived, were still
large and deep set, but now there was a vague and tired look in
them. She looked insistently at the man on the pavement who stood
in a dejected attitude holding a briefcase in his hand. Then, she
waved goodbye to him. He glanced back and automatically returned
her wave. She then withdrew into the interior, closing the shutters
of the balcony behind her without having uttered a word. This occurred
on a Friday, followed by a Saturday and then it was Sunday.
From
sheer routine I dressed; then, logically, I resumed my stand at
the window to watch the front door of the house and the balcony.
As I watched, the woman came out and waited on the pavement. Seconds
later, the man appeared with a boy. I rushed downstairs and into
the street, striding as closely as possible by the trio without
slackening my pace. No need to eavesdrop on their conversation.
Obviously, they chatted about the weather, the high cost of living,
or what time was Mass about to begin. She was carrying a prayer
book and a small rosary was wound round her fingers. The boy's hair
was neatly brushed and combed and he was wearing patent leather
shoes. His Papa wore his Sunday suit- the same chap who had sent
those cryptic love missives long ago. Her ample legs were more widely
spaced now and her gait was a trifle wobbly. His hair had begun
to streak and there was a hint of paunch around his middle. A loud
peal of church bells sounded from the Cathedral square. Then, the
man suddenly remembered he was escorting a woman; so, he took charge
of her arm. The ten year old boy walked on indifferently ahead of
them without caring a "hoot" for his parents! Seldom have
I seen the human being go straighter towards Death in such a mechanical
and orderly trajectory.
Everything
had evaporated! The passionate gestures of the hands and the furtive
billet doux, the early morning glances, her eyes which followed
his from the balcony above, the mawkish young suitor with the faraway
look in his eyes- all that glorious pantomime had dissolved into
mediocrity. The period of ferment had gradually eased to a calm
assimilation of identities. I could foresee their end. It was like
a pendulum swaying in slow, balanced rhythm. The circle narrowing
into narrower circles. The timepiece of Death encompassing from
explosive love to the forebearance of sleep. The reproductive cycle
of Life and the all-defining units of disassociation and association
slowly advancing towards a central hub that inevitably draws and
annihilates the human being. I cannot restrain myself from observing-
observing how humanity advances step-by-step to its doom. That insidious
beldam who is lurking under my skin. She will stop the beating of
my heart. I do not know if the muscles will suddenly contract or
dilate rendering impassable the flow of blood and oxygen to the
brain and to the body. At that very instant there will occur a final
reflexive flicker in the retina which will transmit a message to
the brain cells. The cells will then signal a message to the hand.
The fingers will then meekly grasp the pen and scratch a line onto
a sheet of paper, producing a new, creative line, a hitherto unthought
of linear form in a final desperate attempt to sketch Death.
 Since
childhood, Death has not been a phantom of Fear and Sorrow for me
or of self-pity. Quite the contrary; it follows a succession of
law and order, cause and effect. An occurrence that demands the
most profound meditation, question and answer. When I first gazed
upon a dead body, the sight of Death mystified me. Even today it
still does. I sense as if I were being drawn into a circle of doubts.
I query the permanence of existence and its cycle of reproduction
or any semblance of daily life. Death is a destructive force! She
is a nihilistic symbol who is winking her eye at me and chiding
my sensitivity, laughing mockingly at my efforts to excel in my
task, as if she were taunting me with those questions; Why? What
for? I was a frail child. Death stood by me like a ministering angel.
I have always trusted her.
Her
strength has always helped me. Our long communion has shown me what
she really means to me. She is a bodiless spirit who will come to
liberate me from all earthly ties. Freedom! If I were religiously
inclined, every night I would compose a psalm or an ode to Death
to soothe her. Therefore, as I draw, I sketch Death in her full
circumference. Nothing I can perceive is permanent. If I had liked
to paint in brushwork, I would have employed the pigments of colors
and essentially disintegrated them before imitating anything that
is or appears to be alive. The corporeal decline of the substance
and form of the spirit I try to sustain with the pencilled line.
Occasionally, but seldom, I feel satisfied, though somewhat astounded
at having seized the final bite of Death. Many years ago, (when
I was still bound to reality) on one of my rounds at the General
Hospital, (I went there in search of themes for my drawings) I sat
by the bedside of a dying man and began to sketch him. He was totally
unaware of my presence. He could not have sensed my impersonation.
I wore a medical gown. I looked like a doctor on one of his rounds
of like an intern who was studying the clinical chart and taking
down some notes of the patient's symptoms. Absorbed as I was in
the progress of my work, I bent over to capture the expression on
his face. The countenance had sharpened. His features had become
disjointed.
The
rictus of Death had overtaken him by surprise. An eerie peace had
descended on the unfortunate man. As I finished pencilling my sketch,
I saw that the features had numbed. The skin had yellowed and the
eyes were set into a fixed and vacant stare. The man had succumbed
while he was being sketched. Those who have seen the drawing (intrinsically,
it is a "sketch") have appreciated what my hand seized
at the moment of Death. I have no fears of Death; she waits for
me; I wait for her. We await one another. If physiological death
accosts me, or if I should perish in an accident, I do not feel
at all frightened. My loyal friend is standing closely at my side.
She is the fair companion of my tenderest woes. Her guilt is my
guilt. For it is through her hollow orbs that I perceive everything
and judge by sight. When the last heartbeat stops pounding ( a warning
note has frequently rung), my good lady will bend down to kiss me.
The truth, I lament, is my zeal for self portraiture- an impish
fervor to tease my lady and woo her. How I wish that at that moment
I could hold a looking glass in my hand, and compose myself in a
certain stance so that I might steal from her the echo of my own
secret. (Originally published in Progreso, Yucatan, December 30,
1973.)
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