Elephant Song

Take 5

Every single facet is linear—the walls, the transitions of the walls, the mirrors, the reflections in the mirrors, the chairs, their inclinations, the arrangement of the products on the shelves, the counter, the tile floor, the strokes of the combs. There is no reason to question any of it, that’s the way it should be.

The lighting makes the space even more desirable—a pure white, angelic—as a make-up that seeps into every pore in every corner of every face. The subjects are flawless, saturated in a platonic cast, with a look whose dimensions may be forged in iron for the diversity that is permitted.

There they sit, inclined, attaining perfection, waiting for their hair to dry. I’m sure personal beauty must be achieved that way. Hair is not meant to escape from its seamless mold.

I notice my own reflection crouched against the wall across the narrow street—a feeble, cowering body, weakened further by this simple recognition. The glass flutters in the wind. Do I look happy or sad? I shouldn’t walk this way any more. I decided so a week ago though my curiosity renews daily. I continue to the post office.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“How are you?”

“Alright, yourself?”

“Good.”

I’ve wasted seven eighths of my life on formalities. I’m sure of it. Most of the time I’m too tired to defy the conformity. Blandine and I decide to take a walk through the old town.

“Have you been to the ville ancienne?”

“I’ve just passed through, it’s a nice walk.”

We cross the Saone and she explains to me all the obvious tourist things—Fauviere, the working hill, the cusine lyonnaise—all cultural formality. After two hours, we agree to meet up weekly and part.

I make the 126 stairs from the street up to my flat. The elevator costs money. I take the stairs. I count them in French, for practice. The lights flip off by the third floor; by week two I could finish off the staircase with ease in the dark. On the fourth floor, hidden off to the left of a decorative oak door, I come to a pale-blue steel door. On the third try, the key rotates, and I continue up a crooked narrow stairway that leads to the top floor. The dimly lit passageway at the top slinks over dusty floorboards and loose tiles that clink like a child plays the xylophone. Some days I back up and walk over the tiles again.

The hallway reminds me of a barn in the country. There is a mustang hidden behind every door. The doors won’t open. Pent behind these robust walls, each mustang is plated in dust and quickly forgotten.

I turn the key to my door, scraping my knuckle as usual.

“Merde.”

A great situation to practice my curses. I enter my flat. Perched above the quiet side streets, the walls are white and a straight line is hard to come by. Everything is almost-straight—the beams, the light fixtures, switches and sockets, the threshold, closet space, shelves.

The windows look down upon me, informing me only of the color of the sky. Atop a chair, I learn the complexity of the rooftops, and, if I twist my neck far enough, on a clear night I can see Notre Dame de Fauviere, or at least the better half of it, lit as a crown on the hilltop.

The flat is too big to heat as a whole, so I close my door to concentrate the energy. Nearly an hour passes before the heat begins seeping out the faulty upper bow in my door, and another half hour before the heat does the same through the gap caused by the lower bow. My bed is at this level. I huddle here on my mattress, between a barrage of books and an alarm clock. The alarm clock doesn’t get much use.

My days pass slowly, far from relaxing. My only commitment being a plane ticket two months away—contemplation is infinite. What could I create in two months that I couldn’t lose in a day? The walls grow paler and stare at me with greater remorse. I let the time tick toward my departure.

“ Remember that one lady I told you about?” Lucien has few stories about his new job. I enjoy when he comes home—he puts my thoughts to rest, and the moment becomes more important, filled with a chat and two glasses of wine. “She’s unbelievable. I get to work and she’s already working, and when I leave she’s still going. She always says how much work she has to get done but come on man, you got to live a little. I go at nine and I leave at six, that’s my schedule, I do my work when I’m there and when I leave I turn off; I’m free to enjoy.”

I use my time much better when Lucien is around. We find time for a jazz show, a new locale or dinner with some friends. Sadly, Lucien’s work causes the nights to end early. I make back to my fort, open a book, and don’t set the alarm clock.

On my way down for a baguette, I pass the hair salon—people waiting for their hair to dry in every chair. I pause. I’m sure they have pets. I continue for the other side of town.

I find the café. A man I phoned the day before had told me to meet him here. I told him I would be wearing an orange sweater. He told me the waitress would know him. The waitress has no idea who I’m talking about. I take a guess with the lone man at the far end seated aside the window.

“Excuse me, are you Bernard?”

“Yes, yes,” he says standing, grabbing my hand with both of his, “How are you?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Well, you know,” he shrugs, “I’m trying to make this business. Do you like the movies?”

“Yeah, sometimes…”

“Because this is my plan—I am going to make plastics.”

“Plastics?”

“Yeah, you know those cards, they go like this.” He gestures something with his hands.

I nod a doubtful affirmation.

“It’s a great idea, plastics. Lots of money. I just need computers.”

Bernard wastes no time with formalities. He’s quite refreshing to talk with. After two hours, we decide to meet up once a week. In good spirits, I take a different route back and make sure I miss the hair salon.

I make my way up the 126 steps, pass the pleasant oak doors of the first four floors, clink over the loose tiles, scratch my knuckle as I unlock the door and enter the flat. I check the windows because it’s getting cold. The sky is grey—some days blue, some days grey. I close the bowed door to my room and turn on the heater. Lucien arrives at seven as usual.

“How’s the job working out?”

“Good man, though I don’t really relate well to my co-workers.”

“ That’s too bad. Have you met everybody now?”

“ Yeah, I ate lunch with the three women today.” Lucien pauses. “We talked about pets.”

I meet up with Blandine later in the week.

“ Formalité.”

“ Formalité.”

“ Formality, formality.”

“ Formality!”

“ So, where would you like to go today? Have you been to the Zoo?”

Lyon has an open access Zoo in the Parque Tête d’Or. They have everything: monkeys, peacocks, an alligator, chickens, Chinese leopards. All of the animals are fous. The panther paces, back and forth, on and on. All the cats do this. The bears howl and persistently paw at their concrete retaining wall. One of the monkeys is trapped out on an island, and the chickens, well, they’re chickens.

“You have to see the elephants.”

“Ok.”

The elephants look as if they are 600 years old—flabby wrinkled skin draped from their sides. There are two of them, each distinct. The first rocks front to back, back to front with his left front foot, dangling in the air. Zhoomp, zhonk, zhoomp, zhonk. The second spins his head as if he is trying to say yes and no as many times as he can as fast as he can. Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap.

“My god, why are they behaving like that?”

“Oh, that’s normal.”

Zhoomp, zhonk, zhoomp, zhonk.

“What do you mean normal, they’ve gone mad.”

Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap.

For the remainder of the day, I can’t shake it—they always behave like this? I try to convince myself that they are dancing, but that only works for a few minutes at a time.

Distracted, I accidentally pass by the hairdresser as I return home. Vacant. I bet they all went back to their oak doors and pets. I sneak toward the window for a closer look. Grotesque linear slum, Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap. All of the chairs are still inclined, ghostly suggestions of their thoughtless habitual monotony. I touch the window just to leave my smudgy fingerprint. I know there are no smudges inside.

Once again, I climb the 126 steps, through the metal door, pass the horse stalls, scratch my knuckle as I unlock the door and enter the flat. Zhoomp, zhonk, zhoomp, zhonk. The walls stare blankly, cockeyed and inquisitive. Your crooked inclinations could never house such elite, I swear at them. Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap. I climb into my fortress, and stare absently at an open book. My curses no longer come in French; I haven’t yet learned to attach sentiment to the language’s benign sounds.

I think of Bernard, a zhoomp-zhonk himself, apparently free of the anguishing burden of contemplation. The elephants must have reached this state too. I’m sure they are dancing. Shwoop, shwing, shwap, shwoop, shwing, shwap.

Driftwood & Fortune

A series of fingers lead us to the edge of the city. Johann and I get off the bus and, stalling only momentarily, and momentarily again, begin toward the border. We walk in a wide dusty trough wedged between a small mountain and a series of closed booth windows. To our right stands a line of people in resplendent garb, draped heavily as the sacks that hang from their working hands. They wear jellabas, pointed hats, turbans, scarves, and leather sandals—all hand made and sold in the medinas. The line reaches the length of the corral that holds it straight, and farther.

We choose the low road and a guard tells us to turn back and take the high route. Up here, a guard tells us we should take the low road. The first guard smiles as we pass. We come to the line at the booth that stamps the passports and take our places at the backside of the half circle. Within twenty minutes we reach arms length of the window and with the help of a German who had been through this a few times before, we are ready to go within a half hour. At the final gate we have our passports checked again.

As all this takes place, beyond the colorful caged line, over the fences, and above the security guards—on the hill, streams a line of people carrying sacks, baskets, bags and barrels. On their shoulders, tied to their backs, hands full—they make their way in the same direction we have.

The guard, after close inspection, lets us cross. We enter a muddy lot with seldom a dry patch to place a step and a swarm of cars. We make our way to the right, following our German guide. A tarp fortress niched in the hillside provides a base for the hill walkers to stash and later distribute their imports. Cars come and go, choking as they breathe and full of commodities.

I ask Johann where we are going. ‘We just follow,’ he replies.

The German goes right for the taxi section that takes up a good quarter of the lot in front of the commerce hub. Surrounded with offers, he clearly states his own until accepted. We get in the car with him.

The taxi ride lasts 15 minutes, bumping along, as the German gives us insight on the whole place. On arrival in a small town, the German leads us to a mid-size bus—our only option to continue. We board and wait. Forty-five minutes later we arrive in Tetuan. From here we find transportation linked with the rest of the country.

CADÍZ.- A Moroccan security unit of the Marina Real stopped 15 illegal immigrants off the coast of Alhuceima that were trying to secretly reach the Spanish coast in a pneumatic boat.

In one of the largest waves of immigrants recorded this year, nearly 800 undocumented Moroccans were detained this past weekend on the Spanish coastline.

Pedro and Rosa had just traveled down through the High Atlas six months back. They recounted me their tales from their apartment in Elche. They spoke with a passion that put their pictures to shame and assured me I could stay with locals.

Pedro gave me directions to the same Berber village where they had stayed. They lived with one family for a week and learned to milk cattle and tend to the house. The meals were plentiful and the days—casually packed. They had no common language with their host family, yet they spoke lavishly of their communication.

“Be careful,” Pedro said. “Don’t let them know you have money. Little things show a person’s status, like the crisp color of your backpack or your nationality.” Their host family owned the only car in the village. I tell my host family I’m from Spain.

The children showed Pedro and Rosa the village and how the town came to life, sound by sound, at sunrise. First, the roosters awoke, followed by a conversation between neighbors, and the creaking of the bucket being pulled from the well on the kitchen patio. In the afternoon the children took Pedro and Rosa into the mountains to see the nomads. The nomads live in caves. They survive from foraging with their donkeys. Some families in the village have a donkey. Many have sheep.

I am given a yellow jellaba to wear during my host family’s ceremony for the slaughter of Abraham. On this day, each family sacrifices a sheep and celebrates. While in this robe, a girl from the village approaches me. She also wears a yellow jellaba. Her brother relates her message to me in English. She asks for my hand in marriage. He assures me that she makes good kefta and tajine, and that I would get the chance to learn Berber, Arabic and French. I would have to move to Ouarzazatte where her family resides, and I could accept by taking her outstretched hand.

Rosa warned me to always negotiate the price beforehand. ‘No matter what,’ she said. ‘In Morocco, all prices are open to discussion.’ From clothing to lodging—even the weight of peanuts and oranges—I argue the price. Rosa told me to blend in the best I could. She said Johann and I should take the ferry from Algeciras; the Moroccans leave from this port and it costs less than Gibraltar.

Pedro assured me I would be safe. ‘Just give the locals respect,’ he told me. ‘Here in Spain the people don’t give them respect. They are smart.’ I meet people who speak five languages and know the seasons like clockwork. ‘The Berber are wonderful people,’ Pedro said. ‘People are just trying to survive.’

MADRID.- Eight pregnant women, 2 children between 6 and 21 months, and 183 other immigrants ‘without papers’ were detained yesterday after they reached the Spanish coast in Cádiz after crossing the straight in fragile pneumatic boats.

The majority of them have been transferred to the police station in Algeciras where they will be returned to their respective countries. The women remain, along with some injured in the Punta Europa Hospital in Algeciras.
Laurent rang me back from Paris on a Wednesday. ‘Essaoira is beautiful and you should go there. Everywhere you look you’ll just want to take pictures. But be careful, cause you’re not supposed to take pictures of women. Actually, they think photography steals their soul.’

I learn that I can take any picture—teapots, graveyards, women—all I must include is a small donation. This donation is made larger if whom I take the picture of, or whom I take the picture near, follows me long enough. I tell them I can’t speak English because they tell me they can.

Laurent warned that no matter what the item, since I am a tourist, the price will be ten times as much. He informed me that I would reach a point where I become exausted and won’t even want to eat. ‘Be prepared,’ he said.
‘ If you travel between cities, it’s better to take collective taxis. You can find them right on the outskirts of the cities.’ The collective taxis are also more efficient because no matter what the bus schedule says, the bus leaves when it becomes full. Of course, I have to dispute the price but there is no other way. Laurent speaks French; I have no local language in which I can argue.

I learn that agreeing on a price does not mean agreeing on a number of people that can fit in the taxi. The taxi stops often, sometimes to fill the radiator, sometimes for another rider. Every person receives their own price. The driver laughs only once as we cross the desert when a man stops in the middle of the road ahead of us, throws a long walking stick, and pegs a running camel in the backside. After a sideways hop, the camel keeps running to our right as we pass. The man raises his hands in anger. His herd forages to our left.

Laurent recommended me a hostel in Fez where he spent several nights. With the warm evenings you could drink tea late and chat with other travelers on the terraced roof. ‘Ask for room 27; you can relax up there,’ he said.

ALGECIRAS - This morning in Tarifa, the Guardia Civil stopped 56 undocumented Subsaharan and Magrebian immigrants when they tried to secretly reach the peninsula on board a Zodiac in which they used to cross the straight. Among them were 12 women.

According to a spokesperson of the Red Cross, the immigrants, which apparently included one pregnant woman, were found in good physical condition.

When Cristina’s mother wouldn’t tell her what lie on the dinner table, her appetite waned. She always wanted a horse and eating one did not do away with these dreams. Cristina explained to me that her parents taught her to eat when food was available; money was hard to come by and her father did all he could.

Every six months the family’s visas needed to be renewed. At first her father took the whole family up to the border to renew the papers. Quickly, he learned the local culture. Much trouble could be saved with a little persuasion. He began making the trip to Tangier and back, alone—with the family’s five visas in hand.

At first they turned him away at the counter. With a little persistence, he could convince them to a cup of tea in the back room. The Moroccans are passionate about their tea.

The tea ritual happens more frequently than the call to prayer. A single customs official will go to prepare it. Once the teapot boils he will bring it to the table. A very large amount of sugar will be added. The first cup is poured from high above the glass, and then back from the glass into the teapot. This is done two or three times. Now the tea can be served.

In the back room, Cristina’s father would ask them again to stamp the visas. They would say no and return to chatting over tea. For hours they would say no and for hours he would calmly lean forward, push his pile of visas across the table, and return to his tea.

Cristina’s family lived in Marakesh for three years under tourist status. Her father worked with locals, selling carpets and contracting improvements in small villages. Over dinner in Granada, her family told me stories of their stay. They foretold of the beauty I would find in the people, the lively bustle of the marketplace and the syncopated roar of the call to prayer, five times a day.

Her mother suggested that Johann and I enter through Ceuta; she said the cultural transition would be easier in a typical Mediterranean city and customs is done on land. We return via Tangier—our other option to cross the border. Customs for the Tangier route is done on disembarking the ferry.

GRANADA.- Seven North Africans were caught in the back of a freight truck in Andalucia. The truck had a hollow shell with just enough space for the group to travel standing and carry a bottle of water and something little to eat in their pockets. See diagram.

We return to the port in Tangier fleeing—two days earlier than planned. As we approach the front of the customs pile in Algeciras, an Arab, who has already passed through, raises his voice as a security guard grabs him. Four more guards help drag the man to the ground.

The group of us who had yet to cross says, “Ooooh.” One of the guards circles in front of us and, as he holds a calm palm in the air, says, “Tranquilo.” The man is then allowed to get up, and with his bleeding head, grab his luggage and continue with his day.

TARIFA - President of the Council of Andalucia asked for an investigation into the death of an immigrant last night in Tarifa which resulted after he was pursued by agents of the Guardia Civil.

The president regrets that another attempt to cross the Gibraltar straight by those who have hopes of arriving in a ‘Paradise’ far from their homelands, only results in death.

I skipped two weeks of my twin size bed to take this trip. I fought over prices and cursed at those who would not leave me alone when I asked them. In my new sandals, I left the country with haste, bought three of my favorite pastries as I left, closed my eyes as I crossed the border and as the bus started for Madrid, I reclined the seat and exhaled.

The Masking of a Parry

Reassuringly I handed them the two longer swords, “Trust me, you can have the best.” I kept the thickest for myself. We headed down toward the spring. This is where they would move in. The day was dry, safer for navigation around landmines and sulfuric acid-laced grass. This was the required condition for our commander to give us a project in this sector. The sky was blue, the desirable blue to stare toward the heavens until the magical white wisps came to give us strength.

At this moment we break from our battle planning, we know our undertaking and as true warriors there is no need to waste any more time. Dashing from the underbrush we surprise our enemies for we must; three against an entire race allows no petty dismissal of situational severity. Our cries reign horror. Our cries claim territory. Our cries are genuine. “Hit them in the guts! When they fold, cut their heads off!” This is the best way to kill them. I dictate this as self-proclaimed leader of the operation. We all know that to rank one of two brothers above the other is only a precursor to internal destruction of the team. This has happened many times in the past. This time we will complete our mission.

As we destroyed the last of the invaders, the pride fluxed in our breast, the victory flitted on the tips of our tongues and we bragged of the individuality behind every kill. We stood free, as an author stands when he captures a moment or a reader who has been handed a metaphor. Allow me to clarify a few terms: swords are mere prunings, commander, mom and the invaders, thistle bushes. You can substitute the remaining as you see fit. And I leave you at rest, for it is my story, my breast is heaving.