The
Cheese Patio
Personally,
I must confess - during my first rendezvous with Nacho's family I
couldn't take my eyes off his younger sister. The whole thing seemed
fake and weird. Nevertheless, she was real. And so was the mirror
reflecting the opaline glaze of her shoulder blade each time she
crossed the room where me and Nacho smoked cigarillos while browsing
some old magazines of his recently dead father.
Never
mind the whys and how we came to be sharing some space and time
together. The fact is I was there and I was irregularly impressed.
This family had a strange way of showing their feelings and honoring
their dearest relatives. Instead of decorating walls with the classic
happy faces theme – holiday scenes, weekend gatherings or casual
dailies – theirs were stage to a variety of situations where pain
and suffering prevailed.
Starting
at the entrance hall and following the left side of the corridor, a
collection of metallic silver framed photographs depicted seven
bodies in their initial state of what some would call, eternal life.
Without any makeup or extra preparations, their skin, their mouths –
so real, so white and purple, all dimmed and wrinkled – their
expressions, conveyed, to a certain degree, a uniquely inverted
attraction on the eyes of the beholder. They were all lying in a
simple, neatly arranged bed, with no one else on sight; definitely a
private place to be. You could argue there's no suffering nor pain in
a death body, the point being the evocations triggered were all about
that moment of life when life it self gets so thin it becomes to
gauzy to even stand as a question.
Before
moving into what he named as The Cheese Patio, he took me to the
kitchen to greet his two mothers - as he called them - though one
was slightly older. These two ladies, in their modest tartan smocks,
cooking and talking, embraced my idea of peace and home – cakes,
onion soup and a sweet, intriguing aroma resembling that of lemon
myrtle and apple. The freshness of this encounter was cut off on our
way out - hanging from spikes stuck in between tiles' knuckles of the
opposite wall, were a series of Polaroids taken during the birthing
of a child. Rawness and despair were obviously central to the
collection; one could almost feel the ache, working, performing
visceral changes to the parturient's brain as the child was being
slowly delivered. To my disbelieve, at a better look I understood the
truly reason of a generalized discomfort and shock: a second baby –
a stillborn – wrapped in cloth was resting inside a bowl. At this
point, much to my relief, two things happened: I heard my friend's
voice calling my name and his sister walked in just as I was walking
out.
I
saluted and excused my clumsiness, to which she, with a smile, held
my hand and led me to the patio where Nacho waited. With curtains
half risen and opened windows, the spring light and breeze came all
the way in. We sat and talked for awhile. He told me about his
father and the tragic events leading to his mental illness. For years
he had been an art lover and him self a photographer for some
magazines. He picked up a pile from a nearby alcove, inviting me to
have a look. There was a table between us and I assume some of the
furniture must have been of sandal. I always recognize that smell. A
mirror on the central column permitted me to catch a glimpse at a
distant doorway. As we flipped through, silence got enhanced by the
weight of the day and the occasional quiver of the curtains each time
the young lady appeared from behind the door. I enjoyed the moment!
With
a magazine on my knees and a cigarillo in my mouth - time running by
- memories swept my unthoughts, themselves turning into bizarre
pictures hanging in my semi-consciousness. This could have been a
nice ending to this visit – which in fact was about to end – if I
wasn't to stumble into another gruesome vision. Paula, Nacho's
sister, was, with the turn of a page, posing in front of me. Her
body, as thin and emptied as sculpted impressions on paper, remained
yet beautiful and dear. Her face showed no emotions, no attitude
towards life. As I was trying to digest this incompatibility, the
door bell rung; Paula came out of her room, passing again through the
patio. I could follow her and her sensual body on the mirror, since
her far appearance at my rear and then for real, her back side
slipping in front of me, as if through my fingers. I can't remember
who was announced, but Nacho stood up and we left. She waved a
goodbye kiss, which I kept hanging next to other luxury items for
awhile. Together, all these wax-like images, sometimes melt and drip,
other times they recover solidity. Regardless, they never return to
the original form.
©
2016, José Eduardo Coelho
