The wet years have crumbled into the abyss of the past like corn in a bottomless sack. If you don’t take advantage of the rainy years, you’d better have some jump in your legs in the dry years. More worrisome is the sting of the southern winter, and the bite of a belly that’s always empty, or almost.
Rain is no problem, since it rains twenty days a year, and it’s not the season. The balcony on the first floor, where the landlord’s daughter lives, is protection from the rain and sun. Three sheets arranged in a rectangle under the shop’s veranda. Although they stare wide-eyed, they can’t be seen, because they themselves are so obsessed with what-will-I-eat, they cannot see the time seeping through their fingers like ocean sand. Although they shout, they can’t be heard. Just like the faceless people who wander through this savage place. Three sheets that were once wild with color, now faded, pale, vaguely unclean. Marvane props his instrument against the chair in front of him. Now if you’re ready, let’s hear this new story.”
Coming from you, that truly warms my heart. Now you speak my language almost better than I do.” “The White Man’s money always goes back into the White Man’s pocket?” “The thought of the day is: Dralam-bazaha mimpoly ampaosim-bazaha avao.” But first tell me, what’s the thought of the day?” “It’s just that I’ve a new story to tell you, Vazaha,” he says apologetically. The solitary old man has finally noticed me. Teeth eaten away by chewing tobacco slowly form a smile. Now and again, a little groan where an impatient finger brushes a string still abuzz with another note. Draws the other chair closer to hold up the head of the marovany. Having drunk his coffee, he throws off his blanket. Slowly, the handful of coals that warmed his coffee smolder away. Heady emotion filters through the still air, thick with the scent of eucalyptus-he hasn’t put out the stove. An original tune painfully prepares to make its entrance into the world. A long silence settles in while Marvane-that’s what I call him-aligns and adjusts the chunks of calabash gourd under the strings of his instrument. I’ve stopped greeting him, at least while he’s playing, so as not to frighten away, like birdsong, the music my ears drink in from the street.īut today, he breaks off.
On this morning, the old musician stops playing the moment I bend my lanky bag of bones and squeeze through the tiny doorframe of his home.