Description: Innocence can come in many forms; curiosity, a journey, an absent life and even a simple vision. Between here and an unforgiving faraway land lies vacant memories of a life given, and a life lost, and the link they share. It started with a tree, which inspired a long journey to find truth. Clara takes this journey to discover that even within dirt and arid heat, innocence and a rose may yet live…
***
Her mother nodded even though her back was turned.
“If this was real it would fall down and die. Metaphorically
speaking that doesn’t bode well for us. Our family tree is more than just a
little lopsided Mum. I’ve filled most of your side in; gone back about as far
as your great-grandparents. But
there’s nothing on dad’s side. I’ve already written something about him – just
a couple of lines. I need more… Mum? Hello-oo? Are you even listening? I need a
story, something. I mean, all I’ve written is about how I don’t know him, and, how
he’s never been around.”
She lowered the heat and then turned from the stove. “Do you
really need to know? I mean, is this really it? Is this what you want?”
“Well. Yeah, I mean... Unless you want me to submit a half
completed project.”
“This isn’t just about some school assignment…” she said
folding her arms, “this is about you. What do you want for yourself? Just for
you.”
“Well,” Clara took a step back to think, “You’ve always told
me ‘when I’m older’, well now I am.” She hesitated, “Why have I never met him?
You never said that he died. I don’t remember you ever speaking of him with
regret; then again, you hardly speak of him. The last time was when I was
enrolling in High school. You said to me he’d be proud. Where is he Mum?”
Corrolla felt the question coming. She exhaled deeply, her
face without emotion, as she prepared her words. “I could tell you a story.”
She chewed her lower lip, her eyes searching, reaching out to distant memories.
“Perhaps it’s better if you see. I’ll tell a few of the facts, the ones I know
of anyway, just some names for your tree. The rest, I really don’t know.” Her
eyes continued, still on their journey of reminiscence.
Clara looked to her with concern. “Mum?”
Corrolla’s eyes were lucid, meeting her daughters gaze. “You’ve
started something now, haven’t you? There’s no turning back. Are you still
keen? You need to be absolutely sure.”
Clara swallowed, “Uh…” She took a deep breath, feeling a
little cornered, before she responded “… well, only if he’s a good man. I mean,
as long as he’s not in prison.”
Corrolla smiled, walking toward her daughter. She cupped her
cheeks and then pulled her close, wrapping Clara in her arms. “Okay, I’ll take
you there.” She thought about Clara’s last words, and then thought to herself
‘Not all men in prison are bad men. Hope is so fickle. He’s probably still in
one, maybe.’
(Continued from Blog post here)
“We’ll go when the school term’s done. But no more questions until then, okay?”
Clara hummed in agreement, hugging her mother tighter.
***
Seven long months later, the wheels kissed the baking tarmac. They descended the steps into an oven, their bodies immediately drenched in sweat. The moisture then just as quickly evaporated as the warm air swathed them, pouring down their throats, hugging their lungs in a heavy embrace.
The baggage collection was a mulling sea of ungainly humanity. Corrolla would hear no complaints from Clara who was seemingly preoccupied by the simple act of survival.
The next few days were languid. All Clara would remember was the hotel room confines and her mother’s unremitting supply of water from the bottle she carried around.
“Don’t worry, in time your body will acclimatize.”
“Why?” Clara managed, lying prostrate on the bed. “Why would you ever come to such a place?”
Corrolla’s lips formed a broken smile. She took her daughters hand in hers and said, “You’ll see. Well maybe, no promises.” After a quick glance out the window she said, “I suppose our timing could have been better. It’s been so long, I forgot how hot it got here this time of year. The smell is different too… It does take getting used to.”
***
The bus drive was long and everything felt close. The last thing Clara remembered before shutting her exhausted eyes was the bucktooth smile of the woman sitting across the aisle. It was a noisy sleep; apart from the chatter, every time the bus plopped over a bump or pothole, every one of the several chickens on board voiced their disapproval.
Corrolla, sitting closest to the window, managed to steal her mind away for a few moments. As Clara’s head rested on her shoulder. She gazed thoughtfully at the passing landscape. Through all the exotic odours, sounds and the unforgiving threadbare seat, she managed to escape. Her eyes caught the vast and horizon in the amber glow of a dying day, reminding her of the world that was, that still remained here, much unchanged. Years had passed, lives had been created, but in this place, time stood still.
They stopped briefly in what could only pass for a settlement, not quite a town. The driver had gotten out, equipped with a rusty hammer, opened the engine hatch and proceeded to hit ‘something’. She watched as a twenty five year old Mercedes creaked by in a cloud of dust, with countless people coming and going from indeterminable places and beyond.
The bus’s decade’s old diesel engine cranked back to life as a donkey drawn cart rolled by. The old slumberous vehicle carefully crawled back onto the main road, taking some time to get up to its wont.
They arrived at nightfall. The hotel they were booked into was rather Spartan, but all they really needed, and cared about, was a sturdy bed with a modicum of comfort. Once their bags hit the floor Corrolla locked the door and collapsed beside Clara, who had already passed out on the double bed.
The heat woke them the next day; it was only seven in the morning. A cold shower and a large meal were in order. They were directed to reputable backpackers just down the road which served as the ideal breakfast venue, the owners of which were naturalized foreigners and only too welcoming.
Although it had been many years since her last visit, Corrolla figured that all paler foreigners in these parts would be known. Furthermore, foreigners tended to gravitate toward one another in unfamiliar lands, so the backpacker owners served as a natural start to picking up the trail of her man, if he was in fact in the country, or even on the same continent.
As it happened, they did have a lead. An outpost around thirty kilometres south east was rumoured to be housing an odd foreigner; he even went by a local name, which she made no attempt to pronounce. Upon hearing this news, Clara had looked at her mother with optimism.
“It’s something isn’t it?” she said sipping a coke.
Corrolla smiled lazily. She wasn’t sure whether to feel lucky or otherwise, after all, she wasn’t sure what they’d find.
She wondered why it had been so easy, presuming of course that this was indeed a solid lead. The years, it seemed, had made this journey more vaunted and feared than it actually was; she’d somehow given it an air of unwarranted mysticism too.
She felt a little foolish thinking about it all, doing that thing she did by overanalysing, looking for the tiniest details and their respective meanings. ‘This longwinded journey of supposed self, and whatever, discovery – and he could well be just down the road.’
A few days later, after using the backpacker’s facilities and hiring a taxi, they travelled inland. Thirty or so kilometres later, well off the main road and a fair way down a gravel track, they did indeed find some indication of life. The few sparsely set dwellings, some of which resembled shacks, were accompanied by three identical looking trees.
The taxi pulled up a little distance away from the building closest to the track.
“Is this the place?” Corrolla asked sitting forward in the backseat.
The driver looked over his shoulder at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Mum. Look around. Where else can it be if not here?” Clara said opening the door.
The driver turned his attentions back to his own worries. He flipped his sunglasses down from where they sat, perched atop his head, and then rummaged through the glove box to retrieve an electric razor. The two women paused to watch.
All around them was vast desolation, a reluctant arid beauty, with dunes peppering the horizon, shimmering in the late afternoon air. They heard utter silence, until the driver started shaving. They exchanged a glance before the whirring prompted them both into motion.
Walking along the gravel tyre tracks, Corrolla dug a rather large floppy sun hat from her bag; it was in fact two hats of equal size which fit neatly into one another. She whipped one onto her head and passed Clara the other.
They strode to the nearest structure and upon closer inspection, could see that they were in fact quite sturdy clay-type arrangements. On the other side of it, in the shade, they found an old man sitting on an old rickety beach chair. His dark wrinkly face looked like a mask of old leather. For a dreaded moment Corrolla thought that this might be her man, after all, it was unknown to her as to how the years had treated him. They were of course only going by rumour; he could well even be dead.
“Sorry. Excuse me. Apologies for intruding, but we’re looking for this man.” She held up an old Polaroid. It was facing away from Clara though her expression said it all. She’d never seen the photo, and didn’t know where her mother had kept it all these years, or where she’d produced it from just now.
The man remained motionless, his gaze affixed straight ahead.
“Is that…? Mum can I see that, where did…”
“Not now.” She said stuffing the photo deep in her bag. “It didn’t work anyway. We’ll have to ask someone else.”
Clara surveyed the area hesitantly before giving her mother a look, “Well good luck there, this place seems deserted; except for him. Is he okay?”
They both inspected the man before turning to walk away. A grunt and a creak punctuated the silence. The two women exchanged a glance. They watched as the man’s arm rose slowly off the armrest, with a crooked and weathered outstretched index finger. They followed the direction by line of sight to one of the square structures, which also seemed the furthest away from all the others.
They thanked the man and started off. They heard a faint tapping and grinding noises as they neared it. When they eventually turned the corner they both froze. There, in the dirt and the heat, crouched a man; with a full head of shaggy hair, busily working at a chunk of wood.
Corrolla took a deep breath before proceeding.
Clara took a step back to watch.
Her mother walked around until she was standing a few meters in front of the man. His head was bent downward, intently focussed on his work.
Corrolla bent down to pick up a stone; she then tossed it at the man’s feet to distract him. The tactic seemed to work as his hands stopped moving. Both women tensed.
His eyes slowly followed the trajectory of the offending stone toward its origin.
He looked at her for a few seconds before speaking, “Yes? H-hello?”
Clara watched and listened. His voice was softer than she anticipated.
“It’s me, Corrolla.” She lowered herself to her haunches. “Do you remember? A long time ago.” She could see through a few strands of his hair that he was blinking. “I found you again.” She smiled politely as she shuffled closer. “What are you making now?”
“A bowl.” He said, still thinking. His hands started working again,“Corrolla? Like the car.”
She smiled gently and then nodded. She looked at him, and without breaking her gaze, she gestured for Clara to join her.
His hands stopped again as he heard the footsteps on the gravel. He remained squatting, looking up at these two ladies.
“I know you remember. Mogador? The Blue boats? You came down to these parts, to help, to help others. You had an accident. Remember?”
After half an hour of introductions, with Corrolla painting a merry portrait of events to bring the other two into the picture, they found themselves sitting inside what had then been revealed as a one roomed house. Clara and Corrolla sat on the edge of the single bed, while the man sat on an old Coke crate facing them. The place had a strong warm, woody smell to it.
“Clara.” She looked deep into her daughter’s eyes, and then turned to the man, “This is your father.”
Clara looked at him again and although she’d anticipated this, the statement sounded so foreign as much as it did absolute. She studied him further, trying desperately to bring hers and this man’s worlds together, but nothing seemed to fit. ‘What did her mother see?’
“Hello.” He said. “I’m Zach.”
For a while he stared blankly at the space between them, until his lips parted, exhaling a faint whisper, “a daughter”. He looked at Corrolla and then at Clara, “You came all this way for me.”
Strangely, Clara did not feel any unease under his gaze. “To meet you, yes. I thought it was time.” She said looking at her mother.
“I was surprised at how easy it was to find you, even though this is kind of the middle of nowhere…” Corrolla said.
“… My doctor. She said I should come. I’m not lost. Not hiding. I’m just looking. And building.”
“Yes, I met her once, many years ago, when I last saw you. It was in Spain. I was five months pregnant then.”
Clara could see that her mother’s eyes were teary. She reached across and took her mother’s hand. Corrolla’s posture softened but her eyes remained fixed on him. “What are you looking for here?”
“Doctor said to come here. To come for the basic things… stay away from the needless things. The world, complicates things; makes it confusing.” He looked out of the open doorway. “You don’t come here to look for anything, there’s nothing to see, except sand. And you can get sand anywhere.”
“I see you’re still making things.” Corrolla said looking at the numerous wooden trinkets littering the dwelling – there was a low shelf along one wall full of them. There were a couple of bowls and two carafes in amongst other things. Clara looked around with renewed fascination at the news that Zach had crafted all these things. She spotted a complete wood carved chess set, and a lovely wooden box with the face of a rose carved into the lid.
“You were always good at making things.” Zach’s eyes studied her as if looking for imperfections, much like he did with his carvings. “He came to these parts to build houses, like those community enrichment projects you see on TV.” She sighed reminiscing, “Those were different times; many areas, pockets constantly in conflict. I remember you used make the clay bricks. Using what you found… all natural things, recycling, before it became fashionable.”
She looked at him again except now he was studying the wall. “You made this place didn’t you?” she remarked.
He had that faraway look in his eyes when he muttered, “Not my best work…”
And there it was; the moment he really emerged and Corrolla finally recognized him. The man he was, was still there, somewhere. It was only a brief twinkling in his eyes, but it was definitely there.
“I had to rush to get done,” he continued “the heat, you see…?” Corrolla smiled and closed her eyes for a second as his voice revived parts inside her that had been dormant for a long time.
They talked for another few minutes before Corrolla asked Clara to wait outside. She offered no complaint and politely excused herself.
Clara walked a few meters to a nearby tree for shelter even though the sun was getting low. She looked at the small box of a house that contained her parents, now cast in a strong amber glow. Slowly, her eyes travelled past the house to the expanse beyond. She saw nothing of note, just a flat plane and more sand in the distance.
***
A few hours later they sat on the bed in their chalet, in silence.
“What did you speak about?” Clara whispered. The ride back had been in silence too. She’d simply been waiting for the appropriate moment.
“I reminded him of when we first met; where we were, what we said to each other.”
“Did he remember?”
She pursed her lips. “He remembered.” Corrolla took a breath, “He remembered...”
***
“I remember his face when we drove away. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Did he realise I was his daughter. My mother says that he did. I suppose only she would know. I had no idea of what to expect when I left here. If anything, I’d have preferred something more conventional. A divorce, maybe, a drunkard for a father… No. He was there, in the flesh. I cannot resent him. I couldn’t even hug him. Now what do I do?”
“I remember many things from the journey; the heat most of all, and then the sand. But I also remember his face, his eyes. There were moments, when I think about it, that I saw something of the man my mother described so vividly to me. The man she loved those years ago, when the world was a different place to the one I know. At least from that, I now know what to look for when I return to see him one day…”
Clara looked over the faces in the classroom, “My mother gave this to me when we got back. There’s nothing in it, it’s just a wooden box, but, my father made it. She said, he wanted me to have it. At first I wasn’t sure, if maybe she was just saying that for my benefit. But then she told me what he’d been through, what he lost. Of what was taken from him, and also us. She said that he’d always been a giver. And then she also told me what he said. ‘I remember. I do know you’ He’d said. ‘I’ve always known you, haven’t I? There are things that one can never forget; memories that will never fail you. Without them we wouldn’t be able to live.’
He said to my mother: ‘I’m not hiding, I’m not lost,’
My father went back there to find something. To find pieces of himself I think, or maybe he just went, to save, to nurture and preserve, whatever he has left.
He said his name is Zach, he is my father. It is a good name... it means ‘pure’.