Mourning Elias Gro
by João Tordo
published 2015 by Penguin Random House Portugal
translated by Jethro Soutar and Rachael McGill
Paradise must be the cessation of pain, said Elias Gro, as his end drew near. The man on the cross watched us with reverential silence, eternal compassion. Elias repeated the words, which were not his own, as his gaze fixed on a bird pecking at the window pane. We heard glasses overturn outside the stone house, the rumble of a coming storm. I was sitting in a chair, he was lying down, sick, as sick as a body can be, little more than a shadow. I ought to make it clear that I knew nothing of his illness until way after the beginning. The beginning? Yes, until way after all this began: it maybe makes sense to start here.
Or to start again.
He was sick, as sick as a body can be, and I, having woken rather late from a vicious dream, had chanced upon Cecilia and the man on the cross, and the two of them – in their infinite stubbornness – had shown me the way. In reality, there is no way, there is no path. We pretend there is, and that it makes sense to look for one, and we pretend until we end up convincing ourselves that there is one. Then we discover our tracks have been erased behind us, swept away like dust on furniture in an abandoned room after the windows have been reopened. We carry on, as best we can, with no notion of where we're heading and getting no help from what we’ve so far seen, for the memory is constantly melting away. That's what these words are for. For other, more prosaic things besides, but mostly for that.
The funeral was many years ago. I don’t live on the island now, but the memory of the lighthouse still troubles me. It sat on the top of a hill, with an escarpment beneath it that opened out into a magnificent cove with crags on either side; in between the crags was a small beach, tucked in there as if in a gesture of gratitude. The sand was dark, the waters warm. I’d come across the island in a magazine. Fewer than a hundred people lived there. Tourists visited only during the summer months, and in small numbers, for the place was only accessible by ferry. I called a friend who knew that part of the world and, after a fair bit of back-and-forth and some gentle insistence on my part, I found myself speaking to a German named Heinrich. He was brusque in his manners, but he told me he owned a lighthouse on the island, as well as a few other properties, and that the lighthouse had fallen into disuse due to changes to maritime routes. If I was interested, he could rent the lighthouse to me for considerably less than he could his houses. But it had one disadvantage, he warned me. It was three kilometres from the island’s only settlement, a distance which was difficult to cover at night or whenever the ground was muddy. That’s an advantage, I replied. It was February at the time and it had been raining non-stop for three months. From the window of the café where I sat, I watched an elderly woman carrying an umbrella get dragged along by the wind; on the other side of the road, a woman cursed as she hesitated over crossing at a red light; a huge queue of cars sounded their horns. Heinrich couldn’t tell from my voice, but the idea of removing myself from humanity consoled and terrified me. It was a fantasy many people entertain, but rarely realise. I asked him how long I could have the lighthouse for.
For as long as you like, he replied.
I promised to pay him for the first three months up front and we settled on a price. Heinrich seemed pleased with the arrangement. I remember seeing, through a rough circle in the café window that had yet to team up, a figure moving on the second floor of the building opposite. I’d been watching from the same place for weeks. This is how you go mad, I told myself, as I paid the bill and left. Five minutes later, I was outside the cemetery. Water streamed down my face, drained off my chin; my sodden clothes clung to my body until they were part of me, clothes and skin indistinguishable in the rain.
When I arrived on the island, Heinrich met me at the pier where the boats moored. It was a wooden walkway adorned with two giant flower pots. Geraniums, perhaps, I couldn’t say. I was surprised by Heinrich’s appearance. The voice on the telephone had suggested a rather gloomy character, but the man before me smiled, waved to the boatman, addressed him by name. He wore a cap and his nails were dirty. He told me he’d spent all day with his hands in the soil; when he wasn’t attending to his rental properties, he worked in the garden. I looked back and saw the blue and white boat that had brought me there, a small boat that held no more than five people, turn round and move away, back towards the peninsula. It was a dark day: a collage of greyish clouds gathered in the sky, threatening to storm. I’d arrived in the nick of time; any later and the boat journey wouldn't have been possible. A ferry made the crossing twice a day, but I’d chosen to travel on a private boat. At the time I lived in constant fear of my own dark clouds bursting, of tears pouring forth. It could happen at any time.
Difficult journey? Heinrich asked. I live a long way away, I replied. Many hours?
Many.
You speak good French.
Thank you. You speak good English, which, as far as I know, is what we’re speaking.
Oh, said Heinrich, and laughed. You’re right, I was distracted. We can speak French if you like.
English is fine.
We got into Heinrich’s car, an old open-topped jeep, and set off along a dirt track, bisecting a green field that stretched as far as the eye could see. I have to tell you, the only thing I remember about that journey is physical, my body's memory of the bumpiness of the road. Two suitcases, the German and me, bouncing up and down on crude benches in the sort of vehicle that wouldn’t look amiss with a couple of donkeys attached at the front. Only later, while walking about the island, would I notice the huge plantations of sunflowers, opening by day and closing at night; the white clouds that sometimes flew so low they seemed to sit on top of the island, like a hat on a head; the slope on the western side that led down to some fisherman’s shacks and skiffs; the cemetery where the island's inhabitants buried their dead; and the church, although it troubled me to look at it and I tried not to do so for quite some time.
It took a long while to cross the island. The car’s engine cut out every two or three hundred metres and Heinrich had to re-turn the key in the ignition to bring it back to life. At some stage he pointed out a valley in the distance where twenty-five to thirty houses with gabled roofs nestled together. Most were painted blue or red, a few were white. They were arranged in some mysterious order that seemed determined to avoid creating a centre. Some faced the sea, others looked out onto the road that led into the village. Others, older looking, gazed north, towards the point where the land tapered off, where green gave way to sand, sand to rocks, and the rocks were swallowed up by the sea. The car died for the umpteenth time.
There used to be a house there, Heinrich said, as he fiddled with the key. Where?
See those rocks, jutting out from the water? There used to be a two-storey
Victorian house there, built in 1886, or 1888. The sea gobbled it up a few years back. Gobbled it up, I repeated.
It happens, said Heinrich. The car started again. It’s called coastal erosion. The sea comes closer and, bit by bit, what we thought was solid ground starts slipping away. By the time we realise what's happening it’s hanging by a thread and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. The people in the village started a petition to have the house moved, but it was too expensive, and nobody really cared enough.
Who lived there?
No one for the last few years, Heinrich said. We were going down a hill, the road skirting the summit of the island to the left, the car leaning gently to the right. I held on to the door handle so as not to slide down the seat. The suitcases bounced up and down behind me like a couple of circus acrobats.
Or rather a writer lived there, Heinrich continued, but that was over thirty years ago, long before my time.
What writer?
His name was Lars Drosler.
Never heard of him.
No one has. He was Danish. Or Swedish maybe. Anyway, he spent the last years of his life alone in that house. And now his house has sunk. You can dive down and see it if you like, though you need a suit, it's right at the bottom.
As we rounded the bend, the lighthouse came into view. It was at the end of a straight road, more than a kilometre long. The road licked a field of darker earth, volcanic perhaps. After that the land rose up into a knoll, concealing the sea behind it. The lighthouse was red and white, with a black cupula that served as an observatory and a nesting place for a gang of seagulls. The birds were unmoved by the squeaking of the jeep as it struggled up the incline. We parked beside the lighthouse and got out. Heinrich helped me with my cases.
Unlike my memory of arriving on the island, which can only be described as absent, my first impressions of the lighthouse are vivid. I remember the smell of damp that hit me the moment Heinrich opened the door, the floor covered in a snow of shiny white paint that had flaked off the walls, the swirl of vertigo I felt on seeing the spiral staircase that led to the roof, and most of all, the sudden sense of isolation that had, until that moment, been no more than a concept. The ground floor of the lighthouse was circular and empty, except for a pillar in the centre that supported the staircase, and an old desk pushed up against the wall. The desk had evidently served as some sort of reception back when the lighthouse still functioned. It was bitterly cold and when the door was closed, the only window to the outside world was a steamed-up porthole.
For a brief moment, I regretted my decision. I wanted to pick up my suitcases and get the hell out of there. I doubt anyone else would have rented the place: layers of dust had accumulated on the furniture, damp filled the cubby holes, half the lights didn’t work - Heinrich flicked a fuse switch on and off by the door, but nothing happened. Yet it wasn’t the insalubrious state of the place that filled me with dread. It was the unthinkable materialising before me. It was as if I’d made a choice from a catalogue, without realising it would ever become a reality. This upright tunnel perched on the edge of a cliff was now my home. Here, freezing cold and immersed in twilight, several kilometres from the nearest living soul, I would have to confront my past.
Heinrich started climbing the stairs with one of my suitcases. I followed behind with the other. My heart throbbed with sadness; I felt like a condemned man, that by crossing the lighthouse threshold I'd voluntarily laid myself down in a cave ready to die. All it needed was for Heinrich to shovel earth over me.
The second floor was a storage room, practically empty; the third the machine room, boiler and generator; the fourth was home to the lighthouse keeper’s living quarters; and the top floor, accessible through a trapdoor, was the circular tower, the balcony, and the light that had been dead for over a decade. Heinrich advised me not to go up there.
The fourth floor had windows on the north and south sides and, if you kept them open, the air circulated freely. I followed Heinrich into a very small room. There was a black and white television mounted on a ceiling bracket, a dark red sofa, a fireplace (though a gas heater also sat beside the sofa), a single bed, a gasoline lamp on a square table and an octagonal wall clock that had apparently given up on signalling the time. The walls were made of brown brick. An old dial telephone sat abandoned on the floor. A grey boiler suit hung behind the door.
In case you feel like getting your hands dirty and knocking this place into shape, Heinrich joked.
He couldn't make up his mind whether to leave the suitcase inside or outside the room. The space was so small that we couldn’t get in or out without banging into one another. I told him to put the case on the bed. As I came out of the room, I realised it was dangerous to do so quickly: one false step and you’d be over the iron rail of the spiral staircase and into what would probably be a fatal fall. Beside the bedroom was a bathroom and next to that a tiny kitchen. Across the landing there was a lounge crammed with furniture: an old fireplace, three chairs, various lamps, a riding saddle, a phonograph. On the left hand side was a bookcase. I picked out a few books at random. Two were by authors I’d never heard of, the other was a collection of short stories by Jorge Luis Borges. I put the first two back and kept hold of the third. I promised myself I’d tidy up the place and then sit down and read it.
Heinrich watched me from the bedroom. He smiled. It seemed neither the weather, which had turned calamitous - gusts of wind flinging themselves at our stone cylinder - nor the poor upkeep of the lighthouse caused him the least concern. He held his cap in his hands. I ought to point out that I liked Heinrich, even though I found him, on this first encounter, a little simple. This was no doubt a natural enough reaction, but the long journey had also made me tetchy. In any case, I was of a mind to accept whatever I was being offered. I sought only protection from the elements and the volatility of mankind.
I opened one of the suitcases. My boxing gloves leapt out immediately, as if anxious for some fresh air.
You box! said Heinrich, enthusiastically. Do you fight? I'm a professional prizefighter, I told him.
Now I must point out that I am not, nor have I ever been, a professional prizefighter. But boxing had become a hobby back then. I had no interest in watching fights on television. I knew the names of famous boxers, but watching them in action left me cold. However, in the months after my separation, I developed an interest in boxing for exercise. I was crossing the forecourt of a shopping centre one day, feeling utterly despondent, when I caught sight of a pair of gloves in a shop window. They were red and white, like the lighthouse. I bought them and started training in my flat, alone, placing a cushion on top of a cupboard propped up against the wall. I discovered that when I was punching the cushion I wasn't thinking, and not thinking was what I craved most. I needed a way of holding back the words, for if they were allowed to flow freely they brought more and more words, whispered words, as if every word secreted a thread linking it to another word, spinning a web of words around me, trapping me in a cocoon. All it took was hearing any word she'd ever uttered (and she uttered so many) come out of the mouth of another. Sometimes all it took was an image: a woman's hand resting lightly in her lap, gently scratching an ear lobe, the bend of a little finger, nibbled nails, hair gathered in a clasp, or a bun, slightly moist eyes, eyes whose colour fluctuated between brown and green, according to the weather, eyes that were alive on happy days and opaque on sad days, or whenever the seasons changed. A growing belly, incongruous on a thin body. These things and more, many more. Images that brought words with them – hands, hair, eyes – and words that brought other words with them; smaller ones, mere details, but hurtful enough for me to need to punch them away. I punched until there was nothing left, nothing but the fantasy that would be leftover whenever we no longer had the stomach for the fight, whenever we raised the white flag and tried, exhausted and battle-weary, to rebuild the narrative of our life together from the wreckage of defeat.
I spent several weeks punching the cushion. Then I joined a gym and allowed myself to be punched by an amateur boxer. The sensation, unpleasant at first, became addictive. My days were spent in one of three places: my rented flat, the café from which I watched the second floor of the building opposite, and the ring where I punched and got punched three or four times a week. In truth, given how much time I spent there, I should add a fourth place: the whisky shelf at the supermarket. I was getting through a bottle a day, starting at lunchtime and never going to bed without two or three after-dinner measures inside me. It was only late in life that I understood the enigmatic relationship between man and drink. The euphoria of those first few sips that convinces us alcohol can soothe our pain, can help us transcend awareness of our insignificance. The bottle softens life's blows, dulls the sharp edges of reality. Glass follows glass, until, paradoxically, we lose all resilience to suffering.
I followed this routine for a long time; or at least it seemed a long time to me. At night, sprawled on the living room sofa in my sparsely furnished flat, I began to experience a feeling of awe at what I glimpsed inside myself. Then I'd summon the whisky to cover it up again. My feelings popped up, then hid, like a child playing in a maze, revealing a leg here, a head over there, teasing and disappearing. What had me in awe was my own emptiness: a death and a separation had turned me into a vessel containing nothing at all. A heavy breath would have blown me away, sent me spinning through the air like a leaf falling from a tree until gravity brought me to rest in some forgotten corner. The bruises and black eyes I got from boxing reminded me of all of this; the thick lip I got every Thursday night reminded me of it: I was ready to be harvested, ripe as a grape bursting with juice. Yet I fought to keep myself intact, no matter how hard the punches.
Hands, eyes, hair.