Mouthful of Birds(12)

“You fucking fag.”

And Mom said to Dad:

“You’re the fag, you son of a bitch.” And she spat at him, too. She gave Santa her hand, brought him into the house, led him up to her room, and closed the door.

Dad stayed there like he was frozen, and when he finally woke up, he realized I was still there, and he yelled at me to go to bed. I knew I was in no position to argue; I went to my room without Christmas and without a present. I waited in bed until everything was silent, watching the plastic fishes of my nightlight swim on the wall. By then I knew I wasn’t going to get my remote-control car, but Santa Claus slept at my house that night, and that meant a much better year for all of us.





THE DIGGER


I needed a rest, so I rented a big house near a coastal town far from the city. The house was ten miles from the town on a gravel road that led to the sea. The final stretch was just two dirt tracks, almost impossible to see in the tall grass; soon they disappeared entirely and I couldn’t go any farther in the car. I could see the upper floor of the house in the distance, so I steeled myself to get out, take the essentials, and continue on foot. It was growing dark, and though I couldn’t see the ocean, I could hear the waves crashing on the shore. I hadn’t walked far when I tripped over something.

“Is that you, sir?”

I started backward.

“Sir, is that you?” A man stood up with difficulty. “I didn’t waste a single day, eh . . . I swear it on my own mother . . .”

He spoke hurriedly while he smoothed the wrinkles in his clothes and arranged his hair.

“The thing is that just last night . . . You can imagine, sir, that being so close I wasn’t going to leave things for the next day. Come, come,” he said, and he climbed down into a hole amid the scrub, just a step away from where we were.

I knelt down and put my head in. The hole measured over a yard wide, and I couldn’t make out anything inside. For whom could this worker be working, when he couldn’t even recognize his own boss? What was he looking for, digging so deep?

“Sir, are you coming down?”

“I think you’ve made a mistake,” I said.

“What?”

I told him I wasn’t coming down, and, as he didn’t answer, I went to the house instead. Only when I reached the front stairs did I hear a distant “Very good, sir, as you like.”

The next morning, I went out to get the luggage I’d left in the car. The man was sitting on the veranda of the house, nodding off, a rusty shovel propped between his knees. When he saw me, he put the shovel down and hurried to catch up with me. He carried the heaviest luggage, and, pointing to some packages, he asked if they were part of the plan.

“I’m sorry, but I need to get organized,” I said, and when we reached the door I took what he was carrying so he wouldn’t come inside.

“Yes, yes, sir. As you like.”

I went inside. From the kitchen windows I could see the beach. There were hardly any waves; the water was ideal for swimming. I crossed the kitchen and looked through the front window: the man was still there. He alternated between looking toward the hole and studying the sky. When I went out, he corrected his posture and greeted me respectfully.

“What are we doing, sir?”

I realized that one gesture from me would have sufficed to make the man run to the hole and start digging. I looked toward the fields, in the direction of the pit.

“How much is left, do you think?”

“Not much, sir, not much at all . . .”

“How much is not much, in your opinion?”

“Not much . . . I wouldn’t know for sure.”

“Do you think it’s possible to finish tonight?”

“I can’t promise anything . . . You know: it doesn’t depend only on me.”

“Well, if you want to do it so badly, do it. Finish it once and for all.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

I saw the man pick up the shovel, go down the stairs from the house toward the field, and disappear into the hole.

Later on I went to town. It was a sunny morning and I wanted to buy bathing trunks to take advantage of the sea; when it came down to it, I had no reason to worry about a man who was digging a hole at a house that didn’t belong to me. I went into the only store I found open. When the clerk was wrapping up my purchase, he asked me: “And how is your digger doing?”

I was silent for several seconds, maybe waiting for someone else to answer.

“My digger?”

He handed me the bag.

“Yes, your digger . . .”

I handed the man the money and looked at him, surprised. Before I left I couldn’t help but ask him: “How do you know about the digger?”

“What do you mean, how do I know about the digger?” he asked, as if he couldn’t comprehend what I was saying.

I went back to the house and the digger, who was waiting asleep on the veranda, woke up as soon as I opened the door.

“Sir,” he said, getting to his feet, “there’s been great progress, I do believe we’re getting closer and closer . . .”

“I’m going down to the beach before it gets dark.”

I don’t remember why it seemed like a good idea to tell him. But there he was, pleased at my comment and ready to go with me. He waited outside for me to change, and a little later we walked toward the sea.