The Penguin's Song (8 page)

I HAD COME OUT BY
myself, even though my father said I had to allow him to accompany me, especially on this first excursion. He went on insisting until I was actually out the door. On the staircase landing behind the balustrade the two of them stood together, he and my mother, saying goodbye to me and watching my every step as I descended. From the window of their bedroom, to which they quickly moved, they continued to watch me walk up the sand track. It occurred to me that even as they stood there together at the window my mother would still be saying to him that it would indeed be best if he went with me. The same firm gait that I had resolved to use for going out to
them
where they sat was carrying me not there but rather here, along the route toward the crowds. I heard the sound of the wind coming up from below, whirling and coming in waves as if opposing currents of wind tussled and tossed in the steep, empty chasm leading to the old city. I knew that as I advanced, leaving most of the road behind me, no trace of that sound would follow once I got there, for the commotion and loud voices of the crowds would replace it.

I did allow my father to sketch out streets and intersections, his hands slicing wildly through the air. He began following routes in his head that he soon lost track of, returning to a beginning point that he didn't bother to explain to me. He seemed to be remembering the roads for himself, and meanwhile from behind him my mother gestured to me not to pay him any heed. At one point it seemed he had fallen into the trap of his own maze and no longer knew how to get out of it; probably, in any case, he said to me, they have made many changes to the streets. He no longer knew what was there beyond the intersecting streets that defined the entrance to the sand track. I told him I would ask the passersby and get directions from them. Leave him alone . . . let him go, my mother began saying to him—my mother whose enthusiasm for visits and outings had given her a new love for risks and ventures out. He won't get lost, she said, turning away as she tossed me a playful, slightly challenging look—as if she were giving me a little hint that she had some particular and special bit of knowledge about me.

Getting to the street at the end of the sand track was easy. But as soon as I stepped onto it I knew I had come out a bit too early. The shops on either side of the street held no one but their proprietors, busy readying them to receive customers. I wasn't forced to walk among the crowds; the residents of the apartments, or so I guessed, were still at home. I had come out early and this was better for me since it meant that only a handful of people would see me. On either side of the narrow street—the first one after the sand track—I got the feeling that the only reason anyone had come down to their shop so early was to seek a little distraction. Despite the lack of crowds I didn't slow my pace or glance into a single shop, or when I got near a shop, I did not look directly at the man inside. I could only look from a distance, three or four shops ahead, for instance at that man whom I could see bent over his crates. Moving forward, I needed to preserve a similar distance, always gazing three or four shops ahead.

That way my eyes would never meet the gaze of others I happened to encounter on the street or in the shops, and so my eyes could wander over them when they were not looking at me. And that way, I could leave someone behind when I was still walking by his shop. It was best for me to stare straight ahead, three or four shops in front of me. A passing glance, never a stare, and thus I would seem occupied with matters my head was busily turning over and not with what I saw. It was just as crucial to maintain this demeanor when glancing at the banners and signs above their shops. I did not want to seem as though I was searching for any particular shop. When I told my father that I would get directions by asking passersby, he responded that the signs might help me as well. Every shop sign will have its name and the owner's name on it, he said to me as my mother, standing behind him, added her own commentary, saying that the signs would steer me only to their shops when I needed to be guided to others. She spoke as if her playful mood were furnishing her with a cleverness she didn't usually possess, an adroitness of the sort that allowed her to show a widening gulf between herself and my father: the more mischievous she appeared, the more decrepit he looked. He seemed to confirm it by growing quiet or brooding over what he'd heard, not ready to respond. He looked like an old man whose mind was slowed by age, weakened and defenseless, with little recourse against whatever went on around him.

The few men I saw in that first street were occupied with their own business, their gazes remote, and they paid no attention to my intrusion. They seemed to have filled their shops with only the provisions that the apartment dwellers would need. I knew that what I was out here seeking would be some distance away, since those who might need what would fulfill my need were so few and so widely scattered. I would not find a trace of it here in this first street, nor in the street that began where this one turned, to which my father had bade me go. It was so narrow and twisting that I could not tell how long it was. The establishments lining its sides differed not at all from what I had just left behind me. The shop owners here had added nothing to what the previous ones had on offer, again displaying only the foodstuffs apartment dwellers would want. The shops here set these goods out exactly as the shops back there had done. And the merchants here, too, were still getting their shops ready for an onrush of customers who had not yet descended from the apartment blocks. It was from this second street—or from a junction here—that my father would begin every one of his beginnings, describing the streets and byways I must follow next. The intersection . . . a bit more than halfway down the street, I thought I must have missed it, because I could not distinguish one intersection from another, could not see anything I knew would precede it or would tell me I had gone too far. But my father hadn't been able to give me any landmarks as his hands sketched routes in the air, his eyes closed all the while; the map of tangled roads he made for me had no fixed points.

From there, or from here; from these intersections coming one after another, I would have to rely on instinct. Then, entering one of these crossroads, I suddenly realized that my father had not been guiding me to what I was after. He could not guide me, after all, because he'd never had occasion to know where it was or to happen upon it. He had remembered the streets only for what they held that was his. Or perhaps he was directing me to a point that he knew would lead to places he did not know. The street off this one was narrow too; in fact, it was narrower than the street leading me to it. Walking along it, what dawned on me was that I had made no progress, for the merchandise sold here did not offer anything more than what I had seen back there. But I didn't retrace my steps to the head of the street so as to take a different way. I figured I would have to arrive at something. When I reached the end, I would be somewhere.

Yes, I had certainly come out early. Likely, they would not be making themselves into a crowd before I was at least halfway to where I was going. They were still in their apartments in these narrow, hemmed in, jammed-together buildings that faced each other at such close proximity. They were still in their apartments: indeed, as I was reaching the end of the street, bisected by another narrow street, I was guessing that there was something—there must be something—that hindered or delayed their descent. To stop my father's continuous, circular charting of the streets, I had told him I would get directions from the people here—just like that, I'd told him despite my certainty that (even if I did try getting directions) it would be useless. They would no doubt give me names of places I didn't know. It would not help me at all, since they would not (I knew) start me off from a particular street and give me directions from there. I had no reference point from which to be guided. They would begin waving their hands just as my father does, and exactly like him they would sketch maps in the air for the sake of divulging what they knew, for themselves and not for me.

From there, from this next narrow street where I stop briefly to see if I can make out which direction to go, I decide that I had better begin by marking mental signposts that will help me to memorize the return route. Soon I'll have been down many streets, and it won't be simple to return, traversing street after street and taking one intersection after another. Coming back will be especially difficult because they're sure to have formed a crowd by then, and this will be one way that I'll miss the signs I have memorized.

Nevertheless, I must keep going along these streets that will inevitably take me to what I'm seeking out here. When he began wandering the streets, some time after we had moved, my father had gotten to districts much farther away than this, for he had seen rows of shops where one sold goods that the next one did not. Or perhaps he followed different routes to those places he would describe to us when he came home. I might be taking the wrong streets and getting farther away rather than closer to the place I must reach. I can ask which general direction I'm going, at least. That man who has just finished sweeping out his shop will answer me, pointing in one single direction rather than directing me to a mass of intersecting and intertwining streets. Go that way, from there, he says to me, and so I retrace my steps, still searching for a place where the shops sell something other than the foodstuffs these apartment dwellers need. I must ask someone, before the residents all come down to the streets and crowd the way. Once they have clogged my route I'll have to constantly extricate my body from them. And after every step I'll find myself face to face with someone who stares at me at the same time I look at him, both of us trying to figure out who will make way for the other. Or the person I ask for help will point me in the same direction I'm already walking, extending his entire arm as if to make me understand that I am still far from my destination and many streets lie ahead that I must walk down before I'm there. Instead of asking now, I will go on walking until I feel I've found a place where I don't mind asking someone.

And then, too, if I spot a change in what the merchants are selling, I'll know I have begun to get somewhere on my own. I will feel that I've gotten close, or at least that I'm beginning to get close when I see, for example, a clothing store or a shop that sells bed linens or pots and pans. I will sense that I have gotten close when I reach a shop that's bigger than the others I've seen, and so I'll know that it's meant for customers coming from streets farther away. That will tell me that I'm close, or that I've begun to get close, and I'll also know that I'm about to reach broad streets—wider than these, at least. They will certainly lead to still other streets where the shops sell things to people who come great distances to buy them. I will arrive there. I must do so, if I just go on walking. There's really no need for me to ask anyone, since such long stretches as these must be leading somewhere. But I must hurry. I have to get across as many streets as I can before they all come down from their apartments. They will slow down my walking. With the street in front of me filled with them, I will no longer be able to look ahead as far as a distance of three or four shops, which allows me to stay at a remove from what I'm seeing, to keep myself apart. They'll advance and surround me, I'll be caught in their midst while I try to detach myself from the crowd they make as they stare at me, each from his own direction, and I won't be able to keep from being hemmed in by people who are far too close to my body.

AS I TURNED ONTO THE
sand track, I could see the unmistakable figure of my father at the window, waiting for me to return. I knew he had doubted I would make it back; that was why he had heaved his body upward, hoping to see me more clearly, and had even leant heavily out the window. When the mass of shadow at the window was suddenly gone, as he hurried away to open the door, I was puzzled. Surely his eyes had not allowed him to see me clearly from that distance at all. Perhaps, ever since I'd gone out in the morning, he had gotten to his feet many times, in that way of his, and had headed toward the door. As I began to climb the stairs I sensed his presence above me, hesitating between the open door and the balustrade, which was not a place where he would stand for long. As I came in, he was standing facing the doorway, like anyone who stands to welcome visitors coming in. But he was confused and watchful: I could see that in his eyes, which were dilated and still showed a bit of clarity at the edges that the illness hadn't yet contaminated.

He knew—was it from my empty hands?—that I had not been guided to what I had gone out to find. He should have gone with me, he said, and he added that I mustn't let it upset me, since no one finds his way the very first time, to something that lies in a place he doesn't know. He steered me firmly to the table where my empty plate sat flanked by fork and knife, looking as though it had been arranged and rearranged, time and time again. Leaving me to sit down, he announced that the food was still warm. While waiting for me to arrive, he had carefully kept it warm, lighting the flame beneath it every few minutes. He brought the little casserole over to me and asked if there was something else I wanted that he could make for me now.

Sitting down very close to me, he asked whether I'd been walking all that time. Or had I found somewhere to sit and rest? Had I gotten hungry or thirsty? Had I spoken to anyone who was able to help me get where I wanted to go? I used my hunger and fatigue to excuse myself from answering his questions with anything more than a quick gesture or a nod, or at times a few terse words that didn't tell him anything or console him. His string of questions didn't manage to get me talking spontaneously of my own accord, as if I were remembering things without having to be prompted. As if I was the one who had launched into talking about something I had encountered on my excursion, he grew quiet, letting me understand that the floor was now all mine.

I didn't say anything that amounted to anything about my outing, or about how he had waited for me all alone at home after my mother had gone out for that same little pleasure jaunt that had pleased her so much the first time. When he told me this, I had an image of her sitting out there, in exactly the same spot where she and the woman had spent their first day out. Finishing my meal, I felt no eagerness to have a look out there. Weary, I thought it likely that I would see the two of them posed exactly as I imagined them, and that sight would hardly relax or reassure me.

Finally he stood up, recognizing that our lapse into silence would not be broken by either one of us. As he headed for the kitchen I could tell he was being careful not to appear annoyed or to suggest that this abrupt rise from the table had anything to do with my silence or my absorption in my food. He had nothing to do out there in the kitchen. Nothing to cook, nothing to pick up and bring out here. All he could do was stare out of the window toward the patch where the two women sat, and he would not even be able to see anything but blurry shapes. Anyway, he wouldn't need to remain there long, standing in front of the basin or looking out of the window. He would not linger more than the few moments he needed to relieve his discomfort or to believe that by now I might be ready for some conversation.

We can go out together tomorrow, if you like, he said to me. I had finished eating but I was still sitting at my place with my hands set apart on the table as if to show my readiness for his return. Tomorrow we'll go out together, he said to me, as he sat down at his place. He was announcing the decision he had arrived at on his own while tarrying in the kitchen. When he saw that this time my silence meant I was thinking over what he had just said, he began with the help of the tabletop to sketch out our route from its starting point. To make me a part of his planning session, every time his hand swerved off the road he was tracing he would begin asking me whether I had gotten as far as that. He ignored the empty, dirty plate in front of me; he sensed that getting up to take it to the kitchen might distract us and shatter the delicate atmosphere of our collaboration. But as he began to go further afield from the linear routes he had marked out, I told him that I could go out by myself tomorrow. He took this as a question I was asking him, though, one he could answer by confirming that it was better for me if the two of us were together.

I had no desire to view the pair of them out there, nor any inclination to sit on the balcony that looked down on them as my father now invited me to do. When I went instead to my room, leaving him on his own, I had the feeling he had wanted to tell me something significant that would require him to prepare me with some preliminary words. He went on sitting there in his place at the table and didn't look around as I went to my room where, he knew, I would close the door firmly. Getting to my feet like this, I must have appeared as though I was silencing him deliberately or—just as consciously—setting him down at the starting line of a new period of waiting that he did not know how to get across. He wanted to convey something to me, but before doing so he wanted us to sit together.

He wants us to sit and talk first, so that it will seem to us as if we've arrived together, through the words we exchange, at whatever it is that he wants to tell me.

I left him there sitting by himself at the table. I knew that moments later he would rise to shuffle to another corner of the house, but he would not stay put for long and would move on to yet another spot. We leave him all alone by himself, I thought—but it was as if I were saying it out loud to my mother, and an image of her face bearing a silly smile flashed in front of my eyes. In its happy simplicity my mother's face glowed with freshness, though I hadn't cracked my window open to see her sitting there with the other woman. They would present exactly the same picture they'd presented the time before, sitting one beside the other silently as they stared into the emptiness at whose farthest point they could not see the old city. I was so far from wanting to see them that I didn't even take a single step toward the window. My feet were weary after all of the walking I'd done. Probably they were swollen and blistered inside my shoes; when I looked down I saw that the laces looked strained and half-shredded and ready to snap from being too tight across my swollen feet. Undoing them, bending over as I sat on the edge of the bed, I thought that my feet would inflate suddenly like any body part whose confinement has squeezed and shrunken it. I had no desire to go to the window where I would look out on the two of them. They would be by themselves out there, and beside them would sit the very same articles they had toted with them the first time. The enormous umbrella would be stuck into the ground just as before, but it would spread out too far above them to give them any shade. I would not look out the window over to where they must be sitting, but I would begin my nap by imagining the sound of the wind coming to them from below and dwindling as it reached them and settled there quietly. I could also help myself to sleep by imagining a fly droning loudly as it circled endlessly around their heads. Then my mother's smiling face, so close to me, which I find irritating; and the legs sticking straight out, bare and facing the old city; and then the fly again. The fly droning and sketching its route in an oval, once through the air and then a second time until it reels in my head, which enters the circle at a particular point and begins to follow the route marked out by the fly, circling in turns and turns, time after time after time after

This was not real sleep, and my father's cautious knock on the door roused me. I opened my door to find him standing there with his fingers balled up to knock again. As I stood waiting he said he'd been anxious lest I was asleep. He was going to wait at the door a little before going back to whatever spot in the house he'd been sitting in. It looked to me as though the few minutes he'd spent alone after I had risen from the table had weakened him and altered his appearance. As I stepped forward so that we would be walking together, he explained that he had come to ask me whether we were going to go out together tomorrow. That was his excuse for coming to speak to me when he knew I was tired and needed to sleep. Those last moments he had spent by himself had weakened him. As I walked next to him or behind him, giving myself up to his determination that we sit down together where he wanted us to sit, I thought he seemed ready to bow to my wishes in exchange for my sitting with him and not leaving him alone. That's how he began to behave as we reached the sitting room. He stood there and looked at me, waiting for me to give him an indication of whether he should keep walking to the balcony or whether we would sit here on the small sofas. It was his way of paying me back for my willingness to sit with him and the fact that I had gotten out of bed for his sake. On the balcony where we finally sat down he extended his arms and hands fully along the arms of the chair so that they seemed to express both compliance and rest. When I began moving my chair nearer to his, he simply turned a neutral, indifferent gaze on me as if he were starting a process of withdrawal from his surroundings that would release him from whatever went on around him. I knew that he wasn't waiting for me to speak, just as I knew that he wasn't thinking about anything in particular. All he wanted was to sit and feel himself emerging from that interval that had tired him out, much the way anyone would feel upon reaching a place of safety that would shield him from an expected punishment or a certain danger. When his silence lengthened I asked him—me this time, asking him—if he wanted anything that I could make for him. He did not want anything; there was only that neutral gaze, inquiring without anticipating anything, the look that earlier he had turned upon my chair.

Being left alone had weakened and altered him. Out there, some distance away from the end of the balcony, I imagined my mother sitting with the other woman in that same silent get-together, uninterrupted except for a short time when they would turn to eating what they had prepared and brought from home. There, on the sand over which they spread their mat, my mother's face would still hold a smile as she enjoyed her flush of well-being. I asked my father again if he wanted me to make him something, and he shifted his eyes to me as he had before, but this time his gaze was sluggish and drowsy. He looked as though that sense of safety was lulling him to sleep. I knew I had to go on sitting there next to him when he dropped off to sleep, for even as he napped he would remain alert to whether I was still there. Though his eyes would be tightly shut he would open them suddenly as if something had surprised him as he slept, and he would look in my direction. Our leaving him on his own so much had definitely weakened and fatigued him. When he opened his eyes in one of those moments of alertness I wouldn't say to him that it would be better for him to sleep in his room so that he could actually get some rest, even if I could make him understand that I was saying this for his own sake. I wouldn't tell him to go and sleep in his bed even though if I did tell him that, I would follow it by saying that tomorrow morning we would go out together after all. I will not say that to him. I will leave him to sleep here on his chair as I sit beside him and wait, even though I am so very tired.