from SOULS OF ANCIENT FISH by Ruben Mowszowski

 

Hieroglyphs for some other future

Neither of them can remember how long they have been there. From their house, high on the hillside, they have a view of the strip of beach that stretches north into the distance. When they are not making love they sit on the terrace watching the movements of the few fishermen, the two ships that are moored offshore and the activity of birds around the Tower. At other times she rummages through old suitcases for photographs and letters to burn in the paraffin tin incinerator he has set up for her.

The ships are there each day, and the Tower, and the distant mountains. Sometimes they are lost in an ocean of mist and sometimes even the sea is gone. The house floats on their pleasure. When the mist is up she is more passionate in her lovemaking as if freed from all restraints. Sometimes when he lies on the couch, she sits next to him and touches him. Or it may be on the floor. Whenever one or the other feels like it. That seems to be the arrangement. Even if she didn't feel like it, when she feels his arousal, she is aroused. It was never like this, she says. I never did these things before. You had a past and a future, he says. Now you have nothing. So you can risk everything.

There are always a few people on the beach. Children mostly, and fishermen. From that distance they could be speaking any language. Even if it were their own language they would not be able to tell. From that distance it is perfectly natural, perfectly normal. And in the background, the Tower.

It's because we may die, she says. People think it's the end of it but it's not. Do you understand? Men never do. The lovemaking is over but they forget about the woman who is dying. Your body, he often says, is like a young girl's. In this house, she says, I am forever young and you are the only man I have ever been with.

With his binoculars he studies the tall concrete skeleton. Birds roost on the open platforms. They swoop in on the different levels but never collide. Only birds can use it, she says. There are no stairs. They left it that way when they left. They filled the ducts with concrete and no one can use it except the birds. No one can touch them, not even the fishermen. They live their own lives.

Through the heat haze they watch formations of black ëVís pierce the sky, change course and then, like a gasp, drop fluttering onto one of the many levels. Occasionally, in the evening mostly, they will swoop high above them. If they are inside and hear their cries they rush out as if to welcome some long awaited guests.

This particular morning the sky is full of birds. He calls her but she takes too long and by the time she arrives they are gone. She weeps and goes back to her task of burning papers. A thin trickle of smoke inscribes lines in the still air above the house; hieroglyphs for some future civilisation.

It's not enough to burn things, he says, you must forget too. How does one forget? she asks but his attention is on the Tower and the activity that is taking place on the beach. A group of men have gathered and are placing markers with flags attached into the sand near the Tower. A few beach urchins stand watching on the edges of this activity. The birds swoop and wheel above as if monitoring the intrusion. What do you think they could be doing, she asks? They are from the ships, he says. He has noticed a flat-bottomed boat on the beach.

The next day they are there again. I'm afraid, she says. How close are you to finishing? he asks. It takes time, she says. I have to read each word, study every photograph. Are you sure you are ready? I am ready, he says. And you will wait? As long as you take, he says, but the birds...

They have become used to the activity on the beach. They don't even bother to talk about it anymore. The Tower is obscured by a maze of scaffolding and the birds now hover around the trees that fringe the beach.

She sits back in her chair facing him. I am finished, she says. Are you sure, he asks. Everything? She smiles but says nothing. They are still staring into each otherís eyes when the sky darkens. They do not notice the great cloud of birds that has obscured the sun nor the shaft of light from the beach that now illuminates them.

The two men wearing construction hats walk through the empty house littered with old suitcases and empty picture frames. On the terrace they stare at the Tower, its multiple facets glittering in the late afternoon sun. Traces of ash stir in the afternoon breeze merging with the feathers shifting on the terrace floor.

 

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