—It’s not much —I said Yusha. Her voice was a revelation: low, melodic and even as harsh as she expected men to be. But the techo aguanta, and the peers don’t answer you. You will be safe here, Zainab.
The sound of your name, spoken with such silent gravity, had a stronger impact than any blow. It was deployed on a foreign end, with hypersensitive feelings to the space. The eye moved: the clink of a cup of heat, the crud of dry grass, the fire of a cerilla.
This night, he didn’t touch her. A heavy, wool-scented blanket echoed over her shoulders, and she retreated into the shade.
“Why?” he whispered into the darkness.
“Why?”
Why are they bringing me here? There’s nothing to be done. Now you have nothing, except a woman who can’t see the panel coming.
The eye moved against the door mark. «Quizás», I say in my voice, «nothing is easier when you have someone with someone to share the silence».
The following weeks were a slow despair. At her father’s house, Zainab was alive in a state of sensory deprivation, forced to stay still, silent, invisible. Yusha did the opposite. He transformed himself in her eyes, but not through simple description. He drew the world in his mind with the precision of a master.
“The sun today isn’t just yellow, Zainab,” he said while they were walking along the river. «It’s the color of a melocotón just before magullarse. It’s heavy. It’s the feeling of a hot coin in the palm of your hand.”
I learned the language of the wind: the difference between the whisper of the álamos and the underlying sound of the eucalyptus. I draw wild herbs from them, guiding them over the forest leaves of mint and the tangled skin of sage. For the first time in your life, the darkness wasn’t a prison; it was a lienzo.
She met him listening to the rhythm of his retreat every night. She met him reaching out to touch the rough canvas of his tunic, her fingers holding onto the constant rustling of his heart. She was falling in love with a ghost, a man defined by his poverty and his bondage.
But shadows always lengthen before they disappear.
One Tuesday, empowered by her new independence, Zainab carried a basket to the pueblo’s fueras to pick vegetables. Know the path: four steps until the big stone, a sharp turn around to perceive the aroma of the curd, and then right until the air is refreshed at the arroyo.
—Mira esto —a voice whispered. It was a voice like rotos crystals—. The queen of the beggars went up to pasear.
Zainab was left paralyzed. “¿Aminah?”
Her sister invaded her personal space; the aroma of rose water was empalagoso and sofocante. “You look pathetic, Zainab. Of course. To think she traded a house for a dirty girl and a man who colors the sewer.”
—I’m happy —I said Zainab in a dark but safe voice—. He treats me like a fuera de oro. Something that our father never understood.
Aminah laughed, with a heartfelt and heartfelt laugh that surprised a looking horse. “Oro? Ay, poor naive blind man. Do you think he’s a beggar because he’s poor? Do you think this is a tragic romance?”
Aminah leans against Zainab’s fear. “He’s not a beggar, Zainab. It’s a penance. He’s the man who lost everything in a fight he couldn’t win. He doesn’t stay with me because of love. He stays with me because he hides. Use your blindfold as a cloak.”
The world was silent. The sounds of the birds, the water, the wind… all disappeared, replaced by a wrinkle in Zainab’s eyes. If he wobbled in front of him, his stick hit a raíz, almost exploding.
“He’s a liar,” Aminah whispered. Please ask about the Great Fire of the East. Please ask me why you can’t appear in the city.
To continue reading, click (NEXT) below!
