He woke up in a fuzzy, confused way and those first couple of minutes of the day were all he lived for now. The seconds it took for his brain to start focusing and working properly were almost like before, he had not registered yet where he was or what year and month it was, he was still in the forgiving, pill-assisted arms of sleep, his nose sniffing the smell of the pillow, his eyelids still heavy, his fingers and cheek smelling faintly of saliva. And then, as he got dragged out of the sleepy, dispersing fog by his own consciousness, he remembered and felt that it no longer was like before and that the nightmare was real and he had just woken up into another day of it.
The pain he felt seemed to wake up with him and follow him around the whole day, making a point about it so that he could not forget himself at any instance. It turned everything inwards, so that all his attention was forced back onto himself, so that he was made aware of his own body and was unable to escape it. He often thought that this might have been his body's way of declaring that it had been lacking in attention and nurturing by it's owner, so he had observed himself taking extra care of certain parts of his body, like his fingers and had caught himself staring and fiddling with them repeatedly. He had bought a glycerine smelling ointment with which he massaged his fingers and palms frequently each day and then he sat and waited for the oily substance to dry so that he could move on and use his hands again. It was often a good part of an hour till he got up after massaging his hands, but the sense of time had little significance to him now.
He would have had no interest in getting up from the bed and doing much at all had it not been for one sickly and yellowing ficus plant that she had left behind. He wanted with all his heart to kill it and had purposefully not watered it for weeks, but when it denied its destiny he became obsessed with seeing how much it would last before it dried out. Lately he had felt the cruelty of the fact that he had to be burdened with it because her mind was clear and light and free enough for her to have forgotten the damn thing behind. He wanted to throw it away, but he hated the fact that he had no choice. In a moment of rage he had kicked it and broken the pot into three visible parts, but the ficus roots still held the pot more or less together. Since then he had picked it up, put a black tape all around it and started to water it a little bit each day. The water dripped down onto the marble top of the table and onto the floor. Other than that, there was only green tea, the potatoes and the smell of soap that held him together.
He took an awfully long time with each thing he did. He stayed under the shower and let the water run on him till he lost the sense of his skin. He washed his hands with an old fashioned soap and smelled it in the damp air gaining a great amount of pleasure from it. When he got an instant of a pleasurable moment he immediately tensed and stilled to see if his pain was still there. And of course it was, but he now realised that he might soon be unable to live without this pain. The apartment was so bare, free from anything that would cause memories to resurface as they had put it, and he liked it very much this way. But it was not true that he would feel a great weight being lifted when all the clutter was gone. He felt a great sense of loss and he missed everything, so much so that sometimes he stretched his hand to catch something and when he reached an empty space his heart tingled like an amputated limb. He was nevertheless able to only take care of as few things as possible now.
If it was up to him he would not eat. He felt as if he was feeding his pain to keep him alive. He boiled water in a big pot and in a small one at the same time. The small one was ready very quickly and he threw in green tea leaves and stirred them around with a Japanese delicate bamboo whisk which he did not remember owning. He strained the tea through a sieve in his one mug and sat down to drink it. He sat for ages and drank it slowly and watched himself sitting there, his mind blank and his gaze glazed. At least that was some improvement, he was not thinking. The pain returned, refreshed by the tea it seemed, and forced him to move. The water in the big pot was boiling now.
He took the potatoes in the sink in a plastic tub and washed them very carefully with a metal brush. Some earth and sprouts were cleaned out and he run his fingers over the surface to make sure they were clean. He often scratched his fingers with the metal brush as he cleaned the potatoes and he made no effort to be careful about it; he enjoyed the stinging of the water and soap on the tiny cuts. He peeled each potato carefully with a knife and tried to make one continuous cut so that he ended with a curly garland-like bit of potato left behind. Once the potatoes they were all peeled, he cut each one into six parts, as equal in size as possible. At that point he stopped and stilled in a moment of panic, checking, and then he felt his pain again.
The water was almost all evaporated in the big pot, so he filled it up again with cold water from the tap. He fiddled about on the spot while waiting for it to boil again and then threw the potatoes in. He had tried all sorts of different potatoes lately and had finally found the ones he liked the best. After that he stuck to those ones and got into a state of great agitation when they were not in stock at the local shop. He now took some green oil and a lemon and made his dressing and for the first time in months felt the inklings of hunger. He drained the potatoes and salted them and dressed them and then he sat down to eat them. He had been eating them just like that for weeks and that predictability of their taste, of their purchase and preparation was what gave him something constant to grab upon.
On his next trip to the shop something extraordinary happened to him. He picked up a jar of capers. He did not realise that he had done it until he was at the till and had the money counted and ready to pay for the potatoes. Then he noticed that the woman asked for more money and he saw the jar of capers. He flushed and flapped about with the change, put everything in his bag and rushed off. He did not touch the jar of capers for a week. Then one day another thing happened. He crossed the road and approached the shop from the opposite side. He had not done this for months and stopped half way up the street, thinking that he should cross back again and walk his usual way. But he kept on and then stopped outside the florist's. He saw a pink pot with black handles and before he knew it he was paying for it at the till and was also buying a bag of soil. He reached the house completely exhausted, he felt totally spent and cried a shaking, violent sob with no tears.
The next two days he felt worse than ever and he dragged himself around lost in a pill-filled miasma. But the third day he got up, went straight to the ficus plant, took it out of his broken pot, unravelled slightly its spinning roots and re-potted it into the new pink and black amphora-like pot. He cleaned everything and placed it back on its spot, watered it and finally sat down to observe it. It looked perfect and somehow less yellow now and less sick. He cleaned his hands with the soap and stopped and stilled to inhale the warm steamy old soap smell. He made his boiled potatoes and decided to add the capers to the dressing. By the end of the day he felt his pain coming back, like an old friend knocking on a paper door and walking through it anyway, without waiting for an answer. But that day he felt a physical tiredness that was so welcomed, so longed for, that he cried in his sleep and woke up on a wet pillow.
He applied the glycerine-like cream on his knees and rubbed his thinning legs. He went to boil the water and only put on the small pot for the tea. The tea felt tart and he put a spoonful of jam in it, like they used to do in Russia. He licked the spoon and felt the forgotten sweetness of it. He stared at the ficus who was now leaning towards the window and the light. The curtains on the window were dirty. He had never noticed how dirty they were. They must have accumulated all the smells of cigarettes and of cooking from the last decade. He thought of what kind of colour curtains would suit this place best. Thick enough to stop the strong sunlight from entering and blinding him but not so thick and dark as to prevent any light from reaching the ficus plant. He turned a bill envelope around and started sketching a pattern for a curtain for the room. He was happy with it after half an hour and then he got up and filled the big pot with water for the potatoes.
The pain he felt seemed to wake up with him and follow him around the whole day, making a point about it so that he could not forget himself at any instance. It turned everything inwards, so that all his attention was forced back onto himself, so that he was made aware of his own body and was unable to escape it. He often thought that this might have been his body's way of declaring that it had been lacking in attention and nurturing by it's owner, so he had observed himself taking extra care of certain parts of his body, like his fingers and had caught himself staring and fiddling with them repeatedly. He had bought a glycerine smelling ointment with which he massaged his fingers and palms frequently each day and then he sat and waited for the oily substance to dry so that he could move on and use his hands again. It was often a good part of an hour till he got up after massaging his hands, but the sense of time had little significance to him now.
He would have had no interest in getting up from the bed and doing much at all had it not been for one sickly and yellowing ficus plant that she had left behind. He wanted with all his heart to kill it and had purposefully not watered it for weeks, but when it denied its destiny he became obsessed with seeing how much it would last before it dried out. Lately he had felt the cruelty of the fact that he had to be burdened with it because her mind was clear and light and free enough for her to have forgotten the damn thing behind. He wanted to throw it away, but he hated the fact that he had no choice. In a moment of rage he had kicked it and broken the pot into three visible parts, but the ficus roots still held the pot more or less together. Since then he had picked it up, put a black tape all around it and started to water it a little bit each day. The water dripped down onto the marble top of the table and onto the floor. Other than that, there was only green tea, the potatoes and the smell of soap that held him together.
He took an awfully long time with each thing he did. He stayed under the shower and let the water run on him till he lost the sense of his skin. He washed his hands with an old fashioned soap and smelled it in the damp air gaining a great amount of pleasure from it. When he got an instant of a pleasurable moment he immediately tensed and stilled to see if his pain was still there. And of course it was, but he now realised that he might soon be unable to live without this pain. The apartment was so bare, free from anything that would cause memories to resurface as they had put it, and he liked it very much this way. But it was not true that he would feel a great weight being lifted when all the clutter was gone. He felt a great sense of loss and he missed everything, so much so that sometimes he stretched his hand to catch something and when he reached an empty space his heart tingled like an amputated limb. He was nevertheless able to only take care of as few things as possible now.
If it was up to him he would not eat. He felt as if he was feeding his pain to keep him alive. He boiled water in a big pot and in a small one at the same time. The small one was ready very quickly and he threw in green tea leaves and stirred them around with a Japanese delicate bamboo whisk which he did not remember owning. He strained the tea through a sieve in his one mug and sat down to drink it. He sat for ages and drank it slowly and watched himself sitting there, his mind blank and his gaze glazed. At least that was some improvement, he was not thinking. The pain returned, refreshed by the tea it seemed, and forced him to move. The water in the big pot was boiling now.
He took the potatoes in the sink in a plastic tub and washed them very carefully with a metal brush. Some earth and sprouts were cleaned out and he run his fingers over the surface to make sure they were clean. He often scratched his fingers with the metal brush as he cleaned the potatoes and he made no effort to be careful about it; he enjoyed the stinging of the water and soap on the tiny cuts. He peeled each potato carefully with a knife and tried to make one continuous cut so that he ended with a curly garland-like bit of potato left behind. Once the potatoes they were all peeled, he cut each one into six parts, as equal in size as possible. At that point he stopped and stilled in a moment of panic, checking, and then he felt his pain again.
The water was almost all evaporated in the big pot, so he filled it up again with cold water from the tap. He fiddled about on the spot while waiting for it to boil again and then threw the potatoes in. He had tried all sorts of different potatoes lately and had finally found the ones he liked the best. After that he stuck to those ones and got into a state of great agitation when they were not in stock at the local shop. He now took some green oil and a lemon and made his dressing and for the first time in months felt the inklings of hunger. He drained the potatoes and salted them and dressed them and then he sat down to eat them. He had been eating them just like that for weeks and that predictability of their taste, of their purchase and preparation was what gave him something constant to grab upon.
On his next trip to the shop something extraordinary happened to him. He picked up a jar of capers. He did not realise that he had done it until he was at the till and had the money counted and ready to pay for the potatoes. Then he noticed that the woman asked for more money and he saw the jar of capers. He flushed and flapped about with the change, put everything in his bag and rushed off. He did not touch the jar of capers for a week. Then one day another thing happened. He crossed the road and approached the shop from the opposite side. He had not done this for months and stopped half way up the street, thinking that he should cross back again and walk his usual way. But he kept on and then stopped outside the florist's. He saw a pink pot with black handles and before he knew it he was paying for it at the till and was also buying a bag of soil. He reached the house completely exhausted, he felt totally spent and cried a shaking, violent sob with no tears.
The next two days he felt worse than ever and he dragged himself around lost in a pill-filled miasma. But the third day he got up, went straight to the ficus plant, took it out of his broken pot, unravelled slightly its spinning roots and re-potted it into the new pink and black amphora-like pot. He cleaned everything and placed it back on its spot, watered it and finally sat down to observe it. It looked perfect and somehow less yellow now and less sick. He cleaned his hands with the soap and stopped and stilled to inhale the warm steamy old soap smell. He made his boiled potatoes and decided to add the capers to the dressing. By the end of the day he felt his pain coming back, like an old friend knocking on a paper door and walking through it anyway, without waiting for an answer. But that day he felt a physical tiredness that was so welcomed, so longed for, that he cried in his sleep and woke up on a wet pillow.
He applied the glycerine-like cream on his knees and rubbed his thinning legs. He went to boil the water and only put on the small pot for the tea. The tea felt tart and he put a spoonful of jam in it, like they used to do in Russia. He licked the spoon and felt the forgotten sweetness of it. He stared at the ficus who was now leaning towards the window and the light. The curtains on the window were dirty. He had never noticed how dirty they were. They must have accumulated all the smells of cigarettes and of cooking from the last decade. He thought of what kind of colour curtains would suit this place best. Thick enough to stop the strong sunlight from entering and blinding him but not so thick and dark as to prevent any light from reaching the ficus plant. He turned a bill envelope around and started sketching a pattern for a curtain for the room. He was happy with it after half an hour and then he got up and filled the big pot with water for the potatoes.
~
For Ms Regina Stavraki, our Art teacher who taught us everything about the potato print
Il Mangiatore di Patate ,un racconto imprevedibile e minuzioso.di Natalia Charogianni
ReplyDeleteGrazie Rocco! Sono molto contenta che sia piaciuto il racconto
ReplyDeletewow !
ReplyDelete.......................... and can't wait to see the curtains
Thank you so much!xxx
Delete