A Line From a Poem

20 Short Story

Samuel sits on a bench near the sand, and he reads. The bench is wooden, old with fresh paint the color of azure and white, the town’s colors. The town is prosperous and concerned with appearances. Councils ensure that the bench is immaculate, as serene and majestic as the sea and palm branches that surround it. Assorted gum, abandoned, colors the planks beneath the bench; they remain as unscathed as the ghosts of children who placed them there over the decades. Presently, the bench holds one Styrofoam cup three-quarters full of espresso and milk; one faux leather journal, dark brown; a black fine-point pen, which rests atop the journal; and Samuel, who reads from a collection of short stories.

Samuel looks up from the book. Aloud, he repeats, “Nothing is comparable to sleeping in those waters, to wake pounded by a thousand light lashes, by a thousand assaults that withdrew laughing.” He looks to the sea, studies it intently. He seems to be looking through it, beyond it. The sentence repeats in his mind. The sea is a wall, a green screen. He does not see it or the sand or the ships on the horizon. Samuel sees the words, and he loves them.

The words were written by Octavio Paz, a Mexican writer. They were published when he was in his mid-thirties. Samuel is in his mid-thirties, Latin-American, mochahaired with coarse whites stubbornly advancing. He has been published once, years ago at a university not far from the town. He would walk from his dorm to the bench, bathe in the sea, and write until dusk. Now, he teaches high-school English and reads obsessively. He has not finished a story in over a year.

Samuel returns to the book. He shifts as he reads, crossing and uncrossing his legs, stroking the hair on his chin, resting his chin on his hands as he considers words. Clouds shift above him, briefly darkening the pages. “The rain was a welcome distraction,” he begins in his journal, then strikes the words through with one line. Paz continues, “I thought I was drowning. And when I was at the point of death, and purple, she deposited me on the bank and began to kiss me, saying I don’t know what things. I felt very weak, fatigued, and humiliated. And at the same time her voluptuousness made me close my eyes, because her voice was sweet and she spoke to me of the delicious death of the drowned . . .”

The sea gently oscillates fifty feet from the bench. She is a transparent teal. The wind lengthens her croons, and children of travellers respond, adore her. The faces and shoulders of the children are spotted with sunscreen, white like the crown of the sea and the hair of Samuel and the legs and backs of the bench. The children jump into the arms of the sea, searching her depths. A couple walks the shore. The woman is pale beneath a straw hat, turquoise and floppy, one weathered hand interlaced with her lover’s. Her lover is tall, arms freckled from years in the sun. He treads the sea with his toes. The woman arches, clasps an empty shell with magenta grooves. She rinses it in the sea, then places it inside of a net half-full of shells, each unique in size and pigment, treasures amassed to bestow.

Samuel stands, collects his belongings. The breeze strengthens. He looks to the sea, admires its curves. He sees the children and lovers, remembers a line from a poem he wrote, a poem inspired by the sea. Aloud, he recites, “She is a formless mountain crashing on shadow shores, whispering solemn vows in blazing ears.” He looks at his journal and back to the sea.