The Toltec Art of Life and Death. Barbara Emrys
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Название: The Toltec Art of Life and Death
Автор: Barbara Emrys
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Биографии и Мемуары
isbn: 9780008147976
isbn:
“Your great-grandson, who is not really here,” Miguel answered. “Just as you, sir, are not really here.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the old man. “Yes, but who, among all the legions of men, was ever really here, my dear compadre?”
“You make a valid point,” Miguel said, smiling, and they sat in silence again, watching people come and go and listening to the melodic buzz of conversation.
“So, you are celebrating the short life of your brother, I suppose.”
Miguel shook his head congenially. “This memory is for my mother, not for me. I’m here to show support.”
“That, good man, is not all you are showing,” said Eziquio, looking at Miguel’s naked legs. “May I inquire, sir, are you in need of clothes?”
“No, I’m fine,” replied Miguel, smoothing the gown over his knees and dabbing a spot of blood with his napkin. “I’m in a coma, so it would make no practical sense to get dressed.”
“I see,” said the old gentleman. “Well, have no fear. Should you eventually die, they will dress you up quite nicely. Look at me,” he said, lifting his skinny arms. “I made my exit in theatrical style, would you not agree?” He swept up the sombrero and plunked it on his bony head, sending up another cloud of dust.
“Very striking,” said Miguel. He glanced around the room again. This day’s memories were about to end, he thought, but the stories would survive to entertain generations. Peering through the crowd, he noticed that the boy was now alone, and he wondered where Lala had gone.
“So many children, all harvested from the rich soil of my loins,” the old man commented, nudging Miguel with a bony elbow. “I have done my part for humanity, verdad?” he added with a wink. “Who is the little one?”
“That’s me,” Miguel answered, edging his plate away from the old man’s elbow. “This was a significant day for me. Very significant.”
“What? Oh, I see . . . significant,” the old man said, comprehension shooting across his weathered face. “Significant, yes.” He sat quietly for another long moment, frowning slightly as if studying a chess board. There were thousands of memorable moments that comprise a man’s life, but only a few that could be called significant. Significant memories were the best foundation for a new and enlightened dream, as both men knew. He looked at his great-grandson with admiration. “You are playing an intriguing game, my boy.”
Miguel said nothing.
The crowd was thinning, and there was a hush in the room. Daylight had yielded to dusk, and the illusory landscape had dimmed. Eziquio, the trickster, lifted a withered hand and rubbed his earlobe. Miguel, the dreamer, laid down his empty plate and gave his great-grandfather a look of unreserved affection. Their eyes met in a moment of understanding. The elderly man started to speak, then pressed his thin lips together. A crooked finger scratched at the white stubble on his chin. He tilted his head slightly, pondering. How he had got here, he could not say. Why anything
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