Dora Bacaicoa, La frontera

Dora Bacaicoa, La frontera

The Border

The conversation began to falter. Immersed in that moment of quiet, we drank our light-coloured tea, our minds lost in a boundless world, deliciously bewildering.

Suddenly, the high-pitched sound of the chirimía pipes tore through the silence.

I shifted my body on the mat. I felt no desire to abandon the comfortable position into which my spirit had settled. Free of worries, I had come to a friend’s house to enjoy the merriment that I knew would follow the kindness of his generous invitation.

We had eaten heartily. Through drooping eyelids, everything seemed very pleasant. But best of all, perhaps, was the softness I felt inside, my mind cleared of any concerns, allowing myself to flit from one thought to another, like a boat bobbing on the backwaters.

Everything moved slowly. Life went by unhurriedly, crouching, hidden, behind each moment that passed, in no rush to pounce on the moments that would follow. The chirimías were the only source of discord.

My cigarette burnt itself out between my fingers, my arm too burdened with laziness to lift it to my lips. The tea we were drinking, sipped only at irregular intervals, grew cold in our multicoloured cups. I had never, until that moment, so clearly observed the delicate beauty that encircled those little cups; blue, red, golden… 

With every moment the sound of the chirimías became more high-pitched, more overpowering, more grating. They were accompanied, now, by some tambourines, creating an almighty din. I had to go and look. This brutal sound, which penetrated even the deepest recesses of my mind, obliged me to search it out.

The fierce call grew louder still. I all but jumped up. I bounded down the stairs in two strides. I found myself on the large patio, overflowing, by then, with happy guests. I gently but firmly pushed aside the group that blocked my view and positioned myself right at the front.

***

A group of peasants were huffing and puffing, incessantly, on the chirimías. Their rough jillaba robes gave off a thick smell, of earth, of livestock, of sweat, of heavy food. Their faces, beaten by the sun and the wind, were coarse and inscrutable, like wooden masks threaded through with cracks and crevices. Their sweat, pouring off them, looked like a shiny gloss on their faces.

Those hardy men shattered the calm world through which I had hoped to continue drifting…

In the centre of the patio, two children – one seven years old, the other thirteen – were dancing. Their white woolen tunics were tied about their waists with green bands; through the ripped sleeves, their dark flesh was visible. Their shaven heads – aside from the charming tufts of hair on the top – were wrapped in thin brown turbans, plaited with thick bands of cotton. Hanging from the left shoulder of each of the children, swaying in time with the beat of the music, was a derbuga, a small drum, and the children pounded these furiously with their right hands, making a deafening, explosive noise.

With my body propped against a column, I watched the scene in an almost hypnotised state.

***

The childrens’ bodies span, shaking, nervously, from head to toe as they moved their hips and their shoulders to the furious beat.

The smaller child had feverish, hungry, twinkling eyes. The other child – who I heard being called Mohand – had a delicate head and the face of a fickle youth. His gaze, sometimes listless, sometimes mischievous, fixed itself on each of the guests and knew how to pick out those who might give him coins of small change.

Sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by the younger dancer, he would approach someone affectionately; he and his little drum would writhe in front of the chosen one until, suddenly, he would drop his right hand and grab hold of their arm… In the presence of this tender, mischievous face, the chosen person would suddenly fall deaf. The child would look at them, smiling, and the victim, falling under his spell, would produce their donation.

Mohand would then bring the coins to his forehead, holding them in place with his turban. He would take a few steps, acknowledge them lovingly and sweetly and then, after placing the offering in the lap of one of the musicians, he would resume his dancing in the centre of the circle. From there he would set out for pastures new, tirelessly moving his hips and his shoulders while pounding his noisy derbuga.

Sometimes the children would stop their dance and silence their little drums. They would approach the musicians and their cool, cutting voices would accompany the chirimías with a cry that was somehow both jarring and tuneful, culminating in a low groan.

Infected with this desperate plea, the chirimías would fall quiet. The cry of silence would follow this first cry and an unfamiliar anxiety would grab me by the throat. But the screech of the wild music would soon return, the dancing would resume and a new hunt would get underway.

Mohand approached me. My eyes took in his movements, his gestures, his gaze. It was as if his whole body was itself an offering – an offering that he was making to me. I held out a banknote to him, before he could stop and spur me on with his stillness and his silence. I could not tell whether it was my unease or my kindness that made his eyes shine so brightly. He bent forward ceremoniously, his gesture making my blood pound. Every sensual pleasure, every primal instinct, every burning flame of desire was contained by the hips of that beardless young boy, as alluring as a young girl.

One of the guests, looking at him contemptuously, refused his request for money. Unfazed, he smiled coquettishly, spinning, swaying, flying on his own bare feet until he landed before another guest, who handed him some coins.

He was like a courtesan who unabashedly takes what she is rightfully owed.

Some of the other guests would not look at him when he approached them. They would take their money out and give it to him, expressionless, as if it were a tax that they were obliged to pay.

As he danced his greetings, he, from afar, kept blowing me, indirectly, what I could only describe as a fiery kiss.

That child, barely even a boy, soured the atmosphere with his lewd dancing, with the brutal rhythm of his derbuga, with the sweet gaze of his mischievous eyes, with the flowing movement of his hips.

I could feel my blood rising and rising, beating in my temples. I clenched my jaw until I could take it no more, my clenched fists demanding their prey.

As they were leaving, I went after them, without even knowing what I was doing. At every street corner, Mohand would turn his head. Slipping into the shadows, he held back, waiting for me. As soon as we were together, we looked deeply at one another. His lips, thirsty, sank into mine.

He pulled back, pouting.

“Sidi, your face is scratching me…”

I felt my beard. I must have pressed his face tightly against mine in the furious passion of our kiss.

“Sidi, your face is scratching me…”

The same words, from the mouth of a woman, now from the mouth of a young boy… A young boy? I blanched.

Delighting in my bewilderment, he began to laugh. His laughter – light, sweet, feminine – shook his sensuous body, his toned, undefined body. The shine of his young teeth sapped me of all strength; my nerves would be the next to go… 

But – becoming a man once again – I knew I wanted to flee from him. With his laughter tumbling after me, I ran, full of fear, yes, I ran like a coward, like a child who has seen a ghost, like a man who does not want to cross the border…