Stranger to the Moon by Evelio Rosero

Author:Evelio Rosero
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780811228633
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 2021-09-07T00:00:01+00:00

There is only one night each month when one of us may go outside without the risk of torture, and the chosen one is a woman. They call her the Bird. She leaves the house without any trepidation and goes silently to a small corner of the cemetery where she cultivates flowers. She talks to them, turning the black earth with her fingers, she waters them; sometimes it sounds as if she’s urinating on them, sometimes as if she’s crying, sometimes as if she’s laughing, and she also sings: all the sounds that pour from her are like water; and sometimes she’s silent, but even this can be heard: it’s the sound of hands and earth.

During each of these nights, the clothed ones spread out like plaster figurines, sprite-like, in hats and raincoats, all around the cemetery. Some make themselves comfortable on top of enormous rocks, wide and flat like stages; others, the more agile, climb to the top of the strongest willows. But the majority continue to circulate, primed and attentive, around the edges of the cemetery, following and observing each movement the Bird makes inside the garden — when she cries, sings, laughs, and when she urinates on her flowers, like someone praying. For the clothed ones, it must prove very exciting to kill time in this way, trying to distinguish the long, tranquil movements of this naked one. “There she is,” they say, and another voice: “No, no she’s over there,” and another: “She’s over that way.” “She’s over this way.” “No.” “Yes.” “Of course she is.” “She isn’t, I swear it.” And in the absolute silence of the house — a silence identical to the one inside the cemetery — we can make out their words clearly, because there isn’t a party in our house, because none of our voices are sounding; because it’s as though even our hearts have stopped. And we are unable to understand the reason why the clothed ones express so much interest on this one specific night, the epicenter of which appears to be nothing more than a guessing game: in what precise location is the naked one currently leaning to water her flowers, and what is she saying to them, and how many times has she circled the garden, how many yawns, and what is she singing? Is she crying? Laughing? “No, no, at this precise moment she’s just started to pee.” As if someone were praying.

We know that the clothed ones who try hardest to find the naked one are those who celebrate her most when they arrive back at the house; they’re the ones who allow her to tend her flowers, the ones who prevent (by way of warnings among their own) any attempts at aggression. It’s possible, we think, that during these nights the clothed ones place heavy bets upon the appearances of the Bird. Whoever spots her first, pointing her out on the most occasions, is the winner and earns the highest prize (the Bird herself)

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