HIS YELLOWISH HANDS
The yellow yarn was slipping from Nora’s creaky fingers. She was alone. A sunbeam went through the living room window. She was about to finish knitting a pair of shoes for the new-born baby Maya. Every single wool yarn chained a perfect symmetry that will shortly culminate in a black button on each side.
‘Don’t they look lovely?’ she said to one of her canaries. ‘They are yellow,’ she thought. ‘Oh, yes, like his hands.’
In spite of her vanishing memory she was capable of remembering his hands. His yellowish hands had lain motionless on the hospital bed. His stiff and thin legs had been covered by stinking sheets, the odour of which came from under them impregnating the entire room.
‘Is he having problems to defecate, again?’ the nurse asked Nora.
‘Yes. The enema is helping him do it. The smell is disgusting.’
The smell had produced a distorted image of the room in every visitor. The room length became more reduced and the air more oppressive and asphyxiating.
Nora had been with her daughter and granddaughter visiting her husband for months. The three women had been sitting on chairs placed on each side of the bed staring at the old man’s body. If they had been viewed from the sky they would have been seen as a distorted symmetry formed by three black circles around a white rectangle headed by a hairless caput.
They had remained in the same room for days until the artificial breath was not obliged to enter his rotten lungs. The old man was not waking up. That was a fact. Was it better for them to know his terrible doom? Didn’t any of them expect it? Does the hare hear the bullet after it is shot?
Nora’s face was grave but her fingers did not stop knitting. Her vision became blurred and she rubbed her eyes. ‘My sight is not as good as it was,’ she thought ‘nor my hands either. His hands were stronger than mine. My dear canary I remember the time we arrived in this land… ’
It was a hot summer in Badalona but not as hot as it had always been in the south. Nora and her husband had arrived penniless, with two children and obviously without a home. His hands were the ones which built the wood cabin they were going to inhabit for years. If you visit the village nowadays you will not find cabins but cheap blocks of flats. But there were plenty of cabins in the poorest boroughs inhabited by migrants of the wretched south. Believe me it is a true story as true as the green olives and brown acorns of the dry fair Extremadura.
‘We were very cold in the winter and very hot in the summer. It was awful but we were together. Believe it my dear canary: it is a true story as the yellow yarn of these shoes.’
His building ability went as far as his job as a construction builder allowed him. You may be reading this story from a flat built by his extraordinary hard hands. Nora’s husband retired early as a consequence of an injury in his back but his hands continued being worthy in the market. You may have eaten an apple touched by his hands. There was just one thing his hands were not able to do: writing. He was Mr. X every time he needed to sign a document. His wife wrote down the other important things such as telephone numbers, the lottery numbers or Christmas’ postcards.
‘A famous poet died yesterday. I don’t remember his name now, my canary. I suppose the disease was the same one. Do you know why I know that? The news always says ‘Mr.___ died this morning after a long disease.’ Oh, they always say the same thing when it’s the big C! They always say the same thing. Every time I hear that I also wonder the same thing. I wonder if the poet’s room smelt like my husband’s.’
The knitting needle stopped. It had already touched her wedding ring twice that night. Nora decided to take the ring off and put it on the table. She continued knitting.
‘He was a solitary man my dear canary! But he was handsome! Oh, of course he was! But the chemo weakened him. It made his face skinnier and uglier. But you know what my canary? His eyes were the same. Oh yes, the same ones I met in my pueblo.’ Her fingers did not stop knitting for a moment. ‘And yes, his hair disappeared. It vanished. Her hands were not same either. They trembled. The doctors said the shaking of his hands was caused by the brain and lung tumours and the weakness of the chemo. But you know what my canary? I don’t think so. They were wrong. His hands trembled because he was scared. Dear canary just imagine you were about to go to your home town after 40 years of being here! Wouldn’t you be scared my dear canary?’ she said opening her eyes widely. ‘Now, here they are! These yellow shoes are finished! Aren’t they lovely? Just like his hands.’
‘Don’t they look lovely?’ she said to one of her canaries. ‘They are yellow,’ she thought. ‘Oh, yes, like his hands.’
In spite of her vanishing memory she was capable of remembering his hands. His yellowish hands had lain motionless on the hospital bed. His stiff and thin legs had been covered by stinking sheets, the odour of which came from under them impregnating the entire room.
‘Is he having problems to defecate, again?’ the nurse asked Nora.
‘Yes. The enema is helping him do it. The smell is disgusting.’
The smell had produced a distorted image of the room in every visitor. The room length became more reduced and the air more oppressive and asphyxiating.
Nora had been with her daughter and granddaughter visiting her husband for months. The three women had been sitting on chairs placed on each side of the bed staring at the old man’s body. If they had been viewed from the sky they would have been seen as a distorted symmetry formed by three black circles around a white rectangle headed by a hairless caput.
They had remained in the same room for days until the artificial breath was not obliged to enter his rotten lungs. The old man was not waking up. That was a fact. Was it better for them to know his terrible doom? Didn’t any of them expect it? Does the hare hear the bullet after it is shot?
Nora’s face was grave but her fingers did not stop knitting. Her vision became blurred and she rubbed her eyes. ‘My sight is not as good as it was,’ she thought ‘nor my hands either. His hands were stronger than mine. My dear canary I remember the time we arrived in this land… ’
It was a hot summer in Badalona but not as hot as it had always been in the south. Nora and her husband had arrived penniless, with two children and obviously without a home. His hands were the ones which built the wood cabin they were going to inhabit for years. If you visit the village nowadays you will not find cabins but cheap blocks of flats. But there were plenty of cabins in the poorest boroughs inhabited by migrants of the wretched south. Believe me it is a true story as true as the green olives and brown acorns of the dry fair Extremadura.
‘We were very cold in the winter and very hot in the summer. It was awful but we were together. Believe it my dear canary: it is a true story as the yellow yarn of these shoes.’
His building ability went as far as his job as a construction builder allowed him. You may be reading this story from a flat built by his extraordinary hard hands. Nora’s husband retired early as a consequence of an injury in his back but his hands continued being worthy in the market. You may have eaten an apple touched by his hands. There was just one thing his hands were not able to do: writing. He was Mr. X every time he needed to sign a document. His wife wrote down the other important things such as telephone numbers, the lottery numbers or Christmas’ postcards.
‘A famous poet died yesterday. I don’t remember his name now, my canary. I suppose the disease was the same one. Do you know why I know that? The news always says ‘Mr.___ died this morning after a long disease.’ Oh, they always say the same thing when it’s the big C! They always say the same thing. Every time I hear that I also wonder the same thing. I wonder if the poet’s room smelt like my husband’s.’
The knitting needle stopped. It had already touched her wedding ring twice that night. Nora decided to take the ring off and put it on the table. She continued knitting.
‘He was a solitary man my dear canary! But he was handsome! Oh, of course he was! But the chemo weakened him. It made his face skinnier and uglier. But you know what my canary? His eyes were the same. Oh yes, the same ones I met in my pueblo.’ Her fingers did not stop knitting for a moment. ‘And yes, his hair disappeared. It vanished. Her hands were not same either. They trembled. The doctors said the shaking of his hands was caused by the brain and lung tumours and the weakness of the chemo. But you know what my canary? I don’t think so. They were wrong. His hands trembled because he was scared. Dear canary just imagine you were about to go to your home town after 40 years of being here! Wouldn’t you be scared my dear canary?’ she said opening her eyes widely. ‘Now, here they are! These yellow shoes are finished! Aren’t they lovely? Just like his hands.’
