Paola Moscarelli - 2

Mojave

The eyes of the desert are woven from smooth, spare bushes, but its skin is made of golden dust that can dazzle the visitor and create visions.  Light, impetuous winds sweep over the desert, whispering to travelers in a language known only to the insects hidden in the folds of the earth.

            Glued to the window I watch the tumbleweeds race across the sand, agile as fawns facing the first, vital breath of wind early in the season. Boldly they venture up to the edge of the highway and compete with the van for a stretch, as though trying to outrun us, then, suddenly, spin away. They roll off over the dunes until I lose sight of them in the distance, when they merge anonymously with the bushy multitude.

The hills on the horizon, casting a dark purple shadow over the landscape, look like wayfarers forced to stop in their tracks by the weight of fatigue accumulated along the way.  Wrapped in their dark cloaks, they lie huddled on top of each other on the bare earth, dreaming of the desert even as the dreams protect them with the desert’s warmth.  I am jolted out of these thoughts by the sound of the driver’s voice announcing that we’ll soon be stopping at a service station for gas and food. As soon as I step out of the van the muggy air takes my breath away, making me stagger in the golden light, drunk with sun and sand.

There’s a building shaped like a pagoda right in front of me. Two enormous totems at each side of the entrance keep a baleful eye on the visitors’ ceaseless comings and goings.  The door continually opens and closes to accommodate this swarm of people who seem to move through in an unstoppable flow.  The door admits as many of them as it simultaneously pushes back out, like a monster who devours its own victims engulfing more than it can possibly swallow.

              I join the varied throng of human types in sandals and tee shirts, entering the building for a bit of cool relief.  The air conditioning exceeds all expectations. There must be at least 20 degrees of difference between inside and outside, and after a few minutes I regret leaving my sweatshirt in the van.

        There’s a self-service restaurant at the far end of the big open space inside, but the food smells have wafted over as far as the entrance, infecting the air with a heavy odor.  The neon signs on the walls advertize the brands of food on sale here in blinking colored lights, allowing the visitor to figure out the various culinary possibilities at the source of the wretched smell.

            To get to the self-service the customers have to wend their way along a series of obligatory passages, moving between counters, stands, and clothes racks loaded with merchandise. Here, sporting spears and feathered headdress, Indian warriors with steroid-enhanced muscles are reproduced in identical fashion on hundreds of tee shirts, mugs, mats, plates, calendars, posters, sweatshirts, handbags, notebooks and backpacks. With some effort, I manage to extricate myself from the cornucopia of gadgets and head for the food section to find something to drink.

The smell of fast food is so intense now it’s almost unbearable.  I pass dozens of small tables covered with trays, brimming with food of every shape and color.  For an instant I consider the possibility of ordering a plate of double tacos with cheese, but the vision of other customers intent on devouring their gargantuan portions robs me of my appetite.

In the end, I manage to resist  – though still with a struggle – the lineup of potato-chip packs prominently displayed on all sides, and find myself at the cash desk paying for my bottle of water.

I rejoin the tide of visitors now moving in the opposite direction and I go outside, ingesting the muggy air as I look around for shade. A few yards away there’s a wooden gazebo, also in the shape of a pagoda, decked out with tables and benches—an island of refuge for a castaway.  I quicken my pace and, with my head bowed between my shoulders, I navigate the distance in a few quick strokes under the merciless sun. There’s a horde of gigantic crows, majestic in their stillness, occupying this circle of shade, their brown silhouettes rendered even darker against the golden landscape.

I sit down at the outermost table, trying to make no noise. I don’t want the birds to fly away, disturbed by my presence. Fascinated, I watch them in the quiet of this setting, which only a light, southerly wind dares to penetrate.  

        Closing my eyes, I feel the caress of the breeze.  I inhale it with  abandon, as though welcoming the return of a long-lost lover. Moving along from skin to skin the wind’s breath burns the skin’s surface and darkens it.  From every pore sprouts a thorn, which quickly grows longer, molding itself into shape, downy at first, then a feather, a quill and, finally, a wing.

        In the blink of an eye:  in the distance, beyond the dunes, a column of worker ants are marching towards their nest. As they walk in the shadow of the rocks, along the desiccated branches, their progress is slowed by the weight of the food they are holding tightly  between their jaws.  Not far away the carcass of a wild goat recounts the dramatic events of a late-night ambush.

     A flutter of wings. A faint and indistinct cawing. When I look up again the crows are already far away, a fistful of blackberries thrown against the quilt of the sky.

The van is speeding along the highway, leaving behind the billboards, one after the other, after the other, that flank the road. I can still hear the sound of those crows, low and indistinct, hoarse but pure, like a sacred hymn, an oral tale that must be written down before it disappears into the prison of oblivion.

       So I take my notebook and try to transcribe it: “The ancient myths tell us that once upon a time a vast and powerful ocean covered the face of the earth. We crows were its guardians and we had the task of interpreting the reflection of the stars in the water. One day, while following the gazelle-shaped constellations, the ocean lost its way in the sky, and from there it plunged into the labyrinth of the universe. Space and time occupied the lands that had come to light, and proclaimed a new law, making us mortal.”

       I lay down my pen and watch the landscape come aglow with the last of daylight. Motionless, perched atop a lamppost, there is a great black bird. I continue to watch him as the bus speeds past and away. When I turn back he is still there: an immobile black spot - smaller and smaller, farther and farther away.