towards them in an attempt to be fully incorporated into the action, if not to become the centre of it. It was little José. The schoolmaster had kept him behind at school for his impertinence.
‘Will José be late again in the morning?’ inquired the maths teacher.
‘Will the maths teacher draw water from the well for his mother every morning?’ retorted little José.
It was something I would have said as a child, not fearing the consequences, but as I grew older I understood the complex web of emotions that makes us a prisoner of our own fear.
Little José ran towards the boys, unable to contain the many rumours he had heard that afternoon. There existed something called a Super Information Highway. Yes, that was right, it was called something like that. It was also suggested that the Gypsy was in possession of a modem.
‘A modem,’ gasped all the boys.
‘That was what gave the Gypsy her powers,’ continued little José proudly.
He revelled in this piece of information that made the older boys gather around him. Making up whatever he could, he had them all in the palm of his little hand.
It was getting late and Delores left the house to call her son. I watched the look of a mother’s angst as she went to go and get him; it was only then I understood the significance of that same face my Auntie Sheila had had when she came to get me.
Little José was also blissfully unaware. He had aspirations ten times higher than himself. They made him grow. All four foot of him just believed. Living in the land of tooth fairies, pixies and magic Kings was effortless. Delores, his mother, was afraid. In just a few years her warrior would be entering adolescence. The world inhabited by eight billion would soon become a battlefield for just one. All alone he would have to confront the battles between dreams and practicalities; the possible and the impossible; the mundane and the extraordinary; the insignificance of the individual placed amongst the significance of the masses. The list went on—and of course, the final conflict, never quite resolved, would be carried through into adulthood. If only I had understood this sooner then things might have turned out differently.
Delores wished that her son would come out unscathed.. She hoped that he would retain his vision, his humility and compassion, and would emerge a proud but not arrogant man with the humour and the smile that would continue to melt a thousand hearts, and that the right heart would find him.
But deep down she feared adolescence would take her little boy. Things that she had said or hadn’t said; things that she had done or hadn’t done. Blaming the inadequacies of his mother would be a way of comprehending the imperfections of adulthood. But Delores continued to hope. The anxiety left her as she laughed at the thoughts that entered and played inside a mother’s head.
She took her little boy’s hand. Embarrassed that his friends could have witnessed such an act, he let go and walked behind her.
Staying with the Del Reys gave me an insight into the ups and downs of a truly passionate relationship. Since the Encarna incident, José Del Rey knew that he was skating on thin ice. He put a cigarette to his mouth and was about to light it when Delores pulled it out and trod on it. There was no moustache to hide behind and the frustration was evident. My Uncle Bali would probably not have even dared to light up a cigarette in front of my Auntie Sheila in the first place. Not wanting to aggravate her in any way, he skirted around her, making his presence barely felt.
Days passed, and as I really got to know the Del Reys all thoughts of finding the African dancer seemed secondary. If I returned home with just the experience of being with them, it would be enough. However, as I woke up one morning my instinct was telling me to climb to the top of the mountain and complete my journey.
José Del Rey argued with me, saying he wanted to accompany me, and added that very few who didn’t know the terrain made it safely to the top. Having been cushioned and cosseted for most of my life, I knew it was a journey I had to make on my own. Knowing all the consequences of making this trip alone, I set off early, laden with all the necessities José had put together for me. I did not even bother to ask where he had found a miner’s helmet complete with built-in light, but he smiled as he put it on my head and patted it.
It was a long, hard walk as the track was undefined. My little toes rubbed against the sides of the boots; pain invaded my feet and exhaustion saturated my body as the pack felt heavier and heavier. The trees grew even denser and brambles cut my hands. As night began to fall my heart leaped with the slightest noise and I feared what bugs would be landing on me. When I felt I couldn’t go on and wanted to turn back, I stood still and just breathed and breathed. As I did this, I knew it was up to me to complete what I had begun, and in order to distract my mind I began formulating various questions.
It began to rain. The ground turned slippery, making me feel even more unsure as to whether this was what I was supposed to be doing. But I imagined reaching the top and focussed on my questions as, wearily, I carried on. It was pitch black and freezing when I finally reached the summit. Exhausted, too tired to be frightened by the dark and all the unfamiliar sounds, I stumbled to the ground. With the helmet’s light still on, I fell asleep.
When I awoke, the sun shone brightly, turning the mountain-top into a shimmering gold. It was the most breathtaking view that I think I will ever see in my life; an expansive blue sea surrounded by dense green forests with the beginning of the River Aynia glistening against the sun. My body ached all over and I lay there with the sun beaming against my face. After a while I got up, and waited and waited, not quite sure who or what I was waiting for but knowing that I could not leave. And as I closed my eyes, half-dazed, I saw some of the things that I had chosen to forget in my life: the death of my parents, my Uncle Bali taking me from my grandmother, the journey to my Auntie Sheila’s house. I understood how everything pieced together and had led to this moment—sitting there, alone on the mountain-top.
As these images passed in front of me, I let them go one by one. I sat with my head resting between my knees and I just cried and cried, a limitless fountain of tears, and then I felt a deep sense of release.
Later that evening, when the mountain-top drew breath, birds and other little animals joined me. They brought with them their anticipation and leaned forward in the hope that they could release it into the air and that life would take care of the details, throwing up some crazy concoction.
The light was dim; my own light was turned off. The moon focussed on the blackened stage. And then he appeared from nowhere—the image of perfection, slender and masculine. The naked torso leaned backwards as his feet took him forward. Then his feet began to tap, slowly, monotonously, to the tempo of everyday life: the commute to work; the nine o’clock start; the commute home. The tapping grew heavier and louder, waking his arms from their deep sleep. In one brusque moment his hands invited the audience to listen, listen to life.
Then, in one almighty move, life exploded and the African dancer danced in front of me. A torrential rain swept across us. The rain fell so hard, washing away all the fears and the doubts as he danced and danced. And at some point late into the night, the dancing stopped and his spirit dissolved slowly into me.
I had found him—anything was possible.
It was freezing cold when the plane arrived at Heathrow airport. Even more so because of having to leave the warmth of that place and the people. As I got off the plane and into the arrivals lounge I noticed that everybody was looking at me. Perhaps I had been beautified by my new aura with the belief that anything was now possible and my look of exhilaration would be attracting only positive
