ANTONIO VARGAS, PATRIOT
Some parts of my valley are backward
these days. People left for unknown directions, often north, and they never
returned again. Those who remained have what they inherited from ages ago.
The younger generations, however, decide to move: they go anywhere to
forget work in the fields. Rarely does anyone move into my valley. Once, in
1962, in a fall when there was not enough wheat, on the east side of my
valley, between the monastery and the river, a man moved in and wrote on
the door of his small house: Antonio Vargas. The people who lived there or
who passed by, and the priests of the old monastery, thought it was the
name of the man who had moved in. It was a joyful event and a strange
change. At least there was somebody moving in or returning to this native,
remote place. The people from the neighborhood often stopped at the house
of Antonio Vargas and thought about the reasons that might have compelled
him to come to this forgotten part of my valley, and about his past. A
worker named Sekula even began to worry about his future, and on one
occasion he paid him a visit.
You bring luck, he told him, the force of which brought you
here.
The newcomer was shabby and unkempt. He locked the door
bearing the words Antonio Vargas, and then he yelled.
I can’t tell you anything, because you’re a simple man.
The worker Sekula, insulted and angry, spat and withdrew to
his field. The other people observed the newcomer, but they didn’t bother
him. The newcomer walked throughout my valley, often stopping to make some
kind of calculations, and at noon he returned to the small house and didn’t
go out again until evening. Everybody would be happy if he continued like
that. Everywhere around the valley, people talked about the newcomer. But
one day Muzafer, the president of the municipality, passed by.
What does Antonio Vargas look like, he asked, getting out of
his black car.
Like an eternal traveler, the unwashed people answered.
What does he do, asked Muzafer.
He won’t say, the worker Sekula answered, because we are
simple people.
The others didn’t know anything more than that. They
continued peeking at the house bearing the words Antonio Vargas. The
President, Muzafer, went to the house and called him out angrily:
Get packed right away and move out.
The newcomer was confused, probably scared as well, and then
he approached him, waving his colored hands. The people wondered and kept
guessing. The priests came out of the old monastery, surprised, happy, and
secretive at the same time.
An explanation was necessary.
I consider you suspicious, yelled Muzafer, so you’d better
get lost somewhere. I don’t want to have you on my conscience.
The newcomer, unhappy and confused, wondered what was going
on, but he didn’t protest. President Muzafer had been categorical. He
returned to his black car and continued on his way. People showed him their
respect with some guilt, and then dispersed. The worker Sekula went to the
newcomer’s house.
Don’t be afraid, he said. Muzafer wants you to give in to
him. But I don’t find you suspicious.
The newcomer, nervously tugging his hair, pretended not to
hear him. The worker Sekula continued to affirm his friendship.
If he had any authority, he continued, his daughter wouldn’t
sleep in every filthy bed.
The newcomer turned, clutched his shoulder, and boldly said:
We can be friends, but don’t be so rude.
The worker Sekula withdrew in disappointment again, not
talking to the other people. The priests were moving around outside the
monastery and greeted him on purpose.
What do you think of Antonio Vargas, the priest Raichki
asked.
The worker Sekula lifted his shoulders and stuck out his
lips, now truly unable to express his opinion. The priests embraced him and
waited in curiosity. The priest Raichki grabbed him by the ear like one of
his parents.
You are a child of the church, he told him, so you should say
what you think of that vagrant.
I think he doesn’t want to mess around with us, said the
frightened Sekula, and I think he will disturb the valley.
The priests moved aside, making way for the worker Sekula.
They were confused by Sekula’s answer, and restless at the same time, with
strange, scared smiles, but they still lacked the courage to look toward
the house bearing the name Antonio Vargas. Sekula, while departing, turned
toward them and said:
That’s my opinion, but you don’t have to believe me.
The priests went toward the monastery, muttering that at
least something historical will happen in the valley. The newcomer stood in
front of his house, looking at the sun and the blue sky. When it got
cooler, he locked the door and went to the river. Several hours later, when
he returned, the President Muzafer was standing in front of his house,
nervously whistling.
My word is an order, he yelled. This whole valley respects
it.
Very nice, said the newcomer. Order is the basis of any
system.
Exactly, continued Muzafer. Get out of here.
The newcomer pondered, suppressed a smile, and turned toward
the door bearing the name Antonio Vargas. It was fall and it was evening,
the first winds of winter. The priests stood in front of the monastery gate
and waited for something to happen. However, nothing important happened
here; Muzafer said what he had to say, and left. Priest Raichki approached
the newcomer and advised him:
Hide with us at the monastery, you can help out, and we’ll
feed you.
The newcomer spat to the side without looking at the priests,
and yelled: The field is for me. Familiar things happen in monasteries.
It’s boring there.
The priests looked at each other with wonder. They gestured
with their hands toward the door bearing the name Antonio Vargas and
returned to the monastery. The newcomer stood outside a while longer. Then
he opened the door and entered the house. The worker Sekula came from the
river again. He was pensive, but decisive. When he came, he looked at the
surrounding like a scared rabbit and finally knocked on the door. Antonio
Vargas, yelled Sekula. I have something to tell you.
He stood in front of the house and impatiently waited for
something to happen. It became colder, a strong wind coming from the
monastery, and nobody came out of the house. The worker Sekula started
knocking on the door again, when it opened suddenly and the newcomer came
out.
I can’t speak to you, he told him, for you are a simple man.
The worker Sekula kept shyly quiet, as if he had forgotten
why he came. The newcomer smoked a big pipe and looked at the sky. The
priests came from the monastery and stopped at the house.
Everybody’s chasing you, said the priest Raichki. Come to us.
We’ll house you, and we’ll feed you.
Do you hear, Antonio Vargas, the other priests said. There
are no conditions. Your place is in the monastery.
The answer of the newcomer was curiously anticipated. The
priest Raichki cheerfully hung out his tongue, though he was shivering in
the cold. The newcomer turned toward Sekula, then toward the monastery. He
said:
I’m staying outside. You go on back now.
The worker Sekula then truly rejoiced, and he began putting
on airs because he was now somehow in Antonio Vargas’s company. This man
put his hand on his shoulder and took him to the river without a word.
You are a stupid man, he told Sekula. You are stupid, but I
like you.
Sekula got confused all of a sudden, he blushed, but he
composed himself quickly, and, as if there was nothing, continued. The
priests stared a while in the direction of the river, and, dissatisfied
with the actions of the newcomer, stationed themselves above the house on
which the words Antonio Vargas were written. The priest Raichki started
explaining to his colleagues that the newcomer was a bit awkward but that
something historic was bound to happen there.
Antonio Vargas, asked the worker Sekula as they went off. Are
you a Macedonian.
The newcomer started laughing. Walking, he kept slapping
Sekula on the back. Will there ever be a more stupid one than you, he
giggled and patted him on the shoulders. The worker was upset, but he was
simple enough to keep quietly unhappy, ready to defend his honor. All
around it was dark, and the willows on the river released some strange
aroma that was spread by the wind.
If you were not so simple, said the newcomer, I’d at least
tell you my life story.
The worker Sekula gulped. He was almost ready to clutch the
newcomer by the throat and force him to tell, but he didn’t do anything,
out of fear. In front of his eyes it was dark, and the priests could not be
seen in the background, though the moon was shining from the valley.
Maybe he is a spy, said the priest Raichki. If I weren’t
wearing my priestly robe, I’d enter the house and search it.
The others spoke. They disagreed. Somebody blurted out that
it was not becoming of a priest. He could break in, but if he were caught
his profession would be done, as if he were a thief. The priest Raichki
defended himself. He had no intention of stealing, but the others did not
want to hear it, and they withdrew. Raichki sat on the grass, not giving
the dampness a thought, and began anticipating what might happen. A man
came from the river and entered the house. Raichki believed that Antonio
Vargas had returned home to sleep. From the river a very cold wind came,
and the weather was getting agitated. The priest, sitting on the grass,
decided to wait for the new morning. Here something would happen, he
thought. He turned toward the monastery as if announcing a surprise for the
other priests. And in the morning a very strong wind blew.
Antonio Vargas, come out, he yelled.
Utter silence was in the house. The priest came to the door
and knocked with both fists. He looked around; the field was quiet, waving
in the wind. From the monastery the other priests did not appear, and the
people from the valley were gone.
Antonio Vargas, don’t be a coward. Show yourself in this
wind.
The door opened immediately, and Raichki stepped back,
shivering. Sekula came out, afraid and wet. He pressed his hands together
and begged forgiveness. The priest first poked his head through the door
and saw that there was canvas for painting, also brushes and paints. The he
grabbed Sekula on the ear and started shaking him.
You are a child of the church, he told him. Tell me where
Antonio is.
Sekula moaned and defended himself, but he didn’t answer. The
priest was persistent and then, with tears in his eyes, Sekula began:
I threw him in the river, he said, because he wouldn’t
recognize me as a friend. He called me a stupid man. He hated me. He
finally got what he asked for.
The priest, stunned, let him go. Sekula got ready to leave.
From the north side of the valley President Muzafer was approaching again
in his black car. He came and sang joyfully: about spring, about nice damp
mornings.
Antonio Vargas should meet me, he said proudly. I take in
great people.
He turned off the car’s engine, entered the house, and a
while afterward held a painted canvas in his hands. It was signed Antonio
Vargas, and on the canvas there was a plain man in simple clothes, with
thick socks. Muzafer looked toward the monastery, toward the sky and the
river, and entered his car without speaking.
I’ll take this rug with me, he said, thinking of the canvas.
For safe keeping. Maybe he really is a famous man.
The priest Raichki gestured with his hands toward him, and
the worker Sekula was afraid he was about to be convicted for murder.
Muzafer waited a while. He saw that Antonio Vargas was not coming out of
the house and abruptly left toward the mountains.
This man will always be lucky, said Sekula.
Where is Antonio Vargas, the priest asked angrily.
That rug has that name, answered Sekula.
The priest Raichki entered the small door of the house and
stayed inside for quite a while, and when he returned he confirmed that the
newcomer was just a simple painter without even a name, and Sekula was,
more than anything, conceited. The wisdom of the priest was restored.
Purify your soul. You are a murderer, he told Sekula.
The worker Sekula explained that he didn’t mean to drown the
newcomer, but his personality was too insulted and his job as a worker
underestimated. He insulted me, and he didn’t want to know what I thought
of him, he said to justify himself. Then the other priests came running
from the monastery, expecting the priest Raichki to inform them about the
secrets of that historical night, about the destiny of the newcomer.
Sekula, shedding large tears, left along the road through the valley and
explained to the ignorant people who came out from all sides that he would
not have become a murderer if he had been respected as a person. He
wouldn’t give his dignity for anything in the world, he told the priests.
But they didn’t want to listen to him and returned to the monastery. On the
barren field across the river, in my valley, only the house with the
inscription Antonio Vargas remained. Nobody existed any more who could say
whether the newcomer’s name was Antonio. The people who walked the road
across from the small house claimed that the newcomer came to this remote
area to become famous. Supposedly all other doors were closed, and he had
no choice. The valley is really backward, but it lures those like the
unfortunate painter, they thought.
