I stepped out on to the dust. The buildings were old and stained. I worried if I touched them, they might collapse and join the earth.
My skin was dry, my mouth was dry. Although I constantly swallowed large bottles of water, it never seemed to quench the aridness. When any liquid fell, it disappeared through the sand, leaving only a sense of dampness.
I walked around the city with no rain. I discovered that after a year all the freshly painted buildings had become dirty, smeared with muck and grime and looked a hundred years old. So did the people.
I came trying to escape the cold and the damp. Here no mold emerged in the corners. Here there was no chance of the rot attacking, of it creeping quietly up the walls, letting out its choking gasses.
I ran to the city with no rain, hoping to dry out and detach anything, living or dead that clung, hoping to recreate myself so nothing could. I thought this would be bliss. Things fell off around me as I hurried. I leapt clear.
The only time when moisture touched the air, was when the rare lightest drizzle, Scotch mist it is sometimes called, touched the earth briefly, like the tail of a low flying kite. The mist was sent to tease and evoke memories in foreigners, so the weak would leave, their tongues hanging out. The
people, who were born in the city with no rain, were built of stronger stuff.
I arrived on St. Jude’s day. The public queued to lay
flowers at the altar of the saint, praying for the impossible, crying and
wailing, begging and bargaining. When their allocated time was done, they left
their dreams with St.Jude, not turning their mind to them again for another
year, as they went home and slammed their dusty doors. They chewed their food
slowly and without joy; they watched hypnotic images of men in short pants
hitting or kicking balls, while wiping away the top layer of dust. They arose in
the morning and left and returned in the evening, day after day. They walked
with purpose, each at their own pace. You need moisture to keep hands grasped
together. They held out their glasses to be refilled. I came to know it well.
There was one who sat near but never stuck. He had been an
answer to my prayers when I’d met him kneeling at the shiny saint, my first
day. He had made no effort to grab, to possess, to control. His door was never
locked. His requests were accompanied with a slight turn of the head, and a
fierce stare on his face. So it continued for a while until I finally
hesitated.
‘Could you speak? Could you tell me…?’ His look swallowed
the rest of my sentence. He was neither surprised nor impressed. I was a
foreigner after all.
‘What, are you full of regrets now? Tomorrow I must go back
to labour in the dust. It will take all I have. I could push so hard this time
that I die. If I do, you will not be expected to throw yourself on my funeral
pyre. So stop your pathetic weakness, and the sudden nostalgic need you feel to
catch hold of another. You came to the city without rain to be free, so enjoy
your liberty, keep quiet and fill my glass.’
I couldn’t answer. My mouth was dry. I completed my task. I returned to the kitchen.
I staggered and grabbed the wall. The interior paint came off in rough,
dirt-coloured flakes that cut my hand causing it to bleed.
END