We lived in a small community, at the foot of a huge mountain, isolated from the bustle of the city and complex technological equipment. The children received education from home for a couple of hours a day, and then we divided ourselves into daily tasks such as helping adults in the collection of vegetables, legumes and fruits, drawing water from the well and supplying it to each home, going down to the river with baskets of clothes to wash, prepare the newlyweds... In short, everything that children under eight years of age could do.
By then, I was not allowed anything beyond watering the medicinal plants in the yards and feeding the chickens from the fence. It is incredible how the absence of a sense assumes that you will be convalescing for life; the adults treated you with great care, they whispered or spoke so softly as if they were afraid they would take away another sense from me if they offended me; the children were a little more obvious, they avoided dealing with me as one avoids a sure whipping from his parents. They all preferred to save themselves the trouble.
Well, at least almost all...
Zachary was the classic renegade boy from the village; if they sent him to cooperate in the laundry, he would come back drenched from head to foot with a reddish slap across the jaw; he was the only one forcing the startled chickens to flee beyond the thick undergrowth, and the last to touch his oats that night. The rest of the boys in the community had already branded him as a target to bother, because they knew that his parents did not like him and would not recriminate if they conspire against him, this put Zachary in an unfavorable situation, in which, in his In my spare time I would spend them between the branches of a tree or, I would step out, and accompany in silence the rest of the day.
-Do not think that I follow you for fun – he told me once, while I was busy sanding a damaged hunting bow -. There are countless better things I have to do, but I'm not in the mood today, and, by chance, I ran into you on the way.
His defensive position was understandable; Showing a bit of weakness in such a hostile environment would mean giving them permission to be ridiculed and embarrassed, knowing that what they say and do will affect you.
Suddenly, he stood up.
"Wh-what are you holding in your hands?!" I shrugged.
-Just because you can't see doesn't mean you can't handle a knife.
I felt Zachary's gaze boring into my head, as if the concept of buffing wasn't within a blind man's range. Without being intimidated, I continued in my eagerness, until he sat down again, suspiciously, looking for some logical explanation when carving the wood. We were behind one of the cellars where old or useless junk was stored, a place that few tend to frequent because of the smell of post.
After a few minutes, he moved to his own spot.
-Oh! - he sighed -, and I considered myself out of place.
When he received no reply, he continued:
Haven't you thought that you don't belong here? That you were born for something bigger than… cleaning up manure with your hands and cutting off your hands to collect the annual harvest? Repeat the same story of your grandparents, and have the next line of your family do the same.
I'm fine where I am.
-Of course, because you have been raised to think that it is enough to learn to do the basic things by yourself and survive until the day you die. They don't expect anything else.
I don't know why, but hearing him say what I already knew shook my chest more than when the thought invaded my head. I got upset.
-I, on the other hand, know that I will not stay here to wait for the final judgment.
-Why? I tore off a splinter, knife raised. Why can you see?
I know how ridiculous it must be to feel threatened by a blind man, but she was armed. Even Zachary knew the danger of even getting close to the blade. But he wasn't scared, he laughed softly, as if it were a caress on the back.
-I don't need to see to succeed; I have my voice.
I felt confused, no… rather silly, when he tugged on my arm to go to a more secluded spot.
-I'll show you.
If I hid behind the warehouse to be unnoticed, Zachary would slip into the shack on one of the loose planks to rehearse.
-It is difficult to come during the day because of the noise of the old people and the animals; That's why I wait until nightfall and filter myself while the others sleep... BEWARE OF THE RUSTY SHOVEL!
My foot dangled, and I didn't let out my breath until he sat me down on an old bucket. It was not a good place for me, with so many objects thrown and piled up with a shabby smell. It was hot and stifling, but it was ideal if you didn't want to be found.
Zachary would not be the ideal partner if you had to prepare food, or had to spend hours on your feet soaping the sheets. He was an energetic boy focused on producing joy through his words, on capturing someone else's. He could hit a note so high he was scared, or sing so softly only I could hear him. He was very nice.
-When my lungs don't give for more, I concentrated on emulating the lyrics coming out of my lips and I imagine the vibrato I could get. I show you?
Knowing that I couldn't see him, he would casually touch his nose to mine, and with tingling hands, I would catch the scent of peaches from his hair until he would look away, and ask if he had been able to hear any sound.
I went from sitting apart at lunch to finding a place next to him to eat and chat about anything trivial. It was no longer just me and my solitary task for survival, I was with "Zack", how I wanted to be known in the world of entertainment (whatever that meant), walking, playing or just looking at the sky; although, in reality, in the latter, I was in charge of controlling the incessant beating of my heart.
I felt confused, and at the same time overwhelmed, during the hours together; my heart was racing, and my hands were sweating more than usual when Zack played them to follow a tune that came into his head. The accumulation of nerves on his cheeks sometimes gave me such a tingle that in the midst of his lethargy he talked about the things he would do when an agency hired him.
-What's wrong? You're acting weird…again.
I realized that night that it was because of him, feeling sick and fascinated at the same time.
-But I don't know, I'll say it… - I swore, burying myself in the quilt, and feeling my face burn again.
It was enough for me to have him close and that he was not indifferent to me. I feared what could happen to our friendship, if he realized the growing infatuation that was beginning to arise in me.
