The Smell Of Time

Silence would reign, and the men who had been leaping about on the track, would go back to the palm trunks. They would cough breathlessly and begin to dry their sweat, staring towards the fields that stretched away and the lights of the settlements that seem from afar to be scattered in an uneven line. Each time the old man would say that this time they wouldn’t get away. Always they would choose the right time, just when the bales of cotton were waiting for the carts, and the baskets of peaches were all stacked up near the gate, the maize and the wheat too. The houses, that flat roofs, and the baking ovens, each time he would sense that they were waiting for him, he would tremble with rage and strike at the doors with his foot. Those silently dumb faces.

No one.
That’s how it was.
None one but some old people on the heaps of straw in the houses, staring at him and getting to their feet.

He would listen to the coughing of the soldiers on the stone bench and their whispered conversation as though exhausted by the long silence. The old man stood beside the blazing fire listening to the thud of horses hooves. As there was no clear, defined way through the fields, the people in the settlement, when in a hurry, found a way to the village between the plots of land. The old man gathered up his things and took them in the shack. He closed the door and sat beside the fire, feeding its pieces of dry wood giving himself up to the warmth and the silence. He was conscious of the rustle of vegetation behind the shack. And was staring out at the lights of the distant settlements.

It was an intense hot day. It was the hour of afternoon prayer and the sun was still hot. Dark green thorn lush with yellow flowers, thickly branch trees began to shake in the wind. The wind increased in violence, the sound of it echoing emptily among the tall palm trees. At the hour of sunset, the glare of the sun disappeared; its weak light still penetrated though the tall palm trees from time to time, the air smelling of the dark – colored dust. His face was moist with sweat and dust. The violence of the wind had lessened - though the air remained redolent with the smell of dust. They were thinking they would reach their home under cover of the darkness of dawn like other days. The sun glowed and the heat grew intense. At last the sun had gone down and darkness had fallen. Faint lights moved between the trees as though people were carrying small lamps. With eyes on the light. The steady patch was always damp, the earth looking as though it had been watered, covered with dried leaves. The villagers, on reaching it when returning home, would collect their breath and glance with loving reassurance at the tall palm trees.

They were looking at the day light that was beginning to come through the branches of the trees and were exchanging glances in silence. The spring returned with flowers and jasmine. And apricots were dressed in white. The old man laid consciously listening to the whisper to the ocean of tall palm trees. He did nothing! The nature carried him forward. In summer, the women of the big houses would come out for an evening for a short stroll. They would be in groups in their black wrap around hiding their faces. They would extend a pleasant smell that distinguished them from women of other houses. Their stroll would take them no further then the palm trees, where they would stand in the darkness. Then, they would break into a run, their laughter ringing among the trees. Which would be followed by a sudden silence and hands would be stretched out to settle the covers on the shoulder, where it would remain rather being raised over the head. Their eyes would stare with curiosity through the palm tress. They would move backward and forward with graceful gestures, their faces aglow in the setting sun. When the women reached the trees, the village boys would appear not to notice their arrival. They would be following, out of the corner of their eyes, the movement taking place among the trees, would catch sight of the black covers as they were waved about in the air and continued with their conversations. When laughter echoed among the trees, they would all of a sudden stop talking and listen intently. Then the women would go back running and laughing. The village boys would catch sight of bare arms – which they always imagined as white and plump – waving about from time to time. Suppressed laughter, the women were walking along by the tall palm trees and coming to a strip, when they ended, looking at the dark horizon. A few scattered lights come its view and disappeared far off where the houses of neighboring village lay. The silences between would grow longer. Then they would make their way back, their voices a whisper, their footstep slow. The village now within their sight looked as they always saw it. They stood for a while at the entrance of the village and then disappeared in the lanes.

Rays of light burst suddenly, piercing the layers of mist from behind the mountains. And the lure of the unknown behind. Their journey across the sky registering deepening shadows. A sky occasionally interrupted by clouds. As thought he knew already. That pleasure comes after absence. As unseen rain. One winter the old man died. He had got his things ready early in the morning. The warmth of the sun was still uncertain as he bent over the spread may on the stone bench. The old man slowly walked behind the shack. He lay down facing the sun, turning, searching around with his eyes among the stalks of wheat and maize. The morning dew still moistened the grass on the edge of the plot of land when the old man had stretched his legs.