Gringo

XX

THE SEASON OF MEN

WOULD he fly?

Life was strangely the same even with the power of flight. And what would make it different? What? One steps out of the cage, yes — and then one goes back in and everything is the same. One passes through walls, and then there are other walls. But a world without walls and without cages? Would we invent a new organ? Even animals invented organs to explore their world — and what new organ would we invent to outwit all walls and all cages? To fly was still just putting wings on the cage; Vrittru knew only the secret of an improved cage. The organ — what organ? The thing that would make it different forever.

Gringo watched the giant cherry tree in the Citadel's courtyard, laden with blossoms — a pink cascade criss-crossed by celebrating hummingbirds; he watched the large rectangular window above the cherry tree, and everything was so peaceful. It was She who had designed the courtyard, set the lawn beneath the cherry tree, and a basin where the water murmured. And Gringo looked and looked, like poor Quino at the crystal ball, straining his eyes to the bursting point. It was poignant, that cherry tree — perhaps he would never see it again. But that wasn't it: it was this beauty, this pink cascade — like the sea he loved so much, swollen with foam and countries beyond. It was OTHER. It was something one "looked at" to drink in its color and beauty. And then the gaze grows weary, one moves on and it is “other” again, and again the gaze grows weary. But what would make it not “other” — what complete organ? What million of burning gazes, like a million mad hummingbirds in the great tree of the world?

Gringo wanted to be the cherry tree — he wanted to be the sea. To flow through the slow centuries of the cherry tree and in the swell with a seagull's cry. And where was that organ?

No — he didn't fly that evening; he climbed slowly up the steps toward that window above the cherry tree: a small spiral staircase carpeted with golden moss.

She was seated in the bay window, hands clasped in her lap, her eyes closed, gazing at the cherry tree She no longer saw. Or did She see it differently?

She raised her head. She was wrapped in a small white silk cloak, and always, when one drew near Her, those snowy distances seemed to stretch out as if entering a slow, fluttering flight over scattered summits. Ma was the endless great voyage. One set out into Her through centuries as smooth as mother-of-pearl.

Gringo took her hand. It was cool, coursed by small violet veins.

— Yes, little one, I know...

— I am not afraid of dying.

— It is living that is difficult.

— Ma, I know your great white corridor. I opened the jade door onto a sunlit lake. I opened the door of embers — I know the blue door. I also know the door of snow, all alone, in my heart. When will we knock on the true door?

— But they are all true, little one.

— Yes — but one comes back out of them. Tomorrow I will come out through the blue door.

— You don't like the spectacle? she said, with that small mocking smile.

— Ma, I have learned many things — you have taught me many secrets. But where is THE Secret?

— But it grows with you, at each door.

— Is it to fly? To dematerialize, rematerialize like Vrittru — to pass through walls and drink from the great current of Energies? I can do all that, more or less... I know the trick. But THAT — which has no trick, which is simple as breathing and is always-always there, everywhere — as if there were no more need for doors or other doors out there: one is in it. One is in it forever. It flows like the cherry tree and like the sea. Ma, the cherry tree is greater than Vrittru, the sea also — even the blade of grass is satisfied in its skin of grass and lighter than Vrittru. But this skin of man? I don't know the secret of this skin. It is a prison, with wings from time to time. Has Vrittru found the true key? — But he too will pass again through the blue door, and as long as one comes back out, one is not in it!

— They will poison the earth with their "tricks," she said simply.

— Then what?

She remained pensive for a moment, as if She looked far, far ahead — over the cherry tree and other cherry trees.

— They will invent still more tricks.

— Then where is the door — which door?

— You cannot pass through the door alone, little one — what good would it do?

— Does everyone have to pass through it?... Then it is far, far away... Does Vrittru even want to pass through the true door?

— Little one, you are asking for secrets that are not of your time.

— I will die tomorrow.

— Little bird, you know very well one doesn't die. And if you wish, you can fly tomorrow. 

Gringo went blank for a second.

— Do you want to? she asked with a smile.

— They are going to make a cruel and merciless world with their powers.

— Yes.

— I don't want power: I want to love. I want it to flow!

— Little one...

She took his hands, and everything was very soft and as if forever — without out-there, without here, without I-want and I-don't-want.

— Love alone is not enough. Power alone is not enough. The sword must be joined to love.

— Kill Vrittru?

— He will spring up elsewhere — men love their "tricks."

— Then what?

— Listen, little one — this is all I can tell you…

The seagulls' cry could be heard above the cherry tree.

— When we arrive at the black door... when there are no more other doors and all the tricks have failed — then the little men, by millions and millions, will come to the hour of choice.

— What choice?

— The intensity of the need will bring forth the other man — like the cherry blossom in season. There is a season for men. There is an intensity of beings... or not: the dead leaves fall. The tree is shaken.

She leaned slightly toward him, lightly touching his hair.

— Tomorrow, you will fly if you wish.

Then She added with that small mischievous look:

— Unless we all fly off with the seagulls! 

And She laughed like an amused little girl.