‘Come,’ he said, and led me towards the side door of the house. There was an enclosed area straight across from the door. Tiny yellow leaves were scattered all over it. I looked up: the leaves of the ancient tree that overshadowed the better part of the area were coming down steadily. I ran my hand over the tree’s trunk and, the owner, brushing leaves off his head and shoulders, pointed and said, ‘Over there.’
I could see a portico up ahead. I entered it after the owner. Most of its dilapidated roof had tilted slightly downwards, the mortar having crumbled long ago. The walls, however, were sturdy. A small door could be seen in the wall on the left. The door looked as though it hadn’t been opened for quite a long time. Its wood had lost its strength. I gently pushed on one of its panels, but it refused to budge.
‘This was once an attached storeroom,’ the owner said, ‘but its roof has caved in. It’s filled with rubble. So now there’s just this portico.’
‘Its roof too…’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s been like this from the beginning.’
‘But the door…’
‘The rubble has closed it off from inside,’ he said. ‘If you think you could live in this portico…’
‘I imagine I can,’ I said.
‘You’ll face three problems,’ he said. ‘A pack of dogs lives on the other side of the wall. Sometimes when they start barking they keep it up all night. That will disturb your sleep.’
‘I sleep little as it is,’ I said, ‘and when I do, I doubt that I can be woken up by the barking.’
‘And when it rains, water sprays come in here.’
‘But surely there must be some part or other where the spray doesn’t reach.’
‘There is,’ he said, ‘but you’ll have to get up repeatedly. Sometimes it starts to rain all of a sudden; then it’ll bother you more.’
‘It won’t bother me,’ I said.
‘This isn’t a good place,’ he said in a tone at once a little melancholy and a little apologetic. ‘I had wanted you to stay here and rest.’
‘I won’t have any problem, really.’
‘And yes, the third problem,’ he remembered and pointed towards the floor. ‘Sometimes slither marks are seen here. I suspect the storeroom has…’ he stopped and shuddered slightly. I looked at the floor. It had obviously been swept clean just recently.
‘A snake doesn’t just bite someone on its own,’ I said. ‘Then again, not all snakes are poisonous.’
‘So you’re sure you can rest here?’
‘I imagine I can,’ I said, ‘but if that would inconvenience others…’
‘People only rarely come into this section,’ he said. ‘Nobody will be inconvenienced, in fact nobody will even notice that you’re here.’
2
People rarely came into this part of the house, just as the owner had said, although now and then some sulking child would wander into the compound, followed shortly afterwards by an adult who would emerge from the side door and, after consoling the child, take him back inside the house. If a grown-up took longer in coming, I tried to amuse the child, but the children of this house weren’t comfortable with me.
One day a child came out of the side door crying and sat down under the tree for a long time. Having failed in my attempt to amuse him, I waited for an adult to show up. But perhaps the house was going through some sort of commotion that day. The child had meanwhile stopped crying and started throwing clumps of dirt at the branches of the tree.
‘Why do you bother the tree?’ I asked him. But he had already become oblivious to me. I also became oblivious to him. But when he suddenly started to scream, I looked at him. Blood was flowing down his forehead. I came out of the portico and picked him up in my lap. The wound was deep and the bleeding just wouldn’t stop. Pressing down hard on the wound with my hand, I started off towards the garden with the child in my arms. Near the steps I heard a voice behind me, ‘What happened?’ The owner had emerged from the outer room.
‘What happened to him?’ he asked, looking at the child with concern. I told him what had happened, which only increased his concern.
‘There’s something wrong with his blood,’ he informed me. ‘His wounds become infected very quickly.’
‘This one won’t,’ I said, descending into the garden.
The owner followed me. I put the boy down and sat him on the ground. He had calmed down now and was looking back and forth fearfully at me and the owner.
‘He was injured at the very same spot once before,’ the owner said, ‘and nearly died.’
Meanwhile I’d spotted the leaves I was looking for. I squeezed them, letting the juice drip onto the child’s wound, and then covered the wound with the crushed pulp.
‘Let this sit the whole night,’ I said. ‘I’ll look at him again in the morning.’
‘Will this be enough?’ the owner asked me sceptically.
‘I’ll look at him again in the morning,’ I repeated. The owner picked up the boy and went inside.
The child’s wound had nearly healed by morning.
