Non-flame

I hadn’t paid any kind of attention to my new neighbor. This was not too strange, as I was not used to paying attention to unknown people, whether they be neighbors or not.

It had cost me an entire lifetime to understand how unlikely it is to encounter the blessing of a valuable stranger. At the same time and on a parallel lane, a thorough understanding unfolded in me of the fact that time is scarce and mine was running out at a distressing speed. And each time faster, speeding up more, the more I became aware of its scarcity. Or the more I squandered it. This pitiful conviction had led me to a certain social isolation, by means of which I sought to get away from the trivial and focus on the important, that is, on that by which I would judge myself at the end of the road. And this almost never proved to be the neighbors.

Nevertheless, the relationship of deliberate indifference with my new neighbor dramatically changed the day of the strong hailstone.

It is important to mention that to talk about “a neighbor” is just a convenient approximation. It was more of a temporary neighbor, a vacationer neighbor, simply a man with whom I would share the tourist resort during my holidays. As a matter of chance or fate, our modest bungalow turned out to be next to one another. I had barely noticed him or his family since the temporary nature of their presence made them even more insignificant to my eyes.

Until the day of the hailstone, I had exchanged no more than eventual greetings with him. I did not know his name, or remember the color of his eyes or clothes. With his almost invisible going by the resort, he was far from calling my attention. Moreover, his complete unimportance could have aroused some form of interest in me. He was a quiet, inexpressive man, a complete effortless anonymous. One of the several types of the dead. He wandered by without convictions, almost dragging himself. Cold and sad, not even worthy of compassion, he looked like a boiler without a fire, someone incapable of bearing an inner flame. That’s what he was. A with-no-flame man.

To put it bluntly, I had respected With-no-flame until the day of the hailstone. Better said, I had ignored him entirely, which constituted a form of respect. His moribund style did not bother me at all and resulted almost instrumental to my needs for quietness, focus and rest. In fact, it distresses me to only imagine the alternatives with which I could have encountered. For instance, an unacceptable, uncivilized individual who would hustle about all over the resort with yelling and loud music; or an extraordinary character, someone out of the common, who would expose my mediocre life out in the open, and force me to glance at my own misery. Not to have neighbors at all would have been the only better option. Undoubtedly, I had been fortunate.

But the hail came. I had seen it coming. At the beach, from where all horizons can be seen, I had noticed the south-east, so threatening and black. Not just black but greenish black. The wind had changed, it had turned cold and tough, and it seemed to want to impose on us the end of the day at the beach. So had the bathers understood, running away in a horrified, chaotic manner — like a coward army in retreat — clumsy at crossing the sand-dune that separated the beach from the tourist resorts. I refused to retire in such a prudish fashion, forced only by a couple of wind slaps. And let alone in the midst of that unfaithful and fearsome horde, running the risk of becoming one of them. No, no, no, and no way, sir, I would not become one of them. I settled down at the beach despite the cold that began to penetrate the skin of my feet and hands, despite the sand that hit my face and invaded my eyes. I stood against the wind and, from my rehearsed indifference, observed the quivering flock that left the beach carrying clothes and towels in rolls, running after the items that the wind threatened to snatch away forever. When everyone had left the beach, then I did retire, slowly and calmly, so Sudestada (1) understood that she wasn’t sending me out but I was leaving by myself, by my own will.

I was proud indeed but not stupid. So when I arrived at the resort, I parked my car under a huge pine-tree that seemed ready, firm and steady to resist the strong beats of the imminent storm. Hailstone was a distant probability, so those were all my precautions.

But the hailstone did surprise him. I would have bet that With-no-flame hadn’t been at the beach and hadn’t seen the threatening eyes of the storm looming over the sea, so agitated then, neither had he felt its menace directly on him in the form of a wild wind, nor had he seen the tender lambs fleeing away while looking back from behind their reddened shoulders. With-no-flame had left his car in the middle of a clearing that was too exposed. It was almost a provocation to the storm’s rage, as if the car looked up to the sky, opened his arms wide and cried out “Hailstone! I am here and I am not afraid of you!” And the hailstone replied, with noteworthy aggression. The unusually big stones bounced on the roof of that poor car like the stabbings of an unleashed murderer, frenzied by the furore of a passionate crime.

I watched the rain, the stones and the car being beaten by the stones from behind my window, while having a warm mate (2). Its warmth was not a setback or the unwanted consequence of a delay, but an intimate pleasure pursued with dedication and pleasure. Avoiding extreme temperatures in mate was a major issue for me, especially during my holidays. If water was too hot it burned the flavor of the herb inside, while if too cold it lacked the ability of comforting the soul. Regardless of the incident of the stones on the car, which I did not especially enjoy, I felt very quiet and enjoyed that moment of sublime rest in a way that is difficult to transfer with words, sitting next to a slightly misted window. From time to time, I closed my eyes and gave in to the unique, sensuous scent of my warm mate. I could hear and even feel the rain, the wind and the storm. And the stones too, immolating themselves on the bungalow’s roof, on the garden benches and on With-no-flame’s car. This latter sound, a metallic sound, added an artificial element to the natural symphony of the tempest but I was wise enough to manage to reassign a meaning to it. To me, it represented the omnipresence of Mother Green over the finite, plastic reign of manhood.

That moment of satisfactory trance, of warm and soft introspection, was interrupted with such levels of inconsiderate disregard I had never experienced before. With-no-flame burst with unconceivable brutality into the peaceful, revealing scene, as if his yelling of expanded NOOOOOs! and his insults could turn back time and undent that roof, that hood, those fragile and economical sides which are so archetypal of present times. In despair, he ran to and from the bungalow carrying blankets that he would lay on the already irreversibly damaged car. His face was extremely red and active, as if his forty face-muscles had suddenly awoken from a long sleep. The expression was unequivocal and denoted anger, sadness and impotence. For a moment, I thought I saw an incipient weep. Besides, and with ongoing yelling, With-no-flame gave unintelligible instructions to his poor wife, who also ran to and from the house but in an even more confusing state, maybe because she could not understand the vociferous blabbing of her overwhelmed husband.

I was outraged.

But not at the inconsiderate interruption of my moment of private communion with nature, neither because that interruption had blocked the reflexive abysses into which I had managed to plunge, not either because the gratifying mate had turned to cold forever. No, it wasn’t due to any of that. My deep, nonnegotiable and long-lasting outrage, which wouldn’t abandon me until the end of my holidays, had one unique, undeniable explanation: the unacceptable insubstantiality of the facts that had managed to instill life back into With-no-flame. An individual that now, from one moment to another, showed emotions and feelings I had not foreseen, something that would not be completely inadmissible if its raison d’être were a fair cause.

It was no longer possible to continue referring to a man with-no-flame. Now everything was much worse. This wasn’t a man unable to bear some inner flame but rather one who was unable to bear a decent one, a healthy flame with some sort of meaning. As if his flame, despite existing, couldn’t be red or hot or oscillating. Yes, that’s what it was: a non-flame.

To make matters worse, Non-flame did not return to his prior state. That would have allowed for a truce, a minimal hope of being able to forget what had happened, of pretending it had all been a bad dream. I just needed an excuse that would let my strict consciousness bury away that traumatic experience forever in the wide fields of forgetfulness. But no, Non-flame and his distorted hierarchies insisted in upsetting me, in settling with force at the very core of my quieted inner garden, to which I turned for shelter in the time that inescapably drifted away. The weather did not recover during the days that followed and, consequently, neither did Non-flame. Each time the sky turned a threatening-black Non-flame would run — yes, run! — to cover his car with blankets taken from his own bed. He would sacrifice the blankets and with them, worse than that, his warmth at night, for the dense, hail-less rains would wet them entirely. And would wet him too, as he would sit next to his beloved car to accompany it in its suffering, like a father tending to his sick son, telling him with his mere presence: “don’t you worry, son, you are not alone, I am here to protect you, to suffer together with you until this whole nightmare is over”.

Let there be no doubt about one point. It didn’t exasperate me to the peak of my tolerance that Non-flame should worry so much, and even sacrifice himself, for his car in a way so immature and infantile. Of course, not. After all, who could enjoy seeing a rain of stones pour their fury over one’s car? I myself had put my own under the shelter of that big pine! It would be inflaming not to, inflaming and non-flaming! What truly enraged me was that hailstone on his car would be the only thing that moved him. That was much, much worse than an overall indifference to everything. That was of a non-flame-hood that was unheard of.

My fixation with Non-flame, no matter how fair it was, did not prevent the consequences. I not only refer to the impossibility of enjoying a well-deserved vacation rest, but to the influence the events had on my family’s mood. My dear wife would not cease to express her discomfort and lack of understanding, despite knowing me to the last detail.

“Julio, please, I ask of you to end it with the neighbor. And with that ridiculous ‘non-flame’ thing. Why did you take it out on that poor man? He didn’t do anything to you after all…”

Didn’t do anything to me? Really? My dear wife could not understand me. She couldn’t understand. My own children either but at least they had the decency of saying nothing, of accepting they were too young. Yes, those lads, those pink-white sprouts looking at me with wide open eyes were undoubtedly wiser. Buried deep inside their incomprehension, they surely suspected I was right. Because truth is always known, even when one does not understand it. How could anyone remain indifferent to so much indifference?

Deep down, I didn’t want to accept the situation. No, that is not quite accurate. It was something else. I wasn’t willing to accept the situation. I didn’t want to put up with Non-flame being a non-flame. Forgive me, I need to be more accurate again. I didn’t want to be a man that would tolerate Non-flame’s non-flame-hood. I wanted to save him somehow. In order to save myself.

I then decided to look for other reactions in Non-flame, some other nervous enclaves that would make him react the way he had when hailstone fell on his car. If those weaknesses existed, no matter how insignificant, then his mortal sin would be washed away, diluted. A man who reacts to a thousand trifles is as non-flamed as one who reacts to just one, but he is more difficult to acknowledge and, therefore, more acceptable to his circle around him. That would save him in front of the eyes of his children although they didn’t know it. Not in front of mine, but I was willing to play that game in an extreme case like this, where both my holiday and my family’s were at stake. Instead, the maximal aim, the true salvation for all of us, consisted in finding something truly important to which Non-flame would express an emotion, whatever that would be. This would, no doubt, redeem him, even with me.

The first results were disappointing. I had decided to start at the cushioned world of words and ideas. There would always be time then to resort to the unquestionable resources from the physical world, always more solid but also more traumatic. The following morning, for the first time, I suggested Non-flame some conversational topics that went beyond the usual greeting, so formal and void. From a footballing perspective, I could say that I started making short passes. The weather, the resort, the beach, the vacation-season. Nothing. Non-flame remained nerveless, far apart from that world where hearts beat and fists close. He would answer “yes”, “no”, “fine” (not even “not so good”), “ehm” and that was about it. He then proceeded to the next activity in his monotonous, indefinite day. To be honest, I would have reacted in similar ways to such irrelevant, boring themes. Perhaps Non-flame bore within himself some unsuspected depths and I simply offended him, without knowing it, with such conversation proposals. And in a more transcendental level, with my secret and implicit accusation of non-flame-ness. The next days, I anxiously took to follow-up topics. The economy, politics, our country. Nothing. History, wars, injustice. Philosophy, religion, finite existence, the meaning(less nature) of life. Nothing. Nothing at all. Zero.

As I was gradually forced into accepting his incapacity to react, I felt my muscles gradually tensing, an unknown stiffness expanding in my chest, neck, and head. A strong headache got hold of the night and, together with the acrid sweat, prevented me from sleeping. My semblance quickly withered more and more, with growing eye-bags and a somber expression. I wanted to seize Non-flame by the shoulders and shake him very, very hard. To yell at him: “Come on, bro!!!! React!! I can’t see you like that!! Cut the crap with that non-flame-hood!!” As should be expected, when my short conversations with Non-flame ended, I was in an understandable state of turmoil.

I had run out of conversational topics. I was almost giving up. I had no choice but to resort to the last topic available, the one I had avoided in the most surgical way, going around it with extreme care when unfolding my discursive abilities. Resigning, I had no choice but to ask Non-flame about the day of the hail-stone and his car. He transformed himself in a spectacular manner, as a superhero would have when faced with the imminent need of confronting injustice. He almost ripped his shirt open and flew up in the air. He opened his eyes and mouth, took his head in his hands and began to paint a most dramatic, heart-braking scene, with which he managed to drive me into the shaken sea of his stormy tale. The voice was not his voice, it was another voice, there was another person talking inside of him. His intonation shifted from the plainest uniformity to the wealth that only a million hues can provide. I felt tied to his despair, caught from a foot by a huge sea-beast that pulled me down to the bottom. Moreover, I was one step away from yielding to his concern, one step away from understanding him, supporting him and offering any help I could provide. I felt I was in front of an incredible artist of the hailstone-car drama, to whom there was no choice but to give in, weep with emotion, and give a standing ovation. But no, thank God — my deepest gratitude to dear God! — I was strong. The other part of me, the fundamental one, resisted and restricted itself to proving that my observations had been, once more, accurate. Only one conversation topic moved Non-flame.

Despite my emotional turmoil, and the inner contradictions revolting inside of me, I was not willing to abandon that man, no matter how non-flamed man he was. I was a battered fighter, swaggering, true, but also under the self-imposition of never to abandon, never to quit the fight.

There had come the time of travelling to the physical dimension of concreteness. Also here, I decided to be gradual. I would stretch Non-flame’s hand, increasing the strength of the grasp day by day. I would do so until my neighbor returned from that distant, private world, from that galaxy so personal and unknown, where his flame had been inevitably captured.

Hand-shaking is a language in itself. Non-flame offered a sturdy hand but hollow, void of any type of content. The stronger I stretched his hand, the more he did, too. No, wrong. He didn’t do that, his body did, in a reactive way, as a reflex. The content kept unseen, his still, inexpressive eyes could confirm it. Toward the end, the hand-shake was already painful, but neither of us said anything. In my case, for obvious reasons. In his case, incomprehensibly.

Inspired by my coming and going to and from the non-flaming planets, I conceived the brilliant idea of attempting the inverse way. In the privacy of the night, I quietly left the bungalow where my dear wife and children slept. I searched for Non-flame’s car. To puncture a tire or crash a windshield seemed very attractive ideas, but too noisy. I did not wish to expose myself in that way. I would go for a classic side scratch, silent and straightforward. I did it passing by, matter-of-factly, so that no one could point at me and say I had done it. I kept walking and went round the whole block, just in case. I returned to the bungalow unconcernedly. Everyone was asleep. I thought of the whole issue for a moment and fell asleep satisfied, bearing a smile that only served duty can provide.

Night rest, apart from well-deserved, was long and deep. When I woke up the next day, a certain nervousness invaded me, for the re-encounter with Non-flame would come sooner than later. When I met him at the common places of the resort, his paleness seemed ghostly to me. I shook his hand, not so strong this time, and asked him about the undisguisable seriousness in his face. Devastated, at the verge of tears, he confessed to me the dreadful find-out that he had faced in the morning. The sadness in his tale seemed endless and extended way beyond his words, as if it had a floating trail that could remain pending in the air. My emotions betrayed me again. A furious hurricane took over my silent inner being and filled it with a jarring roar. I had to display inhuman efforts not to give in to that black cyclone that crushed me and put all my balanced emotions at risk.

When Non-flame finished his story, I was overwhelmed. With huge effort, I managed to regain speech and, only then, could I try to comfort him. I tried in vain to tow that huge avalanche of sensitivity that was ill-parked against the truly important aspects of life. I tried to convince him that a small scratch — it wasn’t that small in fact — on his car rendered something insignificant if one could put it, wisely, under a calibrated perspective, in a context in which the priorities of life were adequately scaled. Or at least, in one where the values that humanity had put in the summit for centuries, painstakingly, occupied a more important place than the door — door and whole side, actually — of his car. I spoke with remarkable patience about the good, the beautiful and the truthful, about the essential and the transcendental. And on their reverses. It was useless. His answers restricted themselves to different versions of “why me?” and “what am I going to do now?”

I was lost, one step away from capitulating. I didn’t know what else to do for this incurable Non-flame. Should I abandon him? Who else would help him if it wasn’t me? I was alone, confronted to Non-flame and his tragedy. It all depended on me and my proven capacity to help others.

The answer to my queries came in a dream, that mysterious channel through which encapsulated truths (very far away from us, in some deep underworld) manage to leave the cells of our unconscious and flee to us. The solution to Non-flame’s enigma was absolute, it admitted no conditions or alternatives.

It was early, my family was sleeping. I left the bungalow with determination, without wasting time in reviewings or explanations to my dear wife in any way. I walked with secure step to Non-flame’s bungalow and knocked on the door with resolution. No one answered, so I knocked harder. After a minute, still knocking, I started shouting Non-flame’s name. The neighbor at the house next to his opened the door; he seemed upset and asked what was happening. He was wearing a classic pajamas with stripes and had an expression on his face that seemed grumpy, although most probably it was only concern about Non-flame. The light of dawn seemed to affect his pale eyes, which he kept scraping. Excitedly, I explained that our neighbor, Non-flame, needed my help urgently and I needed to find him right away. He looked at me with an expression of bewilderment that I suspected as discrediting, while wanting anxiously to go back inside. “He left last night,” he informed me, and re-entered the bungalow slamming the door behind him, which struck me as quite inconsiderate toward the rest of the neighbors’ sleep. Disturbed, I ran out to the street and confirmed, disappointedly, that Non-flame’s car wasn’t there.

It is impossible for me to put into words the huge, uncontrollable feeling of defeat, of unserved duty, of betrayal to Non-flame and to the whole of humanity that invaded me in that moment! I had failed him, I had failed everyone. I thought I would never leave such a deep black-hole pit of depression filled with different forms of guilt.

I fell to the sand street and sat there, I couldn’t help but shaking my head with my hands. I stayed in that position for a long impossible-to-measure time, until my dear wife came to lift me and take me back to our bungalow.

She had prepared a magnificent breakfast, full of her characteristic love and, more importantly, the most delicious churros (3) stuffed with dulce de leche (4). I could see the shining sun ascending lightly over the diaphanous plenitude of a blue sky. My mood began to shift and hope — warm as the mates in whom I had learned to take refuge — gradually came back to my body.

It wasn’t going to be easy but, one way or another, I would find Non-flame. And I would save him. Whether the easy way or the hard one.

Notes
(1) TN: In Buenos Aires and whereabouts, a typical storm with cold, windy weather that comes from the south-east.
(2) TN: A hot drink, equivalent to an herbal infusion, popular in Argentina and some neighboring countries.
(3) TN: Churros are popular pastries in Argentina. Originally from Spain.
(4) TN: Dulce de leche is a very popular Argentine caramel spread, made from sweetened stirred milk.

Translated by Natalia Barry.
nataliabarrytraducciones[at]gmail.com
Original version (in spanish)