Read Crossing the Sierra De Gredos Online
Authors: Peter Handke
Crossing the Sierra De Gredos (58 page)
“The lone pedestrian came to the ford. And at the same moment a vehicle actually appeared behind him, not armored, true, but instead seemingly disguised, and the car stopped, and a few actually masked men jumped out, some of the ones who were waging their own special, uncontrollable, and also, thanks to the masks, absolutely ruthless war-within-a-war. And one of the masked men, all of whom were wearing long, dust-colored greatcoats as if to be ready for being filmed, promptly took aim at the man who was wading through the ford with his pant legs rolled up. With the rushing of the water it was almost inaudible at first. But then I heard nothing but gunfire.
“And the gunfireâin the parents' cries here in Hondareda I hear the pow-pow-pow againâcontinued even after the corpse was already floating downstream. The masked man at the ford went on shooting at the dead man while his masked comrades kept us pinned down. I opened my eyes wide. Can one even say that of oneself? Yes, I, I opened my eyes wide. And my eyes were opened. And above the murdered man I saw the open sky. And I, I was innocent. I am innocent, I thought. And never, never will I kill anyone. And altogether: an end to revenge!
“And I was almost, almost grateful to that killer, grateful that he had saved me, saved me from my chief obsession, my obsession with murdering people. How tender was the sex of that woman who had called to me from behind that night on the street leading to the railroad station. Clasping me tenderly. And how noble. Noble and dark and wide, and above all special. And it was not only we who were together there in the night. Outside her apartment window stood a birch tree. A kind of millrace flowed past the house. And in the next room her child was sleeping.”
The evening on which she saw the person out of whom she heard her brother speaking was bright, with spring just around the corner, and outside on the mountain steppe a few of the reporters were running to their helicopter. And at the sight of them her host involuntarily made a gesture like aiming a machine gun at the string of runners, pressing the trigger and spraying them with bullets.
He had even leaped to his feet and pushed open the window. The last deep-yellow rays of the sun shone on the walls of smooth-polished granite, and one equally yellow Sierra hornet, smaller than those in the valleys but with wings that droned all the more loudly, came shooting at the shooter, swerving just in time to miss him, and he jumped back, as only her brother could jump back, easily startled, especially by small things, and it was almost, almost all right with her that even Hondareda did not lie outside the labyrinthine world.
She scaled the gentle northern slopes and reached the crest of the Sierra with the last light of day. In the old books the word used for ridge or crest was “eyelash.”
At one time there had been a crossing here, a path used mainly for driving the livestock over the ridge, worn by the cattle themselves, the only human addition being the road markers on the rocks consisting of very small, narrow columns of stones. These still existed here and there. But they had either toppled over or been overgrown by the little forests of broom. It was better not to try to locate them and risk being misled by these unreliable signs, which might just as well be chance heaps of weathered rock. Instead one should feel one's own way, one step at a time.
And that had to be possible on the almost bare, steep, rock-strewn descent to the south. Standing on the ridge, she saw the lights far, far below in Candeleda, where it was already night in the small town that now appeared much larger from her sky-high vantage point, the lights forming an island of light in the sea of blackish gray and black black that stretched to the horizon in almost every direction. Only in the west could one still see blue strips, one above the other, and the top one almost bright blue. It was the same blue as in the uppermost and outer wing portion of that white angel on the lost or stolen medallion. “If the angel had not gone missing,” she said to herself, “I would not see its wing color in that blue over there.”
Although no path leading down the mountain was evident anywhere, along this section of the ridge one could safely cross and head downhill. The air was clear way down into the lowlands. Far in the distance the outlines of the Montes de Toledo, the mountains of Toledo. The wind wafting up from below was mild. The remaining snow patches and snowfields
apparently behind her. The jagged peaks and escarpments of the summit plain of the Almanzor, the little knives, the Galayos, and the Galana disappeared behind the nearer, more rounded peaks. Gone, too, the depression of Hondareda. As she looked around, only the faint glow from a few seemingly inaccessible villages on the slopes, above the high valley of the rÃo Tormes; Pedrada, too, the stone-pelting place in the headwaters region, gone.
apparently behind her. The jagged peaks and escarpments of the summit plain of the Almanzor, the little knives, the Galayos, and the Galana disappeared behind the nearer, more rounded peaks. Gone, too, the depression of Hondareda. As she looked around, only the faint glow from a few seemingly inaccessible villages on the slopes, above the high valley of the rÃo Tormes; Pedrada, too, the stone-pelting place in the headwaters region, gone.
Now came the moment when she wished she were home on her own property on the outskirts of the riverport city, or under her fruit trees there. Never had she experienced such indecisiveness in herself, just at the point in her journey and her hike where her destination lay at her feet, and not only figuratively. This amused her even more than it took her by surprise. One step forward, one step back, one to the left, one to the right. And her initially jerky, puppet-like indecisivenessâher gaze, likewise, jerking forward, then back over her shoulder, then up to the summit, then down to the groundâproduced a kind of harmony, as if the indecisiveness and the hesitating gradually became dance steps (and, accordingly, she later told the author about her “dance of indecision” up there on the crest of the Sierra de Gredos).
And then emerging, thanks to this dancing, from her back-and-forth hesitation, she really, without any as-if, gained the momentum for a decision, the indecisiveness now transformed into decisiveness: time to be on her way! onward, down into the nocturnal blackness, which, once one plunged into it, had a clarity of its own. That wood-road with protruding tree roots at home on the outskirts of the city came to mind, but not because she still wished to be back there, where in the layered and intertwined roots the mountains and foothills and base of the mountains here had appeared to her in miniature, in peaceable and harmless form: no, this purely playful format of the Sierra de Gredos now revealed itself on location: it was a matter of crossing and leaping over the mighty Sierra in her mind's eye just as light-footedly and quickly as over the layered roots at home in front of her own house.
And already she was running and leaping downhill, in imaginary serpentines, an
asendereada
, which usually meant “a woman who has strayed from the path,” but not here, where for the first stretch of the path (yes, path), as she drifted off as if in a drift originating inside her and safeguarding her, nothing could go wrong, and for the moment she was the mistress of her story again.
asendereada
, which usually meant “a woman who has strayed from the path,” but not here, where for the first stretch of the path (yes, path), as she drifted off as if in a drift originating inside her and safeguarding her, nothing could go wrong, and for the moment she was the mistress of her story again.
Leaping from ridge to ridge, as back there at home from one root branch to another. What contributed to her current sense of security was the phenomenon that one of the settlers in Hondareda, a rock expert, had once described in her presence as the “rhythm of the Sierra de Gredos.” According to him, the Sierra was a rhythmic formation in the sense that, whether on the gentle northern face or the steep southern face, the many chimneys, clefts, gorges, rivulets, and torrents fanned out evenly, the result of reciprocal action of water and the granite bedrock, which had created a relief characterized by rhythmic regularity, without the distortions, gaps, dislocations, and “unpleasant surprises” one often encountered in sandstone or limestone mountains, which consisted of masses that had been blown in or been deposited from elsewhere, rather than of original bedrock.
And that rhythmic quality, according to her geologist, also communicated itself to anyone hiking through the Sierraâthe rhythm of the ground under his feet assured evenness, order, and controllability in his movement, “at least for the time being” (“for the time being” was also a much-used expression among the new settlers).
And as the
asendereada
cast her thoughts back to Hondareda once more, she said, again to herself, in the very penetrable darkness surrounding her descent from the mountain: “Lost country. Authentic country. Leaving behind the authentic country for one's own lostness! What a rhythm that creates. What energy. I know who you all are. Of mixed blood, like me. How fortunate to be alive in the time when the last homogeneous people ceases to exist. A rich time. Fullness of time.” She almost sang this, like an old hit. But the moment had not yet come for her song. It was only the time for a greeting, sent in the direction of the glacial basin settlement, a greeting
after
the farewell, as if imagined in an Arabic poem.
asendereada
cast her thoughts back to Hondareda once more, she said, again to herself, in the very penetrable darkness surrounding her descent from the mountain: “Lost country. Authentic country. Leaving behind the authentic country for one's own lostness! What a rhythm that creates. What energy. I know who you all are. Of mixed blood, like me. How fortunate to be alive in the time when the last homogeneous people ceases to exist. A rich time. Fullness of time.” She almost sang this, like an old hit. But the moment had not yet come for her song. It was only the time for a greeting, sent in the direction of the glacial basin settlement, a greeting
after
the farewell, as if imagined in an Arabic poem.
She was dressed for the nocturnal crossing of the Sierra as at the beginning of her journey. Only a few small things had been added, a chin strap for her hat, knee pads, a juniper walking stick, which, when one waved it in the air, produced a hissing sound. Stuck into her beltânot her hatâwere the feathers of various birds, each one a singleton, dropped as the birds took flight, a gray-blue-white one from a wild dove, a tiger-striped one from a falcon, a shiny black one from a jackdaw, a dull brown one from a vulture, a feather bordered in ultramarine but otherwise transparent from a blue jay, a kite feather partly dusted with gold. Sewn onto
her garment everywhere were little pieces of mica, whichâaccording to the intermittently superstitious people of Hondaredaâwere supposed to ward off lightning and protect one from fire: from her clothing, as otherwise from the mica-strewn ground, there now came a reflection of the night sky, and not all that dim; and from the fringes of her jacket sleeves dangled smooth little granite pebbles, which constantly bumped against each other in an even rhythm as she walked.
her garment everywhere were little pieces of mica, whichâaccording to the intermittently superstitious people of Hondaredaâwere supposed to ward off lightning and protect one from fire: from her clothing, as otherwise from the mica-strewn ground, there now came a reflection of the night sky, and not all that dim; and from the fringes of her jacket sleeves dangled smooth little granite pebbles, which constantly bumped against each other in an even rhythm as she walked.
If “Gredos” came from the word
greda
, meaning clay, or potter's earth, or scree, or grit, the steep southern slopes of the Sierra deserved the name more than the northern ones, which consisted almost entirely of solid rock: for her descent repeatedly took her across stretches of soft, almost muddy earth, also slate scree and gravel, where she sometimes slid more than walked; a sliding which, because she was always prepared for it, instead of carrying the risk of slipping and falling, was used by her for making more rapid progress, a sort of riding down the mountain.
greda
, meaning clay, or potter's earth, or scree, or grit, the steep southern slopes of the Sierra deserved the name more than the northern ones, which consisted almost entirely of solid rock: for her descent repeatedly took her across stretches of soft, almost muddy earth, also slate scree and gravel, where she sometimes slid more than walked; a sliding which, because she was always prepared for it, instead of carrying the risk of slipping and falling, was used by her for making more rapid progress, a sort of riding down the mountain.
The rucksack also helped her maintain her balance. The expression she used later in conversation with the author was that it was “nice and heavy,” for one thing from the fruit she had pilfered before setting outâher own form of superstition?âand then somewhat less from the almost feather-light bread than from the olive oil that had proved its worth on all her previous crossings, and the large container of salt: the salty air that had unexpectedly reached her nostrils up on the crest along with the suddenly mild southerly windâdid it emanate from the salt that her body, heated from the climb, caused to steam? Or did the salty cloud come from her body itself? The only other provender she hadâyes, she assured the author, he could be so bold as to use this wordâwere the mountain walnuts, the hazelnuts, the chestnuts, and dried rowan and juniper berries, which she constantly jiggled in her various pant and jacket pockets, making them click and jingle.
“Time is money?” she said out loud in the darkness, which grew denser as she descended: “Yes, but not the way most people think. No one has established yet what wealth one can acquire by means of time. I have time now, and nothing else has ever made me feel freer or wealthier. Yes, and having time is definitely a feeling and has nothing to do with leisure or a sense of leisure. It comes from inside and is added onto whatever I am engaged in at the moment, and it alone provides a sense of completeness and meaning or specialness. Listen: having time is the overarching? no, the basic feeling that first makes possible the other feelings, the specific and also
the grander feelings, that is to say, the more warmhearted feelings and life on a grand scale.”
the grander feelings, that is to say, the more warmhearted feelings and life on a grand scale.”
Talking to herself in the dark: Was she afraid on this solitary descent? Forget that questionâanything resembling fear was out of the question for the
asendereada
and her story; and besides, where she was at the moment, far above the tree line, it was not pitch-dark, for the spatially pliable chiaroscuro still held sway, in which she even descended backward at times, with her eyes fixed on the Sierra mountaintop, which was noticeably receding from herâwhile, strangely enough, the lowlands and the plain below were also receding, even though she was nearing them, step by step, probably also receding because the only lights, those of Candeleda, had soon been swallowed up by the foothills and low ridges, leaving not even a pale shimmer in the sky.
asendereada
and her story; and besides, where she was at the moment, far above the tree line, it was not pitch-dark, for the spatially pliable chiaroscuro still held sway, in which she even descended backward at times, with her eyes fixed on the Sierra mountaintop, which was noticeably receding from herâwhile, strangely enough, the lowlands and the plain below were also receding, even though she was nearing them, step by step, probably also receding because the only lights, those of Candeleda, had soon been swallowed up by the foothills and low ridges, leaving not even a pale shimmer in the sky.
But if no fear, what about the skittishness typical of her tribe or village or ethnic group? “That was out of the question during this nocturnal crossing,” she told the author. “Besides, it had never reared its head on all my previous solitary crossings of the Sierra. Was it the evenness, the rhythm, or the constant state of alertness? At any rate, when an entire forest of bushes, which a moment ago had been completely motionless, began to sway, advancing toward me like a huge black wave, I stepped out of its path as if nothing were wrong, and in fact it was only a herd of cattle, of the deep-black Ãvila breed, which had been sleeping in the patch of bushes and had all stood up at once.
“And time and again, when I slid past snakes at a thumb's and a throat's distance, after slipping, which happened to me more often in broad daylight than in the dusk, I merely observed them wide-eyed, like the sharp horns of the bulls poking out of the foliage, and my only thought was: Well, well, aha.
“The startle response that comes when one trips and almost falls, or falls off something, is entirely different. I experienced that constantly during all my crossings of the Gredos massif, except during the last one, when I actually would have welcomed it after a while: for the shock that goes through one when one thinks one is losing the ground under one's feet merely affects the body, and puts it on a particular kind of alert: afterward one sees more clearly, hears more distinctly, and, most important, a person who has been âpulled up short' this way, as our village expression has it, at once shakes off any brooding or self-absorption.”
In the previously mentioned “Guide to the Dangers of the Sierra de Gredos”âwhich she knew almost by heart, as if she had literally written it herself, the descent from the ridges at the summit to Candeleda, at the edge of the valley of the rÃo Tiétar, was described as “extremely challenging.” One was advised not to try it alone, or at night. On the other hand, the descent was said not to take more than “approximately six hours,” and “as the crow flies” it was a “mere fifteen kilometers.”
Yet she found the descent to be not challenging at all, or at least that was not the proper word for this journey on foot. Nevertheless, the
asendereada
needed not six hours for the descent to Candeleda but the entire night, and the entire following day, and another night? and when she finally reached the fig and olive trees on the edge of the small town, in the darkness before dawn, or after dusk? she had lost more than just a day and a night. Lost? Really?
asendereada
needed not six hours for the descent to Candeleda but the entire night, and the entire following day, and another night? and when she finally reached the fig and olive trees on the edge of the small town, in the darkness before dawn, or after dusk? she had lost more than just a day and a night. Lost? Really?
In his youth the author had occasionally read one of his attempts at epic literatureâhe had always been intent on achieving epic breadth, without being familiar with the term itselfâaloud to a friend, male or female: and the first thing he always asked was whether it had been “exciting” (although even in those days, if the answer was yes, he was oddly disappointed, as if he had hoped to hear some adjective other than “exciting” applied to his creation).
A similar mechanism was still at work now, when it came to the episode of the crossing of the mountain range, and he felt tempted to resort to the sort of dramatic style that he had eschewed all his life as a feature that would distract one from what was really happening. (That author who was apocryphal in this or some other respect, that twister of words and facts, who made things either better or worse than they were: that could also have been him at any number of junctures.)
In a dramatic account, during that first night, shortly after reaching the tree line below and plunging into the pitch-dark, yes, pitch-dark first belt of woodland, the heroine of the story would have encountered a hermit and been raped by him. On the following day, as she lay, more dead than alive, in a thicket of ferns, giant toads would have crawled over her, spewing venom in her face. And the next night, as she stumbled around, half-blinded, she would have been attacked by a wild bull, which, had she not seized him by the horns, and in that positionâwith her hands gripping the horns!âhurled the story of her life at the bull's head and into the
bull's eyes, would have fallen upon her in an entirely different way from the hermit monk of the night before.
bull's eyes, would have fallen upon her in an entirely different way from the hermit monk of the night before.
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