No medical man can help him, and no woman will have him.Īlone in his house, Solomon names a cloud of dust, picturing an Avra with delicate fingers and a quick smile. It isn’t leprosy, but it looks enough like it that the neighbors shun him. Something’s climbed beneath his skin, creating scabrous ridges on the sides of his ears and lips, and a cough, sometimes bloody. Solomon’s come South from Saragossa to the city of his birth in a last attempt to heal himself. Wherever he steps, there is sorrow and pain. It’s beautiful everywhere, everywhere but where Solomon is. Sweet milk, grapes and almonds, figs, lemons, bitter oranges, pomegranate, a view across the ocean from Spain to the coast of Africa. Málaga isn’t a city where loneliness should overtake a man. Screaming quiet is the way the world lets a man know he’s alone forever, with no remedy but death or sorcery. The quiet is full of wineglasses and whippoorwills. ![]() The quiet is full of newborn babies crying and lovers murmuring. ![]() The quiet is never quiet, not to the lonely. There have been boulders installed for leapers once the never is too much. In the dark, visited by spirits jealous with their leavings.Īt the tops of certain mountains there are places for those the world refuses, and at the bottoms of other mountains there are prisons for those the world regrets. In a tower, feet forced into standing, floor too small for kneeling down, the only view a high window, the world below made of fire. In a market stall, surrounded by speechless wooden wares, or banished to a black rock in the center of the sea. Since the beginning of the world, there’ve been a thousand ways invented to be lonely.
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