Viewless!

The snowstorm, read the screens in the subway, was to break out for good during the night and temperature would precipitate at twenty below zero, an all-time record in the capital. Thus, as darkness began to condense and since the government’s emergency measures included subway stations shutting their doors to the public three whole hours earlier, a native homeless was forced to find shelter elsewhere.

Usually, if during the day he had picked up enough bottles from the sidewalks to return them to a supermarket and buy something to eat, what he would do in the cold evenings of winter was embark on K9 –the only line operating until 2 A.M. on weekdays and overnight in the weekends– and circle the city again and again aboard the air-conditioned train, browsing filthy newspapers, crumpled leaflets, magazines left over empty seats and whatever the wagon screens served, until his itinerary stopped either because of schedule, or because of controllers eager to kick him out. You see, he couldn’t afford to buy tickets. And even if he could afford one, it would last only an hour, which was obviously not enough so he’d have to buy more. That evening, however, it happened that the poor man was roasting with fever, all of his bones hurt and his legs could not keep him up.

Inevitably, he ascended on square surface using the elevator and dragged his dirty soles from the station to the crossroad opposite, where the bank’s skyscraper met the boulevard. At the base of that building in fact, on the side of the park road, there was a room of about a hundred squared meters floored with fluffy blue carpet and protected by double, bulletproof windows, full of cash-machines and massive radiators that were constantly kept on. If he managed to sneak in there he would make it, he calculated. The entrance of course could be activated only by card, and since no-one was there to let him in from the inside, he had to wait for the next client, put his hand or foot behind theirs to block the door open, and follow them in.

When did that happen, though? While the cold was brutal and his hands badly bruised within his holed gloves, an even more vicious wind blew in his face, ruthlessly pushing the snow parallel to the ground and making him forget of his hot fever. He would wait for a long time, he thought. For sure… Everybody was home at that time, maybe even the policemen who used to spy from the cameras… After all, what kind of crazy would step outside with such awful weather?

“No one!” he nodded to himself, only those who survive in the streets…

With evident stalactites under his nose and over his beard, that just protruded from the tight but short scarf, with chattering teeth and well-swollen fingers, the poor man pulled the strings of his hood, bent on his knees, brought his hands into his armpits and crouched like a dog by the glass door, touching on it as much as he could. He felt the lighter in the inner pocket of his raggedy coat, and the wallet full of scraps and vouchers. These last, since cash was rarely seen and everybody paid by card, were the most precious of his possessions. He kept them with care by his heart for the difficult days, when he would fail to find bottles.

“If shops open up tomorrow…” he thought loud as to fool both the wait and his empty stomach, “I’ll go get noodles, water, salami, bread and tea, which I ran out of at lunch… No, no!” he reconsidered, “Not salami! I’ll need to give away four vouchers in one go when the rule says maximum three every week, and meat only with bottle money… No, can’t break the rule, alas!”

He would not dare to look around. The avenue was deserted, sleeping under a smooth white quilt, and the only sound that bothered its rest beyond the gurgle of his stomach was the metallic whine of the Stop-sign, which swang back and forth at the junction like a metronome played by the wind.

“I’ll need paracetamol too…” he went on, “Pharmacies will open for sure, won’t they? They have to…” he clenched his fists by reflex, “Otherwise, I’ll try at the gas station…”

After a while, he folded over his waist and began to shiver. Perhaps, he had an idea, if he reached the gas station he would indeed find it open. However, if that was the case he would have read it on the metro screens. And then, his knees had turned stiff like wood and, because of the chills, he could barely stand up; let alone walk for six or seven blocks against the snowstorm. No way he could ever make it, he felt disheartened.

At that moment, it seemed to him that a pair of lights were approaching. A car, a client he hoped as the lights kept growing his way. I’ll ask them for help, yes… Come on, over here… Here, over here bloody hell… “Here!” he launched both hands out of his armpits and lifted them up with whatever strength he had left, desperate like the castaway calling a distant ship on the horizon. But the car did not drive any farther. Long before the traffic lights, it flashed the turn indicator and within seconds, was lost in the alley to the left.

The poor man laughed at himself. Partly due to the daze from the fever, which was already climbing at forty-plus, partly because of a glimpse on the huge billboard advertising a real-estate firm on the crane right opposite, he was convinced he was actually sitting in front of that luxurious fireplace, wearing a thick woolen blanket over his legs, with hot milk, biscuits and a thermometer on the table next to his armchair, as well as all sorts of boxes containing pills, syrups and painkillers. Relieved, he pulled the blanket upwards to cover himself to the neck. What a pity, though, for in that same instant the fireplace vanished, the blanket was lost along with the armchair, the table, and the entire apartment, and he was left lying again on the ground at the feet of the ATM door, squeezing his crispy backpack.

I need to take out the sleeping bag and lay down the carton he swallowed, and grabbed the frozen zipper shivering like a sparrow. He drew it in pain, for his fingers could not grab well whereas ice had blocked some of its teeth. With fitful movements, he unfastened the sleeping bag onto the fresh snow and threw himself over, to save it from the rage of the wind. With the carton he didn’t succeed just as well. He became annoyed, and as soon as he realized it was ripped, he dropped it and let the weather drag it away.

Upon nestling as best as he could, he took the lighter from his pocket and lit it, keeping the flame as close as possible to his wet gloves so to dry them. He did the same for both palms and while the black Bic burned, it illuminated the sleeping bag as if he were in a cave. Enchanted, he imagined he had returned to his house. There, were his wife and baby; who had finally overcome the illness and was doing fine, and for that they were celebrating. The dining table was covered with grandma’s good cloth, the cutlery sparkled, and the pan with the meat and potatoes at the center scented as if it had just come out of the oven. Suddenly, security agents with raised pistols and open handcuffs stormed from the balcony door, led by suited, gel-haired fellows waving flamboyantly fat-packed envelopes. At once, the baby’s crib was transformed into a coffin, the pan was adorned with flowers, and his wife began mourning and tearing apart all of her clothes. Just then, the lighter went out and the cave returned sharply to darkness.

Tears flooded his swollen cheeks, and his breath speeded up. He remembered he kept a spare lighter somewhere in the backpack, a full Clipper whose sparkwheel was nevertheless damaged. If he opened its fork and brought the jet next to that of the Bic, whose wheel was intact, he could use both to make light again.

“My love…” he whispered, and struck the sparkwheel.

A flame sparkled lively yet this time, the sleeping bag turned not into a cave but a beautiful beach in the sunset, full of strangers feasting at the canteen, and children playing carelessly by the seaside. As for him, he was lying on a cozy sunbed beside a closed striped umbrella, enjoying the landscape. Soon, his gaze discerned the black curly hair of his daughter waving among the dozens of blond little heads, and on the tamarisks behind and around the canteen, sprouted hundreds of colorful, lighted flowers. His girl noticed them, and looked his way. She smiled, and set off to run towards him with arms wide open. But while she was running the beach beneath her feet seemed to stretch, the sea retreated all the more backwards and the sun sat stuck on the horizon, fading into the liquid purple of the sky.

“My sweet little soul…” he barely whispered in his dizziness, “Take me with you, my angel!” He stretched out his hand to catch hers. “Take me with you forever!”

His little daughter did not give up, and although everything around her had begun to melt into purple, she did her best and gave all she had. She ran as fast as she could and a moment later, she landed on his chest smiling and panting, never so tall and grown-up, so charming and happy. She hugged him warm and bright, and immediately, they both melted in purpleness.

The next morning, the homeless man was found by a special crew of the army. His face was pale and hard, like the ones of dozens of his similar all around in the city, but he also carried a wide smile upon those blueish lips. Of course, this was no news on TV, the subway screens did not read the word shame on their titles, and people came never to know there were dead during that night; that they had lost their jobs, their homes and their children just because they couldn’t afford their insurance bills. You see, no-one ought to be interested in such things, and of course, none of those who ought to be interested when they ought to, could ever imagine the girl’s sensational, tender embrace on that beach, or that on that same time somewhere else, somewhere really-really else, she was holding her dad by the hand and they were enjoying together the most beautiful sunset in the whole universe.

Based on ‘The Little Matchgirl’ (1846) by Hans Christian Andersen

July 2019