I do not yet have a theme for this blog. My only objective at present is to keep it fairly lighthearted - no spiritual advice, no wisdom for the brokenhearted and/or disenfranchised, and no particular political agenda.
This first installment was inspired by the mundane, an ordinary occurrence on an ordinary day: the prospect of some unpleasant outdoor work on a brilliant August morning that was handmade for relaxing. In the midst of the brambles and biting bugs, for some reason I recalled Ernest Hemingway's well-documented abhorrence of physical labor of any sort. Of course, he had the cash to afford such disdain. I, on the other hand, do not. Still, I hope you enjoy this glimpse into an alternative Hemingwayesque world.
In all, it was ten days now that the man had looked out at the hedge that grew along the side of the villa. It gave him a sadness that he had felt before, yet he could not give this sadness a name. In any case, the name did not count for anything, since the hedge had now grown taller than the windows, and that was all that one could see anyway.
The bad weather had come beforehand, as he had predicted, but for nine days the sun had shone brightly, and today, the tenth day, the sun was bright and warm again, and the air was quite dry. At first, the woman who shared his bed, who had a bright mane of hair and eyes like flaming brandy, would look at him each morning and smile hopefully at him. Then she would watch him fill his glass with vodka and ice and perhaps cranberries or naranjas, after which he would return to his "office" and pretend to peck at the typewriter. Then she would take her cafe con leche out onto the veranda and sit by herself. And for the rest of the day, for nine days, she would not speak to him.
Now he looked at the hedge outside the window, and he raised his glass in its direction.
"All right then, hedge," he said. "You have beaten me this time. You're a damn stubborn hedge."
He knew that there were some things that a man must do, and some of them he must do alone. This hedge business would be bad enough, and he knew it would not do for that little tejon of a wife to be involved. No, she was built for other things, such as buying expensive tiles for their cuchina, and he knew - had always known - that he and that hedge would get to know each other well soon enough.
He wondered: would it be as bad as it had been in the mountains that summer, when the trout had refused to run, and he had to eat the jelly sandwiches instead? He could not say, but there the hedge was, looking at him, even though he knew very well that a hedge has no eyes.
He walked past her but did not look at her, walking down the steps of the veranda into the bright sunlight. He had his cold glass of fresh vodka and ice, and he thought that if he could just make it to the tool shed without stumbling, he would be all right. The shed seemed far away, even though it was just by the side of the villa. Still, it was not as bad as it had been in the trenches outside of Madrid with the smells from the landfill coming up the hill toward him, and before the glass was sweaty in his palm, he was there.
The shed was dark and full of manure, with little chinks of bright light to show where the tools were buried. With his foot he found the hedge clippers, and he knew immediately that the blades were dull, but he was certain that it was too dark in the shed to find the sharpening stone, and in in any case, he did not want to risk leaning over and landing face-first in the manure. With the clippers in one hand and his glass in the other, he flung the door open and made for the hedge.
"All right then, hedge, damn you," he said, and he gave his old death smile.
Someone called to him, and he saw an old man looking shriveled and hanging over the gate that opened onto the villa's lawn. "Papa! What the hell are you doing?"
Instinctively he changed direction and veered toward the gate, somehow managing to focus his eyes. "Is it really you, Colonel Pietro?"
"Truly."
When he was close enough, he knew by the old man's breath that it truly was the colonel. They had been drinking together many times in Italy, and they had fished and hunted in many of the good places, until the old man had come down with the gout.
"I thought you were dead, Colonel," he said.
"No such luck, Papa. Why are you carrying those big scissors?"
"I have to trim that bitch of a hedge." He pointed toward the villa where the hedge had climbed nearly to the eaves.
"Screw that," the colonel said. "I'll send my boy over here tomorrow to cut the heart out of that hedge. For now, I am going to the Floridita, where the beer is on ice and the women are like wheat waiting to be harvested."
"Well," he said, "I'm not sure what you mean by any of that, but I could certainly use a beer."
"Good." The old man smiled his rank, toothless smile. "My car is just over there. I had an abrupt encounter with a tree, but the motor is still running at least."
He knew inside of himself that the hedge would not be trimmed today or tomorrow or the next day, and he knew that the tejon with her flaming-brandy eyes would be waiting for him in the morning. All the same, he turned and flung the clippers high in the air, where they turned over and over like a lost propeller, finally landing with a soft shushing sound in the thick green hedge.