Does the world makes sense
From your windowsill?
What is beautiful
If I’ve never seen?

The reconstitution of one’s story is a tedious task. You think you will get it done in a blink; it is just a few drawers to open and close rapidly, right? But it never is. You pull one out and realize it is hiding another one, that hides another one itself and so on. A never ending Russian Doll game, that turns into hide and seek hunt. Some have secret compartments, others have a ridiculous amount of boxes and, as you go on removing one lid, curiosity takes over and it becomes an obsession to open them all. In the end, you are never done.

Sadly, I have kept my boxes, and drawers and doors shut for so long, I am not sure how I will deal with this ride. At one point, I lose the inventory on purpose, and I no longer know what is out there. Like a puzzle made of millions of white pieces, with a micro bomb attached to it that can set off at any moment. Sometimes, I unwrap a souvenir that fits nowhere and have no choice but to dump it with the rest of the already disclosed memories. I hope eventually it will all fall into place, even if the result is just another hot mess. To be frank, I look inside my head, to all my memories, and feel as if I came back to my Grandmother’s filthy apartment. To my disappointment, despite my attempt to filter what goes in my skull, it seems I kept more than I thought, buried under a mass of useless information, to pretend it was never there. I won’t say I didn’t try to discard it. To clear things up. This is actually the story of my life: A continuous attempt to erase the discomfort, a firm denial that I did, while in reality I am holding on it carefully until it just hit me back like a boomerang.

But I am presently holding on to a box here, that I can’t possibly unlock later. So let’s halt the train a minute, and address its content. An unpleasant one. Not the worst. But heavy enough to leave a significant mark on my road. Like a dripping tag on a billboard. A bitter after taste from a bad beer. A collection of details and actions that back then, I didn’t consider and choose to dismiss. Because it was more... convenient? Because I lured myself into wanting the world to be simple - translate carefree - when in reality you have to be a bloody moron to even think that can ever happen. But over all, because I was not mature enough to accept the truth.

And the truth is: I failed to understand Oracio.

Mostly because I didn’t really try. More likely because I was afraid, shied by a stubborn indifference. And by the time I did try, it was already too late for me to act on it. Also, to my defense, Oracio was not helping.

If anything, that man always gave off the impression that life was a jolly ride. That everything contented him, and you just had to sit back and let yourself go with his flow. Then you blinked and you suddenly grasped something extremely dark, just for a second. Enough to spook you and leave you with the feeling that you just had a hallucination. A warning you learn to forget. Then as time goes, the warnings keep increasing, but you have experienced them so many times that you’ve become immune. You don’t even realize you went blind a long time ago.

Over the years, I saw a few red flags but missed way too many. Yet, my true crime in that matter is that I didn’t care about the majority. It is a shame, what you decide to do for an easy way out versus what you should do for a real peace of mind. Of course, nobody chose the latter. Myself included and first in line.

But despite everything, despite my frustrating lack of interest, I still dug up a few clues, without them needing to be served on a silver platter like his illiteracy. For instance - though he said the same thing about me - Oracio was a bit of an oddity in Magdad, even inside his gang. That is probably what drew us to each other. But the similarity stopped there. We might have been on equal foot regarding our status as lone wolves in this society, yet, ironically, he was my polar opposite. You could say that if he was the Day incarnated - warm, blinding and invasive - I was the crawling Night - obscure, gloomy and dense. Although, he wasn’t necessarily the brightest; I am bad mouthing here but it’s all in jest.

Truthfully, Oracio was a caring soul toward the weakest. Probably his best redeemable quality and real reason to take me under his wing. Then again, at time, he was the biggest mastodon in the known universe. And yes, I am the one saying that. He was a goof and a merciless airhead, along with nosy, cunning, brutal and stubborn. A wild card I didn’t know how to play. A joker I just kept on staring at, mindlessly. Osculating between wariness and docility. Sometimes just having him sitting next to me was enough to put me to sleep. Other times, it would cause me countless turmoils. All this unrest is probably why I didn’t pry as much as I should have.

But I admit, he had something I always respected: he may have been missing some serious educational base, he was curious. Way more than I am. Even though I couldn’t help him with his “backwardness”, he continued to better himself on his own, never minding the repeated and unavoidable failure he would indubitably encounter. His reading blockage fascinated me. Albeit I never questioned an actual reason behind it. The mistake is on me because one day, I got a hint that it wasn’t a problem of willpower or education, like I assumed. The issue was physical. He couldn’t because that was just not how he was wired. And nothing could change that. Still that sad revelation turned out to be also one of my sweetest memories with him.

It was during the spring before my 15th birthday. It hadn’t even been a year since I was leaving under his roof and not long after I had learned about his illiteracy. Though we had already broken the ice on several occasions and got pretty close by now, that day has its significance in our dynamism because I think it set a turning point moment into motion. To the best or the worse, it is up to debate.

The weather was getting nicer. Hot enough to keep the windows open. I was sitting at my desk, studying. When my eyes got tired of all the reading, I dropped it for a second. Sitting behind me, Oracio was listening to some music on his phone. Watching in the distance, his attention absorbed by his song. The volume was loud enough for me to hear the modulation of the main instrument. Something slow. Probably a balade. Oracio liked cheesy music. I had witnessed enough of his shower singing to get an overview of his general taste. I think he spent many hours humming by his windowsill when he was living in this place alone. I wouldn’t be surprised if music was his only luxury. But since I was working, he toned it down and put on his earpiece, keeping the room incredibly silent, to the point I could hear the buzz given off by his apparel. So, of course, it ticked me off.

For I wasn’t really accustomed to the musical art. Never had a chance to explore it. And honestly, I can’t sing to save my life. Poetry is more my thing. I can enjoy the turns of phrase and the metaphors. But music, sadly, is just as bluntly obscure to me as a religious scripture. Yet, eat a banana in front of a monkey and they will automatically want it. Before I could realize, I had my hand on his knee, to catch his attention.

He smiled, surprised: “You done?”

Realizing he was referring to my homework, I shook my head. “Not yet… Almost.” I removed my hand when I noticed I was still holding his leg. “Your music is kinda loud.” I said to divert the conversation and immediately regretted it. He apologized, hurrying to lower the volume but I held him and corrected my initial comment. Or attended too. I mostly babbled. Thankfully he was better than I at reading between the lines. “You want to listen?”

“No. Not really. It is just. That song you’re listening to, I think I have heard it before.” He nodded. I had. Because he had sung it enough for me to remember the lyrics, even if I wasn’t paying attention. I knew it. He knew it. And without even asking, he put the earbuds on me and played the tune.

The song was calm and soothing. A lullaby. The type he was drawn to. The type I laugh at, for lack of a better reaction. I don’t have much to compare it with. It was a nice song, in technical terms. But I was too cynical to enjoy it properly. Still am. But to this day, I can’t get it out of my head. None of the music he made me listen to did. Even if they all sounded like lies to me. Happy rhymes I couldn’t abide, picturing an ideal I knew would never exist. He observed me, trying to feign indifference. It amused him. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt the warmth of his gaze. I swear I stopped breathing eventually.

“Do you play an instrument?” he suddenly asked. Likely to give me a chance to get out of my apnea. I glared at him, bewildered. Man, I don’t even sing, don’t be too hopeful. I shrugged awkwardly and suddenly his face brightened: “Wanna learn?”

Before I could give him a serious reply, he stormed out of the studio and left me there, hanging for a good quarter. I waited, obediently at first, but as he wasn’t coming back, I started to explore his music library, to kill time. His repertoire wasn’t that extravagant, not even a hundred titles in total. Surprisingly, none of them were labeled with words. Just numbers in an ascending order. Certainly corresponding to the order he obtained each tune. And knowing the limited amount of access to culture in Magdad, they were undoubtedly not that easy to increase. I was listening to track number 10, a dragging music about ordinary life, when Oracio rushed back in with a guitar in hand and the excited smile of a proud three years old kid that had just captured a beetle.

“Where did you get that?” I couldn’t help but shout, baffled.

“From the old lady downstairs. I borrowed it.” He sat on the bed, out of breath, and put the instrument in my arms. Then followed a pathetic experiment and an insult to the hearing sense.

For an hour or so, he tried to explain to me how to handle that big wooden box. The strings were dreadfully strong, like six sharp blades cutting on my skin, and I couldn’t figure out how to position my body comfortably. The angle of my arms felt unnatural. No matter what, my brain was just rejecting it, through and through. It was frustrating, unpleasant and even succeeding to apply the few chords Oracio taught me, didn’t procure me any satisfaction or pride. I had - and still have - no talent or inclination for fourth art. Period.

Still, Oracio was encouraging. And patient. To the point, I wanted to strangle him. At least laugh at me, you jackass. I am being ridiculous here. He did eventually. When I threatened him to shove the instrument in his face if he didn’t take it back. No amount of carefully placed hands and kind corrections would ever compensate with the fact I was feeling like holding a log.

But in his hands, the story was entirely different. Pleasantly unexpected, even.

Not only could he play, but he made it look like it was as easy as breathing. I think he wanted to show me the potential of the instrument. However what I learned was how delicate he actually could be. The strings I found so rough and stiff seemed light and fragile under his fingernails. The way his left hand slid on the shaft gave me literal shivers. Never had I suspected such a side of him. Though I was more surprised by my physical reaction. Music is a wordless form of language and at that instant, he was speaking it to my soul.

“You don’t know how to read. But you can play. How does that even work?” I was puzzled. This wasn’t logical.

Slowing down on his recital, Oracio whispered: “It is like numbers. Music doesn’t require the same learning process. Though it helps with language. They are complementary.” The notes climbed up rapidly and then held on a high pitch vibration. “They thought it would help me... But I don’t function like that. Basically, if I can’t apply it to my fingers, I can’t remember. And music is... It’s like a “hand” choreography. Letters don’t fall in that category. They don’t form in my head.” He paused to observe his palm. “As if a road was cut off, by darkness…” His voice wandered, “or something...”

A shadow passed on his lips. It startled me but I chose to ignore it. I created a diversion instead. “Then, does that mean you can learn to sign? If hands are…” I swallowed the rest of my remark as he glanced at me, and immediately scrambled to focus on his wrist. Somehow, it was difficult to face him.

Thus, Oracio chose a side road to talk to me. He slowly left his fist and pumped it. I would learn later that it meant “Yes”, but even without knowing it, I understood he was answering my question. His finger on his lips, he gave me an enigmatic smile. Then he made another gesture, a circle on his chest, and returned to his private concert.

He started the tune that was listed number 1 on his phone. And after a few chords, he began to sing. He played like that until the night fell. I didn’t even try to stop him. I don’t think I actually wanted him to and I don’t believe he wanted either. Each note, each vibration was like a plea. A sorrowful apology telling me in a loop: “I am sorry I can’t read.”

Looking at him, rewinding our conversation, storing somewhere in my head the few things I gathered, I let the harmonious melody sink within my soul. Transcended, I locked my gaze on him, forgetting for a moment my distaste for eye contact. Waiting for our roads to cross. He felt it and stared back. So without interrupting him, I smiled. Silently. To tell him: “It is OK. I can’t play.”

He smiled back. And I can’t recall anything after that. Because all I could focus on was how fast my heartbeat was beating.