Anselmo sat on a rock and threw his boot down. He had a raw blister and couldn't even muster a decent swear word. We fished out a pebble that had practically become part of the family. We'd spent all morning looking for food; the food had spent all morning avoiding us. We stared into the nearly empty bag. What a bloody system.
Crouch down in the woods for a minute and you'll see how it works. A mouse hunts for something to eat while checking that nothing's about to eat him. A caterpillar munches a leaf and a bird goes looking for caterpillars. Roots push through the soil towards water. Everyone's scraping by, trying to make it to tomorrow. Then tomorrow comes and off we go again.
Then we get ill, lose people we love, and wake up some mornings barely able to face getting out of bed. Yes, being alive can be a rotten fucking deal. That day Anselmo was sick of having to earn every little thing, right down to his next mouthful. We sat beside him. He held up the pebble to demand an explanation from the heavens. A drop landed in his eye.
“Oh, brilliant. Taking the piss as well.”
Right, we're cheating
We dragged ourselves back to the kitchen with an onion, a clove of garlic and a crust hard enough to prop up the table. Anselmo dropped the bag and sat down, still wearing just one boot. The onion stung, raw garlic was a personal attack, and the bread looked like rubble. All that effort for this miserable bloody haul? We pulled a chair up beside the stove and made room for him.
We peeled and chopped the onion, then let it soften slowly in a little oil. In went the chopped garlic, without letting it burn, followed by water, crumbled bread and a pinch of salt. While it simmered, Anselmo peered into the pot every two minutes. He no longer wanted to hit the food. He wanted to know when he could climb in.
“Use the spoon, you animal. We're cooking.”
Anselmo closed his eyes at the first spoonful. We watched his face. His shoulders dropped; he wrapped his hands around the bowl and held it out for us to try. Christ, it was good to see him like that. There was a proper trick: take a few miserable ingredients and cook them until somebody asks for seconds. The same scraps that had felt like an insult had just become a small victory.
We got carried away. We put the lid on the pot, loaded it onto our handcart and went looking for somewhere to eat. Anselmo marched ahead with the ladle over his shoulder, ready to conquer a kingdom. We told him to make sure it had some shade.
The glorious conquest of a nice afternoon
First we sat in the morning sun for a bit, hats on, letting our backs warm up. Fuck, that felt good. Anselmo spread his arms to recharge his batteries. When a tree trunk cast a shadow over him, he shuffled sideways without getting up. He was tracking the sun on his backside.
Then we found a clean, shallow stretch of stream. Off came the boots and in went our feet. Even our opinions loosened up. Down there, it didn't matter whether our socks were crap or we'd spent three days making no sense of anything. Water slipped between our toes and we sighed loud enough to alarm the wildlife.
Anselmo sank a foot into the mud at the edge and wrinkled his nose. He pulled it out slowly. Put it back in. By the third go he was kneading mud with his toes and giggling to himself. We got our legs filthy, painted on mud moustaches and followed the path, looking heroic in a fairly questionable way.
Round a bend, a green pool appeared beneath the branches. We stopped to listen to the water. We'd walked past a hundred times without looking. That morning we went exploring and found a flat stone for a table, some shade and room for all three of us. Anselmo raised his ladle. We raised our bowls. Bugger going through life without getting a taste of it!
As we passed the bowls around, Anselmo asked if we could come back tomorrow. That morning he'd barely wanted to take another step; now he was looking for somewhere to stash the ladle. He still had his blister, and we still had our sorrows. But hearing him make plans made us ridiculously happy. That little spot, the soup and being together had made us want to stick around a little longer.
We ate until the pot was empty. Anselmo lay back, satisfied. We put the scourer beside him.
“Natural selection can do the washing-up. I've evolved enough for one day.”
