Panic Signs

27. Besieged

WHAT IS HAPPENING? “I’m coming,” the older man said, moving to the unoccupied side of the bench so the doves on that side, despite being old plaza doves who were accustomed, thought it would be appropriate to alight a little farther down the bench. They were a bit insecure, with age these old people who don’t see anything could cause an accident, such as having a wing stepped on by an old man or suffering a bad blow so in the end they skittered off, even though the old man didn’t get up. “No, it’s better for me to come,” said the other old man, who was a little younger, but not by much. People knew he was a little less old because the wrinkles on his face were less pronounced than those of the older man’s—his wrinkles looked like little slashes that penetrated the bone—and because he could breathe more easily and regularly, but even so, they were both so old the existing difference in their ages didn’t matter to anybody, except themselves. All old people are the same, anyway, like the newborn: all of them drool, tremble, have bad eyesight, hear from one ear only (some from the right, some from the left); they all lose their memory, they all drag their feet, they are all clumsy, they moan; they all say they want to die while all along they hold on shamelessly to life. Some use a cane, others don’t. “Today is my turn to go,” insisted the first one. The doves were eating . They had been eating for years. If these weren’t the ones who had been eating for years, they were other ones, but whichever they were, they always ate. They did so with great concentration and purpose, with true dedication, pecking almost uninterrupted, until not a single breadcrumb was left, ‘til they completely finished the biscuit that the boy had thrown from a package. The point of eating so much never occurs to them. —— 38 —— 24 “I’ve read in the newspapers that they’re thinking about exporting white doves,” one dove said to another, still eating. As she spoke she continued to alternately raise and lower her head quickly and voraciously. “Where are they going?” asked the other one, also continuing to eat: she was a blue dove. She was not concerned about the topic since they were exporting white ones. If she had been told that they’d be exporting blue ones, she would have caused a great commotion. “To India,” said the first one, who was better informed. “But anyway, even though it’s your turn, I’ll go,” said the younger old man, without getting up from his seat. It was very convenient, because the doves could continue eating without wasting their time skittering off, prompted by the old people’s movements. “It’s a very underdeveloped country. I was there last spring,” the blue dove commented. “According to the newspapers, white doves will be sent as fresh meat in nylon packages. It seems that in India dove meat is very popular.” “Will foreign currency come in because of this?” “I suppose so,” answered the first dove. “In exchange for white dove meat packaged in nylon bags sent to India, Hindus will send some petroleum to fill some tubes and light up fifty lamps. In this way the economy progresses.” “It will be a safe operation?” “That, I can’t affirm. For the tenth or one-hundredth time, cereals and products have been sent in bad condition from the United States; since no one eats them there—they’re very careful—they give them away to the more needy countries. I have tried some of these grains. They tasted awful.” “Is there any hope that the Hindus will show more gentility?” “I am not well-informed. Is India an empire?” “I don’t think so. The only thing I know about India is the hunger. I was there last spring. I’ll never go back. I thought I was going to die on the way back. Not a bit of grain.” “Did they taste good?” “No, they were bitter: they love peace and die thin. Thin dead people have a bad taste.” “Today is Tuesday, isn’t it?” said the first old man. The other agreed. “Then, it’s my turn,” insisted the first one. However, he didn’t move. He looked wearily at the bench across from him. There...