Of Sea and Men (Part 2)

- Are you feeling well? Do you have any sign of pain?

The frown and the blank stare showed evidence that the boy was quite confused and making a huge effort to realize what was happening in the small hospital room, surrounded by people dressed in white, who were absolute strangers to him.

There was also a more mature man, wearing normal clothes, watching the whole scene, with very sharp attentive eyes, but without uttering any word. He had a somewhat friendly face, auburn beard and light brown hair thinned at the top of the head. For some reason he could not explain, he felt an immediate sympathy for the man leaning against the immaculately white wall of the hospital room.

The doctor had tested all his vital signs, auscultated his body and was now examining him with a small flashlight. They had already made all possible tests, including X-rays and ultrasound, to check how healthy his organs were. Physically, the young man was in good shape. They still needed to ascertain whether the head injury brought any side effects to his mental or cognitive response… or both…

- Can you understand what I say? Are you able to remember your name, where you come from, who you are... anything at all?

The boy showed no change in that faraway look, just a quick, almost unnoticeable eyebrow frown. He was probably trying hard to adjust the brain work and understand the message expressed by the words of the doctor, who had just examined him completely and insisted on knowing anything about him.

- Can you understand what I say?

- I understand the words, but it's all so confusing...

The pressure that was being placed on him, with those questions, did not seem to help much. It was better to leave the boy alone for some time. He needed some rest. The doctor called the older man out of the room with a nod.

***

- You were found by me on the beach, unconscious, completely naked and with a rather dreadful wound on the back of your head. We were expecting that the memory would be affected by a concussion. Can you understand what I mean?

The boy nodded.

- As much as I try, I cannot recall anything. My mind is just completely blank...

The ferry cruised toward the island, bringing those two men so different from each other, sitting side by side, each one with his own history. In each head, a different intention in relation to their complex pasts: one trying to rescue what had been forgotten and the other trying to forget what had never failed to be painfully reminded...

***

The fisherman felt he had some responsibility for the boy, for having found him and, in agreement with the hospital administration, decided to bring him back to the island to try and help him recover the lost memory.

They walked along the beach, heading for the place where he was found by the fisherman, after the stormy night. The boy slowed his pace down and looked at the man, as if he knew him well and said:

- Why do you hide yourself in this island, far from everything and everyone and with this profession that is not yours?

- How do you know that?

- I do not know how to explain. I just feel it. And I also feel that there is much more to say, but you keep on avoiding it...

- I do not avoid anything...

The older man smirked, avoiding the direct staring from the young man, who was walking beside him. He thought to himself that he did not have to give any satisfaction to him, but a strange feeling that he could trust the other man and open his heart up, crossed his mind flippantly.

Messing with the past, after all that time, did not seem to be a good thing anyway. Some skeletons ought to be kept in the cupboard forever. Best to leave the past where it well belonged in: far away in the most possible distant and untouched bygone times...

The boy carefully looked back at the man and smiled, more to himself than to be noticed, at that response, triggered, almost impatiently and without any eye contact.

- I have to respect you, not only for what you are doing to me, but for wanting to keep your secrets away from everyone. If that's what you prefer, there is nothing I can say or do. I hope you know what you're doing.

- I do know what I’m doing. Trust me... This is the place. It was here where I found you, almost dead. Do you want to be alone?

The boy looked around. Although he acknowledged the place was quiet and its natural beauty was almost untouched and wild, bringing him a sense of serenity, it did not evoke any true recollection in his mind.

- I don’t know. This place does not mean anything to me. The fact that I was found here, does not imply that the accident... or incident… took place around here, anyway.

He was right. So much could have happened: an accident, an assault, an unfortunate coincidence... The site might not have anything to do with what really happened to him.

The man looked at the boy. He did not seem to be worried about finding out where he came from or where he would go, who he had been or what he might come to find out, when he recovered his memory. Apparently, the only thing that mattered to him was being alive. He did not need to carry the unnecessary burden of a past to remember. That seemed to be enough for a man who knew so little about himself that far.

What a strange feeling! He made a quick trip inside himself and wondered how different they were. Not having a past to remember seemed to be so much easier to live with than struggling to conceal or bury one...

They were both standing side by side, looking at the horizon, each man absorbed in his own thoughts... so close and yet so far at the same time. The boy closed his eyes and felt the wind messing with his fair hair, touching his pale skin, bringing the pleasant aromas of the ocean and the seaweed and filling him with a gust of life.

Life. That was an unusually strong and weak concept at the same time. It was a reality or an illusion that we always carry along with us? How unpredictable can it be? How unreasonable it is to remain physically healthy and mentally sane? Why did those thoughts fill his mind like the air filled his chest? Why did he feel good, knowing there was nothing dearly to him in that place? Why there were so many questions and no answers at all?

He sighed, breathing the ocean air in. That place had become his all: his present and his future... and perhaps his only refuge, until now...

- Let's go back, shall we? I'm hungry. I will prepare something to eat. If you want to be left alone here for a while, it's up to you...

- I'd like just to stay here just a little longer, if it is not a problem... I enjoy this peace and this sense of silence in my soul.

- No problem, of course. Stay as long as you wish. I’ll be home anyway.

***

The older man stood up and collected the plates from the table. They had dined without exchanging many words. Although they appreciated each other's company, they did not extend the conversation long, as the issues would tend to turn around a very limited sphere of subjects which were avoided by both.

The boy picked the rest of the crockery and cutlery up and put them carefully in the sink. He turned around, walked out to the veranda and leant on the deck rail, looking at the empty darkness and listening, not far away, the soft, monotonous song of the sea. The air was cold, but he did not care much. He liked the mild fresh air of the autumn and the typical sounds of the night on the island.

The other man was watching, from inside the house, that man so much younger than him, with so much life still ahead and no memory to relive at all. At least, he thought, he had no reason to feel any nostalgia...

How many plans might have been made at some point in his short life, and were abandoned without any completion? How many possibilities would also be opened for him in the future? Probably many of them would be regarded as if they had never been planned, although they had been... A page... or many, yet all blank and with so much still to be written by the hands of fate. It was as if the previous pages had been torn apart from that precious book, leaving it almost like new and ready to be used as if it were the first time. All he had to do was to start from that point on and rewrite many interesting new stories...

The fisherman thought of himself and how he wished he could have a chance, too, to rewrite his own life story. He sadly laughed at himself, thinking that there, in the same house, there were two human beings so different from each other and with such opposite intentions in relation to their pasts. Funny thing, however, they had yet so much future ahead of them.

He walked into the porch with a mug of hot coffee in his hands and offered the other man, who accepted it, smiling. He leaned on the railing next to the boy. They were both looking at the immense open darkness around them, with their thoughts flying free with the night wind and listening to the monotonous lapping of the ocean continuously caressing the island coastline.

- You already paid for your mistakes. You could have already forgiven yourself and moved on with your life.

- How do you know if I’ve already paid? How can you tell me to get on with my life? Am I not living another life already?

- It's not what your eyes show... They always have such a great aloofness and this sadness is so touching...

The man closed himself in his shell. He did not want to relive the anguish and the sense of guilt he once felt. Yes, he had already paid that painful punishment.

A surgical procedure, where the patient had not survived the intervention, was a severe enough reason to stay live in his memory for long. Yes, he had operated drunk, but what choice did he have? Anyway, he had been tried and convicted. The verdict was manslaughter and he was incarcerated for three years for the crime, without any right for bail, due to his act of negligence. He had duly paid his guilt in its entirety, despite the reduction attempts, made by an expensive lawyer known by his expertise. The process culminated with the loss of the license and the right to exercise the medical profession, definitely.

Between the feelings of remorse and indignation, he had buried everything inside his heart and restarted, on that island, away from everyone he had known one day and that had abandoned him completely, while he was imprisoned. There, in the island, he was a total stranger and his past did not matter to anyone. What he liked in the community, was that he could have his own private life and no one seemed interested in knowing more than what he wanted to show. He had no interest in knowing about the lives of others either. He had no time or curiosity about their histories anyway.

But towards the young man with no past, he felt a genuine interest. Somewhere inside his soul and for a reason he did not really care about, he felt he should help him out of that situation. In his heart, he felt responsible for that boy, at least until he recovered his memory and moved on with his own life.

***

 The doctor came, as usual, on a pale cold Thursday and called them to his office. He examined the boy and asked how he was feeling. Then he asked him to sit down. By the way he started the conversation, he seemed set to make a serious statement. He picked up a brown envelope from inside his briefcase, cleared his throat out and said:

- I just received this Police Report. I believe you will find it pretty interesting...

He handed the envelope in to the boy and waited for his reaction. He opened it, read the report and handed it in to the fisherman, so he could read it too. The doctor acknowledged that was a clear demonstration of trust. The older man flipped through the few pages and returned the report to its rightful owner.

- It does make sense. Do you think that helps?

- I don’t know yet. For now, there is nothing much I can say. It seems my memory is not instantly restored simply by reading the report, after all. It does not work that way, no matter how hard I try to do so.

The doctor finished a complete check-up and dismissed himself from work, since there was no one else to be seen that day. He invited the two men to go along with him to the Coffee Shop and chat a little more relaxed.

The doctor knew that the heads of the two... and his also... were working briskly. The coffee was just a subtle excuse to discuss what they had just read and, besides that, he still had some time before going back to the mainland that night…

***

Homens do Mar (Parte 2)

- Estás bem? Sentes alguma dor?

O cenho franzido e o olhar vazio mostravam evidências que o rapaz estava bastante confuso e fazendo um enorme esforço para perceber o que se passava, naquele momento, no pequeno quarto de hospital, rodeado por pessoas, vestidas de branco e que ele desconhecia totalmente.

Havia, também, um homem mais maduro, vestido com roupas mais normais, a observar a cena toda, com olhos muito atentos, mas sem proferir nenhuma palavra. Tinha o rosto arredondado e amigável, barba castanho-avermelhada e os cabelos castanho-claros rareavam no topo da cabeça. Por alguma razão, que ele não conseguia explicar, sentiu uma simpatia imediata por aquele homem encostado contra a parede imaculadamente branca do quarto de hospital.

O médico acabara de testar todos os seus sinais vitais, auscultara-o e, agora, examinava-o com uma pequena lanterna. Já haviam feito todos os possíveis exames, incluindo raios X e ultrassons, para verificar a saúde dos órgãos. Fisicamente, o jovem estava bem. Restava-lhes saber se a batida na cabeça trouxera algum efeito colateral à sua capacidade mental e resposta cognitiva.

- Consegues compreender o que eu digo? Lembras de alguma coisa? Qualquer coisa: teu nome, de onde vens, quem tu és…

O rapaz não exibia qualquer alteração naquela expressão distante. Talvez estivesse, mesmo, fazendo uma tentativa descomunal para ajustar o cérebro e compreender a mensagem, expressa pelas palavras do médico, que acabara de examiná-lo, completamente e que insistia em saber qualquer coisa a seu respeito.

- Compreendes o que eu digo?

- Eu percebo as palavras, mas é tudo tão confuso…

A pressão, que era colocada nele, com aquelas perguntas, não parecia ajudar. Era melhor deixar o rapaz descansar um pouco. O médico chamou o homem mais velho para fora do quarto, com um sinal de cabeça.

***

- Foste encontrado por mim, na praia. Estavas completamente nu e com um ferimento bastante feio na cabeça. Já esperávamos que a memória fosse afetada por uma concussão. Consegues compreender bem o que eu digo?

O rapaz acenou que sim, com a cabeça.

- Por mais que eu tente, não consigo trazer nada à memória. A minha mente é só um branco completo...

O ferry seguia, em direção à ilha, em sua velocidade de cruzeiro, trazendo, junto consigo, aqueles dois homens tão diferentes, sentados lado a lado, cada qual com sua própria história e com seus complexos passados. Em cada cabeça, uma intenção diferente: tentar resgatar o que estava esquecido e tentar esquecer o que nunca deixava de ser relembrado…

***

O pescador havia sentido que tinha certa responsabilidade sobre o rapaz, por havê-lo encontrado e, em comum acordo com a administração do hospital, decidira trazê-lo consigo à ilha, para tentar ajudá-lo a recuperar a memória perdida.

Caminhavam pela praia, indo na direção do local onde fora encontrado, pelo pescador, depois da noite de tempestade. O rapaz diminuiu o passo e olhou para o homem, como se o conhecesse bem e disse:

- Por que te escondes nesta ilha, longe de tudo e de todos e nesta profissão que não é a tua?

- E como sabes disso?

- Não sei explicar. Apenas sinto. E também sinto que há muito mais a dizer, mas evitas…

- Não evito nada…

O homem mais velho franziu o cenho e evitou olhar diretamente para o jovem, que caminhava ao seu lado. Pensou consigo mesmo que não tinha que dar nenhuma satisfação ao outro, mas uma sensação estranha de que podia confiar no rapaz e abrir-se, passou por sua mente.

Mexer com o passado, depois de tanto tempo, não parecia-lhe uma boa coisa, entretanto. Alguns cadáveres não precisavam ser exumados. Melhor deixar seu passado onde ele ficava melhor: lá atrás e bem longe, nos tempos mais pretéritos possíveis. Quanto mais distante e intocado, melhor…

O rapaz voltou a olhar o homem, com atenção e sorriu, mais para si do que para ser percebido, ante aquela resposta, disparada, quase impacientemente e sem contato visual.

- Eu tenho que respeitar-te, não somente pelo que fazes por mim, mas por quereres manter teus segredos bem guardados. Se é assim que preferes, não há o que se possa dizer. Espero que saibas o que fazes.

- E sei… É este o lugar. Foi aqui que te encontrei. Queres ficar sozinho?

O rapaz olhou à volta. Embora constatasse que o lugar era calmo e de uma beleza natural praticamente intocada e quase selvagem, trazendo-lhe uma sensação de tranquilidade, não evocava-lhe nenhuma lembrança.

- Não sei. Este lugar não me diz nada. O facto de haver sido encontrado aqui, não significa que o acidente… ou incidente… tenha ocorrido aqui por perto, de qualquer jeito.

Ele tinha razão. Tanta coisa poderia ter acontecido: um acidente, um assalto, uma infeliz coincidência... O lugar poderia não ter relação nenhuma com o que realmente havia acontecido.

O homem olhou para o rapaz. Ele não parecia preocupado em descobrir de onde viera, para onde iria, quem havia sido, ou o que poderia vir a descobrir, quando recuperasse a memória. Aparentemente, a única coisa que importava, a ele, era estar vivo. Um passado do qual lembrar, era um peso desnecessário, que ele não carregava consigo. Aquilo parecia ser suficiente para um homem que tão pouco sabia sobre si mesmo.

Que sensação estranha! Ele fez uma viagem rápida dentro de si e pensou em como eram tão diferentes. Não ter um passado parecia ser bem mais fácil que esforçar-se para esconder-se do seu...

Estavam os dois de pé, lado a lado, a olhar o horizonte, cada qual absorto em seus próprios pensamentos... Tão próximos e tão distantes, ao mesmo tempo. O rapaz fechou os olhos e sentiu o vento a mexer com seus cabelos claros, a tocar sua pálida pele, a trazer os aromas agradáveis do salitre e das algas e a encher-lhe de vida.

Vida. Que conceito estranhamente forte e frágil, ao mesmo tempo. Era uma realidade, ou uma ilusão que nós sempre carregamos? Quão imprevisível pode ser o viver? Quão despropositado é manter-se fisicamente sadio e mentalmente são? Por que aqueles pensamentos enchiam-lhe a cabeça, como o ar enchia-lhe o peito? Por que ele sentia-se bem naquele lugar, sabendo que nada ali era-lhe caro? Por que tantas perguntas e nenhuma resposta? Ele suspirou, inspirando o ar do oceano, naquele lugar que passara a ser seu tudo: seu presente e seu futuro… e, talvez, seu único refúgio, até aquele momento…

- Vamos voltar? Estou com fome. Vou preparar alguma coisa para comermos. Se quiseres ficar mais um pouco, é contigo...

- Eu gostaria de ficar só um pouco mais, se não for incômodo... Gosto desta paz e desta sensação de silêncio na alma.

- Não é problema, claro. Até já.

***

O homem mais velho levantou-se e retirou os pratos da mesa. Haviam jantado, sem trocarem muitas palavras. Apreciavam a companhia um do outro, mas eram, ambos, económicos nas conversas, já que os assuntos ainda tenderiam a girar numa esfera muito restrita de assuntos, que eram evitados, na sua maioria, pelos dois.

O rapaz recolheu o restante da louça e os talheres e pousou-os na pia, com cuidado. Virou-se, caminhou até a porta que dava para a varanda e saiu, debruçando-se sobre o pequeno parapeito, a olhar o vazio da escuridão, ouvindo, não muito longe, a cantiga suave e monótona do mar. O ar estava um tanto frio, mas ele não se importava. Gostava do frio quase ameno do outono e dos sons típicos da noite da ilha.

O outro homem ficou a observar, de dentro da casa, aquele indivíduo tão mais jovem que ele, com tanta vida ainda pela frente e nenhuma memória a reviver. Pelo menos, pensou, não havia como sentir qualquer tipo de nostalgia…

Quantos planos deveriam ter sido feitos em algum ponto de sua curta vida e, agora, estavam abandonados, sem conclusão? Quantas possibilidades ainda iriam abrir-se, para ele, no futuro? Provavelmente, muitas delas viriam a ser encaradas como se nunca houvessem sido planejadas, mesmo já havendo sido... Uma página… ou muitas, todas ainda em branco e com tanto ainda a ser escrito pelas mãos do destino. Era como se as páginas anteriores houvessem sido estranhamente arrancadas daquele livro, deixando-o como novo e pronto a ser reusado. Só restava-lhe recomeçar daquele ponto e reescrever novas histórias...

O pescador pensou em si mesmo e como gostaria de poder ter uma oportunidade, também, de reescrever sua vida. Riu de si mesmo, ao pensar que ali, na mesma casa, estavam dois seres tão opostos e com objetivos tão díspares, em relação ao passado e, mesmo assim, com tanto futuro pela frente.

Entrou na varanda com uma caneca de café quente nas mãos e ofereceu ao outro, que aceitou, sorrindo. Debruçou-se no parapeito, ao lado do rapaz. Ficaram os dois a olhar para a grande escuridão aberta à frente deles, a ouvir o monótono marulhar do oceano a acariciar a ilha, cada qual a deixar seus próprios pensamentos voarem com o vento da noite.

- Tu já pagaste pelo teu erro. Já podias ter-te perdoado e tocado a vida adiante.

- Como podes saber se já paguei? Como podes dizer-me para levar a vida adiante? Já não estou vivendo uma outra vida?

- Não é o que os teus olhos dizem... Eles tem sempre um distanciamento tão grande e uma tristeza tão tocante...

O homem fechou-se, em sua casca. Não queria reviver sua angústia e seu sentimento de culpa. Sim, ele já havia pago a sua dolorosa pena.

Uma cirurgia, em que a paciente não sobrevivera à intervenção, era motivo grave suficiente, para ficar vivo na memória, por muito tempo. Sim, ele havia operado embriagado, mas que outra opção tivera? De todas as formas, fora julgado e condenado. O veredito fora homicídio culposo, com pena de prisão por três anos. O crime foi considerado inafiançável, devido ao grau de negligência e culminara com a perda da licença e do direito de exercer a profissão de médico, definitivamente. A sentença havia sido devidamente cumprida, na sua totalidade, apesar das tentativas de redução, feitas por um advogado caro e conhecido pela sua competência.

Entre sentimentos de culpa e uma indignação muito grande, ele havia enterrado tudo e recomeçado, naquela ilha, longe de todos aqueles com os quais conviveu e que o abandonaram, completamente, enquanto cumpria a pena na penitenciária. Ali, era um completo desconhecido e seu passado não interessava a ninguém. O que ele gostava, naquela comunidade, era que podia ter sua vida e ninguém parecia interessado em saber mais que ele quisesse mostrar ou, de alguma forma, julgá-lo. Ele também não tinha interesse em saber das vidas dos outros. Não tinha tempo, nem vontade para aquilo.

Mas, ao rapaz sem passado, ele alimentava um genuíno interesse. Sentia que devia ajudar aquela criatura a encontrar-se e tocar sua vida adiante, também. Por algum motivo, ele sentia-se responsável pelo rapaz, pelo menos até que recuperasse a memória.

***

 O médico veio, como habitualmente, numa pálida quinta-feira e chamou os dois ao consultório. Examinou o rapaz, rotineiramente, perguntou como se sentia e pediu para sentar-se. Pela forma como começou a conversa, parecia que ia fazer uma declaração séria. Pegou um envelope pardo de dentro da maleta, pigarreou e disse:

- Recebemos um relatório da Polícia. Acredito que vocês vão achar interessante…

Entregou o envelope ao rapaz e esperou, para ver sua reação. O rapaz abriu, leu e entregou ao pescador, para que o lesse também. O médico reconheceu naquele ato, uma prova de confiança. O homem folheou as poucas páginas e devolveu o relatório ao seu legítimo dono.

- Faz sentido. Achas que ajuda?

- Não sei, ainda. Por enquanto, não há nada que eu possa dizer. Não é tão fácil ler isto e achar que minha memória é logo restituída. Parece que não funciona assim, afinal, por mais que me esforce para tal.

O médico terminou a consulta e dispensou a si mesmo do trabalho, já que não havia mais ninguém a ser atendido naquele dia. Convidou os dois a acompanharem-no até o Café, para conversarem um pouco mais relaxadamente. O médico sabia que as cabeças dos dois… e a dele também… estavam a trabalhar ferventemente. 

O café era, na verdade e apenas, um pretexto subtil para discutirem o que haviam acabado de ler e, além do mais, ele ainda tinha algum tempo, antes de voltar para o continente.

***

Of Sea and Men (Part 1)

The man was standing by the window holding a mug of a hot and strong black coffee in his hard, thick hands, watching the annoying cold drizzle falling down over the island. The weather had been like that for various days... It had not changed for far too many days, in fact. He thought his work could not be left aside for any longer. It was a matter of survival… Simple like that…

He put his winter coat on, although it was still early autumn, finished his coffee and came out to face the early morning chilly air. The wind and rain hit his worn out aged skin with fierceness, making him walk a bit hunched and with his head turned slightly down. He headed to the waterfront toward the small pier. He knew he had to face the sea. His subsistence depended only on that work and he knew very well that kind of life was not easy at all.

He did not curse either the weather or the rain, however. He did not complain at all. He was used to that routine and to the solitude and simplicity of his seemingly uncomplicated but very hard life. Yet, he had no real reason to complain whatsoever... and was not used to do so... not anymore…

The old boat, his every day companion, swayed up and down in the small pier, as if being rocked by the invisible hands of the waves. He sighed and walked resolutely along the corridor of heavy, tattered dark wood. He looked at the other boats, all firmly tied to the dock, straightened the jacket hood around his head and jumped into his boat.

His old fellow squeaked when he stepped onto the deck, as if welcoming him with a good morning greeting. A few minutes later, the noise of the hoary diesel engine was nothing more than just a murmur fading away into the distance, while the silhouette of the small fishing boat disappeared in the morning mist and rain, lonesome and incognito, like his stiff owner.

***

One night, about a week later, the weather changed... for worse.

The storm hit the island sturdily and mercilessly. The sound of thunder, that followed the lightning, streaking the pitch-black sky, was similar to the ruthless hammering of drum sticks against the head of the timpani of an orchestra, playing a crazed symphony. He smiled while he watched the sky light up every then and again as if they were fireworks. He was fond of those thunderstorms and knew they were, almost always, a sign of weather change.

The following morning, although still cloudy, the meteorological conditions were visibly better. He left his home very early, as usual, to collect the fishing net, which was placed in the middle of the sea. Instead of walking down the paved sidewalk to get to the pier, he decided to walk along the beach.

The water's edge was covered with a laced blanket of dead seaweed, spread all over the white wet sand, as it was common after the heavy storms.

He enjoyed walking along the beach, which was, for him, both a physical and a mental exercise. He liked the soft, clean sand; the iodized smell of the sea; the sound of the waves, going back-and-forth continuously; the waters trying to wet his feet every time he seemed to be distracted by his thoughts; the sight of the seagulls entertaining themselves with their whiten flight against the blue-grey sky and with their dramatic dives into the emerald-green ocean...

At that hour in the morning, while the village was still asleep, away from the ordinary day-to-day noises, out of the sight of passers-by, when the murmur of the sea mixed with the harrowing cries of the sea birds, he felt as if he were part of that peaceful landscape.

A gust of wind made him shiver slightly and straighten the coat around his body. He pondered if the winter would be cold. The fall had just begun and he was already feeling the effects of the cold and humidity, disturbing the more sensitive nerves.

But he relished the cold weather and the wind. He liked the sea and the loneliness of his profession. Sometimes he had the impression he was losing the ability to communicate and to state the truth, it really mattered very little to him. He was now a man of the sea, not a lecturer. Nor was he, either, a man of many words.

In fact, at that stage of his life, he would rather prefer the animals to men. Those were much more true and pure, without hidden intentions behind their actions. Their instincts and affections were direct and without false pretences. They were transparent, as he had been once... a long time before...

The wind blew against him, as if embracing his no longer so young body, but still tough enough. He knew he still had enough strength and would probably live long, but he did not miss the past times. From what he could remember, they were times that deserved neither any missing nor his memories to be relived anyway.

He could not remember whether he had been happy... Maybe he deceptively thought he was, for a very brief period of his life; the same life that used to play its sadistic games with him, over and over again... 

He tried to keep those recollections away from his mind, as long as he could, but they insisted on recurring as vivid as recycled films, loaded with mixed emotions, which insisted on remaining alive in his memory. Those occasions had already brought their loads of pain, leaving their deep scars, which were constantly touched, relentlessly cherished, but never erased.

He quickened his pace. He could not let the past anguish interfere with his dull present. He shook his head as if trying to get rid of those inconvenient thoughts and covered it with the hood of the worn old jacket. He knew he had to fetch the fishing net up...

His thoughts were interrupted by a somewhat unexpected movement, just a few meters ahead. A group of seabirds seemed entertained in uproar, with something that stood out in the middle of a pile of deep green and red-brown seaweed. At first he thought to be a dead animal or just the remains of fishes, which would not be surprising, but as he approached, he saw it was something much bigger than just food for marine birds. He hastened to ward the gulls off, who insisted in staying close by, like curious passers-by witnessing an unfortunate accident.

A very pale body lay on the sandy beach, motionless and partially covered by the coloured seaweed. The sea lapped at his feet and legs, insistently. The fisherman knelt down to examine the body. He turned it over, in order to see if the man could be recognized whatsoever.

He expected to see the whole face destroyed by the fish or crabs and birds, but instead it was in perfect conditions as well as the rest of the body. Touching the skin, he did not feel the 'rigor mortis', nor the temperature of a corpse. On the contrary, the temperature was only slightly below normal, which could be expected from a person who had been exposed to the cold temperatures of the wind and the sea waters, in a state of complete nudity. He bent closer to the face, to try and perceive whether the unconscious man was still breathing or detect, somehow, a minimally visible movement in his body.

The young man’s weak breathing was hardly noticed. His chest moved slightly so to allow some air flow into the feeble lungs. The man was surely alive, although totally blacked out.

He covered the frail cold body with his coat, lifted him in his arms and took him away. The collection of the fishing net had to wait a little longer.

***

The island had only a small village, which had a single Medical Centre, visited by a doctor once a week. The nearest hospital, more than three hundred kilometres away, was located in the continent. There was an infirmary with basic medicines and first aid material, controlled by a moody but good-hearted matron, a retired nurse herself. By knowing that the doctor would come the very next day, he took the boy to his house.

He lived almost alone, except for a fat grey and white tabby cat, who kept him good company. He had time to look at the patient until at least the doctor would examine him, a few hours later, when he arrived with the early morning ferry.

At home, he washed the body of the unconscious young man and looked for signs of injury. There was a fairly large laceration on the back of his head that, although no longer bleeding, should have shed enough blood when cut. Either he had been the victim of an assault or an unfortunate accident. For what reason he was naked, it was still a mystery. He reached for a sweatshirt and a pair of pants from the dark timber wardrobe, dressed his guest and covered him with a blanket and a quilt.  Going back to close the doors of the closet, his eyes were drawn by an old leather suitcase, left on purpose, behind the heavier and longer coats. He reached the buckskin bag and pulled it out.

The heart of the young man was beating normally, but his blood pressure was very low still. It was a long time since he last used his old medical instruments. He sutured the cut and put a bandage on the boy's head in order to protect and keep it closed, at least until he would be examined by the doctor the next morning. His hands had no longer the dexterity of before and the calluses and change to the skin texture did not help much the task but he worked like a true professional of health.

The boy needed to be hydrated. He had to find a way to get some fluid and minister immediately into his veins. Just thinking about having to go to the clinic, he felt a discomfort in the stomach. But he could not think of himself... not then, anyway...

***

The following day, with the presence of the physician, he felt a lot more comfortable. He had not had much difficulty in getting the liquid and the matron herself offered to go to his house, in order to insert the intravenous hydration fluid line. It was more out of curiosity than of efficiency, but he accepted the offer, so he would not have to give many explanations.

Besides the wound, which had already been cared for, there was nothing much to do, but to continue hydrating and hope that the body would react. There was a danger of a concussion, so the doctor decided he should move the boy to the hospital on the mainland. He needed someone to take responsibility over the young man, in case he woke up. And the police had to be reported urgently...

***

He did not feel at ease in the city. Less still in a hospital. The police had been called and initiated a thorough investigation. They found nothing in the missing people list. They checked his fingerprints and tried face recognition but failed to reach anything that could lead to the identity of the young man in the dark state of coma. They sent a picture taken of him to several police stations in the country, to try, through the distribution of it, find out who the injured man was. He had no criminal records either. The identity of the boy was completely unknown.

***

- His vital signs are normal, but something prevents him from waking up... We ought to be patient...

A week had slowly passed without major changes in the clinical state. Even though his physical condition had improved, the boy had not awakened from the coma. The older man then decided to return to the island. He told the doctor and the hospital staff that he would go to the hostel where he was staying and the next morning he would take the boat back to his fisherman's life. From then on, the case was only under the police’s responsibility.

Before leaving, however, he decided to go once again in the room, to "say goodbye" to the one who stirred his dull life routine for a few days, but who he did not even know who was, in the end.

The boy still lay unconscious, very pale and serene, as if only sleeping. His health condition was stable but still cataleptic. The fisherman came closer to the bedside and touched the other man’s hand, with a tender fatherly affection.

- Our lives separate here, my boy. Too bad we did not have the chance to be introduced to each other. I would like to have heard your interesting life story.

The boy seemed to only sleep soundly. The fisherman turned around and left the room. As he passed the reception, he greeted the nurse and said goodbye.

When he was crossing the threshold of the exit door, he heard an alarm bell rang.

In a few seconds, the place was like being on fire, like a beehive that had been hit by a hard stick. There was such a great uproar within the premises that he did not know if he should run away or hide himself until the chaos was over. The nurse told him, amid a flurry he did not realize at first:

- You'd better not go just yet… The alarm ringing comes from the room you just left.

He stopped incredulous and turned around, hurrying his pace to get back to the room, along with the noisy hospital staff.

***