I have the characteristic symptoms: distorted vision and surreal sensations, my fingers and hands tingling and appearing to grow longer as I walk toward the front door of the apartment building I have come to know through visits to my father. I have not been here since long before my father’s death, and my trembling and the sense of terror I have about a need to escape, losing control, a powerlessness in the face of what I am about to experience, is palpable. I shiver as pains in my chest worsen, and I am reminded of the intensity of my recent nocturnal panic attack. I have the intuition that whoever answers the door will tell me that my father has just died. I know, I will say, that is why I am here. Whoever answers will escort me to my father’s lifeless body, and I will see in my father’s closed eyes only distant and faded memories. Knocking on that door will startle me into a state of anxiety in which I will lose control, lashing out insolently at whoever stands before me.
In my psychology practice, I have helped those with such anxiety by utilizing various techniques for relaxation, while gradually increasing their exposure to the situations which initially caused their apprehension and angst. For me, from an early age, standing before closed doors through which I have no access has always caused me to experience a sense of powerlessness and panic, and although I often stand for long durations in front of locked doors for this reason, until now, this effort, along with varied breathing exercises, has been to no avail.
I have traced the root of my nervousness back, along with my therapist, to when I was here to visit my father as a young child of twelve or thirteen. I had arrived upstairs, in front of the door on which I had always knocked, only no one was there. I discovered later that my father was at the beach and had simply forgotten the time. But in the duration between when I had first knocked on the door and when I had finally resorted in frustration to aimlessly wandering the streets, later roaming across the wide beaches, I had knocked louder, and then pounded and pounded on that door, cursing and detesting that door for being closed and locked, slinking down to the base of the painted metal and crying as though he had died, longing to smash one of the windows infuriatingly barred to prevent unwanted entry, shifting my backpack up over my shoulder, wanting to do anything to get inside, to bring him back to life.
I arrive at this front door now, sweating, my fingers numb, shifting the backpack, which has slipped, back over my shoulder. This heavy, white painted metal, windowless door that drags on the floor under its own weight when opened has not changed since my arrival here when I was twelve or thirteen. There is not even a different colour of paint, or a plant beside it now, or any sort of decorative border. All is the same. My mouth is dry and I feel myself lifting my hand, my movements slow, my mind longing to convalesce to its normal state, and I am fighting against the sensation of heaviness in my hand with the longing to pound at this door with my closed fist, to combat this door and to fight my way inside so that my father might somehow still be alive. I also have the sudden urge to escape, though, to run away from this place and to regain control of my heart’s rapid pulse, to relinquish the dizziness and nausea, to wander the streets again as though I am a child, crying and crying and calling out, over and over again, for my father.
I knock once, then twice, then again, lightheaded now, and as I prepare to slink away, a woman opens the door leading into her oceanfront apartment. My anxiety, fears and pain subside at the sight of her. It is Señora Modesta, my self-professed “Ecuadorian mother,” who is shorter than I remember. She has the same round belly and the same wet towel draped over her apron that I recall, the towel the same as her right hand, covered in paint. I am much taller than her now.
I have the impression, from the scowl on her face, that she is suspicious of me as a stranger; for a moment, somehow, she does not seem to recognize me. She has not seen me, or perhaps any strangers, for decades. She looks confused, and as she holds on to the door, I wonder if she is preparing to force it shut. I clench my fist and notice the smell of frying plantains and baking fish from within. I feel my anxiety returning and, along with it, my desire to flee.
“Samuel!” she suddenly says with a smile, startling me. I am unaccustomed to hearing the Spanish pronunciation of my name and the associated accentuation of the final consonant.
Without waiting for a response, she wipes her hand with the towel, and then uses a cloth to wipe paint from the door handle. She still manages to keep her left hand on the door.
“Buenos dias, Señora Modesta,” I say.
She grabs my face with both hands, kissing each of my cheeks which are now burning.
“I am sorry for your father,” she says, her smile transforming into a frown. “We have not seen you for so long. You have grown into a man....”
Then, after a moment, there is a woman’s voice from inside. “Mami, who is it?”
“Enter, enter,” the Señora says to me, and I feel my disquiet, frustration and panic slowly beginning to drift away again.
She struggles to pull the door open, and she invites me inside. Two women, distinctly beautiful, one with long, dark brown hair, and the other with short, black hair, both of them slender and wearing form-fitting and colourful clothing, are sitting at the table, smiling.
“Samuel, you remember my daughters Inés and Yolanda,” the Señora says.
“The last time I saw them, they were babies,” I reply.
They take immediate notice and begin staring at me, at my freckles, ruddy cheeks and red hair that are so different from anyone else’s appearance here. They rise and we exchange kisses.
The smell of fish and plantains frying in oil is strong now. There is also another odour lingering here, not quite as strong: the smell of new paint.
The Señora urges me to be seated and I pull out a chair, set my backpack on the ground, and sit down. As I do, her daughters rise from their seats and hurry to pile rice, cheese, breaded fish and oily plantains on a plate, handing the steaming food to their mother.
“Aquí está,” she says, placing the full plate before me. She pours a small glass of juice, which looks freshly blended, and a cup of instant coffee. After putting them on the table in front of me, she sits down.
“Gracias, Señora,” I say.
As I eat, I look around to see that her apartment is the same as I remember, small but seemingly comfortable. Their dog is barking behind the wooden door at the back. There are painted statues of various sizes, among them a large number of statues of saints I don’t recognize. There are statues of the Virgin Mary, statues of dogs, a black cat, even a dragon. The Señora notices that I have taken an interest in them. She reaches over, retrieves a statue and hands it to me.
“St. Francis of Assisi,” she says, the half-completed statue wetting my fingers with paint. I hand it back to her, and wipe my fingers on the edge of my plate.
“I like paint,” she says in English.
“You like to paint,” I say.
“I like to paint,” she repeats, smiling as she amends her words. “My daughters must to learn English. Your father taught me, but not them.”
“I would also like to learn,” I say, uncomfortable, nervous somehow. “Not to paint sculptures, but canvases. To capture the essence of a moment so it won’t be forgotten. Much like telling yourself, before you fall asleep, that you will remember your dreams. I went to Madrid, and the art there inspired me to want to create my own unique impressions of what I see around me.” I can tell she is confused by my words, and I feel as though I am rambling. “Perhaps one day,” I add, “I will learn to paint.” She nods, seeming to understand this.
She produces a small slip of paper, handing it to me for my perusal as she places the statue down on the table. The words are typewritten in Spanish. Before I can explain that I do not understand, she turns the paper over in my hand. The back side is written in English:
He who works with his hands is a labourer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart
is an artist.
St. Francis of Assisi (b. 1181).
“Bello,” I say.
The Señora replaces the statue and the paper, and turns back toward me.
“Your father, he will be buried tomorrow,” she says. “At noon. We are all sorry here, that he has died. He was a good man to us ... and so, where are you staying? How long are you in Manta?”
“I was staying at a hosteleria nearby. Now, if you have an apartment available, perhaps I will stay here.”
As I continue eating, I struggle through casual conversation. The Señora and her daughters speak in their native tongue quickly, much faster on the coast than in the Andes mountains. I cannot comprehend their words, or even hope to converse with them. I long to explain to the Señora, who would appreciate such sentiments, how much I learned from and was inspired by the art in Madrid, specifically at the Museo del Prado, where I saw the enduring art of the ages. I would tell her that I have found it is comprised, much like Tolstoy concluded in his book What is Art?, mostly of religious works.
I would disregard the therapeutic benefits of painting, as touted by Richard, and would explain further, knowing that she has likely never been to Spain, that the works in the Museo del Prado are composed of primitive Italian art; a divine light represented in leafs of gold, with man in the background showing his smallness as per the medieval emphasis on God. A pregnant Virgin whose praying hands are perched atop her round belly is captured in the precise centre of one of the paintings, the tree of life on the bottom left, twenty-two pairs of hands with awed faces devoutly praying to the belly. The Christ Child is atop the throned Virgin Mary. His head is perfect in every aspect, His hands, the glow about His face, the soft curls of His hair represented in exacting detail. Saint John the Baptist is in the desert with falcons and lizards and many-eyed sheep. The snake of Genesis is there, as is Saint Francis protruding from a ring of flowers and fruit. Saint Michael stands frozen while battling the fallen angels. The archangel Gabriel in fitted armour is engulfed by spectators while kicking an angel with the heel of his foot and stabbing at Golgotha with a shining sword. Horrified people on boats are bound for the fiery lakes of eternal damnation. The martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, whose body, full of arrows, supports an anguished head, is depicted. Saint Helen sits atop a dark horse at the gates of Jerusalem, along with a gloomy entourage. The emperor Heracles is astride another dark horse, observed from above by a glowing angel as he carries a wooden cross. Santo Domingo of Silos and the Spanish King Ferdinand are meeting outside of castle walls. A repentant Saint Jerome stands before an incomplete cross as Mary Magdalene sits on an unadorned throne. Jacob and his brother Esau exchange birthrights for lentils beside the risen Christ, His haunting red eyes, red hair, red face and blood contrasting against the pallor of His face. The apostles are caught in a storm in the Sea of Galilee beside the prophet David and Lazarus, resurrected.
I realize, of course, that my Spanish is insufficient to describe any of this.
The Señora suddenly stops talking, and looks over at me. “You look for an apartment here in Manta, just like your father?” she says, adding, half-mockingly: “I don’t believe you.”
“I would prefer to rent one in this building. You do have apartments for rent—”
“I don’t understand. You have no wife? No children?”
“I do.”
The Señora looks around, as though they might be lurking around a corner or beneath a window, awaiting a signal to enter.
“Then where are they?” she asks. “Why are you here, and they are in Canadá? Why did you leave them, just like your father left to you and your mother?”
I am silent.
“How you pay?” Yolanda asks abruptly in English. I reply that I have brought enough money for whatever payment was necessary.
They converse amongst themselves, and minutes later, after I pay for a month’s rent and agree to teach the girls English in exchange for meals once or twice a day, I am thanking the Señora and her beautiful daughters and departing with a key.