Imagining Maria
by Gordon Gibson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: An exploration of the process of imagining.
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It is not entirely clear to me how she came to take up residence among the assortment of leaflets, cuttings and photographs in my ‘Possibilities’ folder. She hid there, among things that were of enough passing interest to have saved them, at least temporarily, from the waste bin, but were too inconsequential to have gained themselves an actual use. And she survived each succeeding clear-out until she had become of the folder itself, rather than simply one of its transient contents. She even made it, briefly, on to the pin-board above my desk, but there was something unsettling about her dark, Indian eyes that too frequently caught and held my gaze, distracting me from work. She had to be removed; but not before she had been given the rather unimaginative name, ‘Maria’; and she was even then, not discarded, but returned to the folder.
My interest in her was not, to me, fathomable. I spoke no Spanish, had little knowledge of South America, and was not aroused to anger by its reported poverty or inequalities. Nor was I excited by its exoticism. True, Maria was very beautiful, and the photograph displayed a remarkable sensuality tempered by youthful shyness; but I had, I believed, reached a stage in life when I was no longer prey to images of beautiful young women. And yet, while thumbing through a glossy magazine, the name of which I cannot now recall, I had been so taken by the photograph of Maria, in peasant dress, seated by a pile of meagre produce in a street market, that I tore it from its place, and added it to my haphazard collection. I did not read the article, and so knew nothing more about her.
Only later, as I came to feel that I knew her better, did the details accrue. The light suggested that the sun had reached the west end of the market-place. It seemed to me that it would have moved behind the bell-tower of a church, casting its long shadow. It would be dark in an hour, and Maria would begin to put the unsold beans back into her basket. Perhaps there were only a few people still buying, and the men outside the bar were more numerous and noisier. She would wish she had not chosen to sit so close to the doorway, but by the time she had reached town that morning, the best places would have already been taken.
Clearly she had sold hardly anything. The beans were poor, picked days ago and already yellowing. They would be tough when cooked, but would not dry properly for storing. She would have to carry them home again, and her father would be angry that she had brought so little money.
If she had wished to go into the church to pray, even for a few moments, it would not have been possible, for she was by herself and could not leave the mound of beans unattended. Sometimes one of her young sisters would have accompanied her. On those days the walk through the hills to the town would have seemed a much shorter distance. They laughed and told each other stories, or sang together. At the market, she was much more confident when she was not alone, and could call out to the people passing, making jokes and encouraging them to buy. And she was able to find time to slip away to the cool shade of the church, and to ask God to protect her, and all of her family. Her prayers would be heard when uttered from within God’s house.
Today, she had been nervous, hardly raising her eyes from the produce before her, unwilling to meet the gazes of the townsfolk. All the time she was conscious of the men going in and out of the bar. Some of them were loud and drunk by mid morning. One man had tried to talk to her, asking her where she lived, and whether she would like to go home to his house for a drink. She had dropped her eyes and looked away from where he stood; not speaking, she shook her head and placed her chin on her shoulder. Her heart thumped within her.
The woman at the next stall had shouted at him, mocking him for a drunken fool, and when he had slouched off across the square, had called, laughing to Maria: as if a beautiful young girl such as she would waste her time with such a sot, such an insect!
Maria smiled to the woman. She did not feel that she was beautiful. She feared the attention of men.
The light was starting to fade, casting a deep blue haze over the distant mountains. It would take her two hours to reach her home village; her feet would be painful walking on the gravel roads, and she feared meeting strangers on the way. She thought on the words the priest had spoken, when she had last been in church: words of reassurance. That God watches over those who believe in Him, and she must trust to His goodness. That all sorrows and sufferings will pass. She tried to hold these words in her mind, and her hand found the wooden cross that hung around her neck on a lace of leather. But as the day dimmed, she felt hopelessness inside herself, as if she had eaten something cold and greasy that she could not digest.
Her legs felt stiff when she stood up. Her thin cotton smock gave no warmth against the cooling air. She lifted the basket of beans in one movement on to her shoulder, balanced it there and pulled her soiled felt hat tightly down, so that, when she dropped her chin, the brim hid her eyes. As she was leaving the square, music started up, from a loudspeaker within the bar. The sound was harsh and made the place seem empty. She quickened her pace.
Once out of the town Maria settled into a steady stride and hummed to herself. The way was deserted and she felt less afraid. The journey would soon be over. There would be a meal and the noise of the children. Her father would shout and complain, but her mother would take her part. He would not strike her. All things would pass.
The sound of a vehicle was coming from behind her, travelling in her direction. She thought about leaving the road but there was little cover. She did not wish to show her fear. The sound grew nearer, louder as the engine slowed. Then it stopped, and harsh yellow light appeared suddenly, throwing her shadow far in front of her, making strange the grass and the stones. A horn sounded, and there were men’s voices, laughing.
Maria would surely have fixed her eyes on the road and walked on. Or so I imagine. But I cannot go with her beyond that moment. Time and again I hold her photograph in my hand, and envisage her, head bowed, hurrying away from the brittle glare of the headlights. Sometimes I consider the possibility of heroic rescue, and how that might be effected. More frequently I can only foresee an inevitable horror.
So always, again and again I abandon her there, alone on the road; unable to imagine who might take on the role of saviour; ashamed, deploring the mind that lingers over the crime.
Swearwords: None.
Description: An exploration of the process of imagining.
_____________________________________________________________________
It is not entirely clear to me how she came to take up residence among the assortment of leaflets, cuttings and photographs in my ‘Possibilities’ folder. She hid there, among things that were of enough passing interest to have saved them, at least temporarily, from the waste bin, but were too inconsequential to have gained themselves an actual use. And she survived each succeeding clear-out until she had become of the folder itself, rather than simply one of its transient contents. She even made it, briefly, on to the pin-board above my desk, but there was something unsettling about her dark, Indian eyes that too frequently caught and held my gaze, distracting me from work. She had to be removed; but not before she had been given the rather unimaginative name, ‘Maria’; and she was even then, not discarded, but returned to the folder.
My interest in her was not, to me, fathomable. I spoke no Spanish, had little knowledge of South America, and was not aroused to anger by its reported poverty or inequalities. Nor was I excited by its exoticism. True, Maria was very beautiful, and the photograph displayed a remarkable sensuality tempered by youthful shyness; but I had, I believed, reached a stage in life when I was no longer prey to images of beautiful young women. And yet, while thumbing through a glossy magazine, the name of which I cannot now recall, I had been so taken by the photograph of Maria, in peasant dress, seated by a pile of meagre produce in a street market, that I tore it from its place, and added it to my haphazard collection. I did not read the article, and so knew nothing more about her.
Only later, as I came to feel that I knew her better, did the details accrue. The light suggested that the sun had reached the west end of the market-place. It seemed to me that it would have moved behind the bell-tower of a church, casting its long shadow. It would be dark in an hour, and Maria would begin to put the unsold beans back into her basket. Perhaps there were only a few people still buying, and the men outside the bar were more numerous and noisier. She would wish she had not chosen to sit so close to the doorway, but by the time she had reached town that morning, the best places would have already been taken.
Clearly she had sold hardly anything. The beans were poor, picked days ago and already yellowing. They would be tough when cooked, but would not dry properly for storing. She would have to carry them home again, and her father would be angry that she had brought so little money.
If she had wished to go into the church to pray, even for a few moments, it would not have been possible, for she was by herself and could not leave the mound of beans unattended. Sometimes one of her young sisters would have accompanied her. On those days the walk through the hills to the town would have seemed a much shorter distance. They laughed and told each other stories, or sang together. At the market, she was much more confident when she was not alone, and could call out to the people passing, making jokes and encouraging them to buy. And she was able to find time to slip away to the cool shade of the church, and to ask God to protect her, and all of her family. Her prayers would be heard when uttered from within God’s house.
Today, she had been nervous, hardly raising her eyes from the produce before her, unwilling to meet the gazes of the townsfolk. All the time she was conscious of the men going in and out of the bar. Some of them were loud and drunk by mid morning. One man had tried to talk to her, asking her where she lived, and whether she would like to go home to his house for a drink. She had dropped her eyes and looked away from where he stood; not speaking, she shook her head and placed her chin on her shoulder. Her heart thumped within her.
The woman at the next stall had shouted at him, mocking him for a drunken fool, and when he had slouched off across the square, had called, laughing to Maria: as if a beautiful young girl such as she would waste her time with such a sot, such an insect!
Maria smiled to the woman. She did not feel that she was beautiful. She feared the attention of men.
The light was starting to fade, casting a deep blue haze over the distant mountains. It would take her two hours to reach her home village; her feet would be painful walking on the gravel roads, and she feared meeting strangers on the way. She thought on the words the priest had spoken, when she had last been in church: words of reassurance. That God watches over those who believe in Him, and she must trust to His goodness. That all sorrows and sufferings will pass. She tried to hold these words in her mind, and her hand found the wooden cross that hung around her neck on a lace of leather. But as the day dimmed, she felt hopelessness inside herself, as if she had eaten something cold and greasy that she could not digest.
Her legs felt stiff when she stood up. Her thin cotton smock gave no warmth against the cooling air. She lifted the basket of beans in one movement on to her shoulder, balanced it there and pulled her soiled felt hat tightly down, so that, when she dropped her chin, the brim hid her eyes. As she was leaving the square, music started up, from a loudspeaker within the bar. The sound was harsh and made the place seem empty. She quickened her pace.
Once out of the town Maria settled into a steady stride and hummed to herself. The way was deserted and she felt less afraid. The journey would soon be over. There would be a meal and the noise of the children. Her father would shout and complain, but her mother would take her part. He would not strike her. All things would pass.
The sound of a vehicle was coming from behind her, travelling in her direction. She thought about leaving the road but there was little cover. She did not wish to show her fear. The sound grew nearer, louder as the engine slowed. Then it stopped, and harsh yellow light appeared suddenly, throwing her shadow far in front of her, making strange the grass and the stones. A horn sounded, and there were men’s voices, laughing.
Maria would surely have fixed her eyes on the road and walked on. Or so I imagine. But I cannot go with her beyond that moment. Time and again I hold her photograph in my hand, and envisage her, head bowed, hurrying away from the brittle glare of the headlights. Sometimes I consider the possibility of heroic rescue, and how that might be effected. More frequently I can only foresee an inevitable horror.
So always, again and again I abandon her there, alone on the road; unable to imagine who might take on the role of saviour; ashamed, deploring the mind that lingers over the crime.
About the Author
Gordon Gibson was born in Motherwell. After working in the steel industry, he trained as a primary school teacher and spent his working life in a variety of posts in education, from playgroup adviser to university lecturer.
Gordon always wanted to write, but never had the time to commit to it. When he retired, he decided to see how he would get on if he focused his efforts. In 2011, he had a poem accepted by New Writing Scotland 29. Imagining Maria is only the second of his short fiction pieces to be published anywhere.
Gordon always wanted to write, but never had the time to commit to it. When he retired, he decided to see how he would get on if he focused his efforts. In 2011, he had a poem accepted by New Writing Scotland 29. Imagining Maria is only the second of his short fiction pieces to be published anywhere.