A Little Frog’s Heart: The Stellar Waltz of Life

Jailhouse Story III-1

Jailhouse Story III

I felt an unparalleled peace flooding my soul. I breathed in deeply. I was content with that start of the New Year. For the first time in two years of incarceration, I managed to see in my dream my beloved family back home. Of course, the “visit” had been shadowed by that black tomcat, which had been probably sent after me by the harsh rules of the prison: Until you served the full sentence, there was no hope of redemption in that place!

The thought that I had still so much time to spend between those cold and unwelcoming walls made my heart sink. But I came back to myself quickly, because the moments in my dreams when I had managed to see my mother’s face, which I missed dearly, made up for all the sorrow. There had also been the kind warden on duty that morning: his kindness had given me hope! When you are in prison, there are few people who cared whether you stayed healthy and safe. I was lucky to have come across one of them.

This last thought made me smile. Maybe Heaven rewarded me for doing something right, offering me these happy moments? But exactly what for? I asked myself.

The story which I had started the previous evening suddenly came to mind. I turned around automatically, like a toy on springs. My eyes fell on the Candle on the table.

“I wonder if she’s all right?” I voiced out my concern, angry at myself for having forgetten about her.

My candle slept peacefully; she was leaning her head on the toilet paper roll. She had not moved from the position I’d left her in the morning. You could see she’d had a deep sleep, after an entire night of work alongside me. I then looked at the notebook I’d just finished. The biro was also sleeping, on the notebook, in the same position I’d left him the previous evening.

That meant the Wind had kept his word: for the first time since I had been locked in the cell, he had touched nothing. Full off gratitude for him, I turned my gaze to the window. It was getting darker, and the Wind spied on me with begging eyes: he wanted me to allow him inside the cell again.

I went to the window. I didn’t have the heart to let him stay out there, especially after I saw he’d kept his promises. I was ready to put forward the terms of a new pact:

“You will get inside the cell, but only tomorrow morning. I need warmth during the night, in order to be able to continue my story. Please, don’t be upset!”

The Wind became happier. He nodded his head that yes, he understood: he agreed to my proposition. He turned back without commenting on anything else and started to jump for joy in the prison yard, twirling and swirling snowflakes in his dance. Big and fluffy, like those in children’s stories, they seemed to be coming down on the world straight from the big sieve of Heaven.

I stepped away from the window, glad that everything that surrounded me had become alive. Getting closer to the little table, I sat on the chair and I slowly took the roll of toilet paper from around the body of the Candle, careful not to wake her up. But I needed her help; it was getting dark outside! So I took the matchbox and, giving birth to a small, reddish flame, I lit the Candle’s wick. She was sleepy; she started to melt slowly, shining away in the warm flame, and then she opened her eyes. Stretching out her hands, her mouth also was distorted by a yawn that could easily compete with the opening of her arms. Seeing me in front of her eyes and noticing I was feeling well, she was very glad:

“Good morning!” she said in a crystalline voice.

“It is good, but it’s already evening!” I answered joyously. “The two good sisters, the day and the night, are just swapping places amongst themselves.”

The Candle looked to the window. A smile appeared on her face, giving away her great joy: she was becoming once again the mistress of the dark cell. She raised her eyes and, with delicate vanity, she started to arrange her lively flame with pride. She was like a princess who takes care of the finishing touches in her coiffure, every morning, in front of the mirror, getting ready to put on the golden crown adorned with diamantine sparkle, the crown which she places carefully on a forehead behind which unblemished thoughts of pure love are hidden.

In her turn, my Candle took care to accomplish her mission with maximum responsibility: she wanted her light to reach to the most hidden corners of the cell, and she wanted me to take pleasure in her enjoyable company!

The biro woke up at the same time. I picked it up, while placing on the bed the notebook I’d filled up the previous night. The table was quite small, but I tried to get myself in the most comfortable position I could for writing.

Slowly and carefully, I rolled out the toilet paper keeping the end in front of me on the table, while holding the body on my lap: it was very thin. I was ready to write:

“So, shall we continue what we started last night?” asked the Candle.

“Indeed,” I replied with affection, nodding my head gently.

“Master,I want to ask you for a favour: if it’s not too much of a bother, could you whisper the words for me while writing? I’d love to hear the story!” came her request, so warm that I would not have turned her down for the world.

“I watched you writing last night, and I could only imagine your focus and enthusiasm.. Your eyes sparkled with excitement at the mysteries you were deciphering in your imaginary travels. I felt you did not want to be interrupted by anyone,” added the Candle, meaningfully. “I was trying to read, but you know I did not attend school...” she added with regret. “ Curiosity is killing me : I couldn’t even sleep properly today!” she said sounding pretty convincing..

I smiled, winking at her:

“I will definitely whisper the story to you...,” I told her, watching her closely.

So, I started to write, whispering the rest of the story.I was supposed to use the toilet paper roll accorrding to the plan I’d made that morning! Unfortunately, it was not possible: the words did not set on it as they should!

My first thought was that the ink in the biro had come to an end, not just my notebook.

“Lord, anything but this!” I said, horrified at the thought.

I quickly unscrewed it in order to check it. It was not the biro’s fault: it still had a little ink in it, sufficient for that night, I think. Even for the following day, if I still had the power to continue to work. I blew some air in the biro’s cartridge, rubbing it in my hands, as I often did in my childhood, in school, during frosty days when the classroom’s stove was cold and empty of crackling burning coal. I put it closer to the Candle’s flame, too. Tense with expectation, I put the cartridge back in the biro and tried again. Same result: it did not write!

“I wonder what is happening.” I asked myself worried. “Why won’t it write?” I checked it on all sides, looking for a reason.

But I did not find any explanation. I turned my eyes to the Candle, at a loss for ideas.

“Maybe the poor wretch needs some warmth?” she gave her opinion. “You know that a frozen object is good for nothing, except for piercing whatever comes at hand, including a wise heart. Don’t forget that the cool wind of winter was here in your cell all day long, and he did whatever he liked while we were sleeping!” the Candle said, slightly bothered. “Last time he entered the cell uninvited (least, not by me!), and he picked on the biro for nothing... He slammed the biro’s little head on the floor, that the poor little thing spilt almost all its ink on the floor! Don’t you think you’ve forgotten that, it was you who forced him out, thus punishing him for his cheek?!”

I realised from what the Candle said that she still held grudge against the Wind: maybe because he’d been in the cell by himself all day long, or maybe because he’d stolen her flame that morning? I listened to her patiently, holding back from any comments that would have fuelled her spite even more; but I had to notice that nothing of what she’d said answered my question. Anyway – I did not agree.

I had to try the biro on another paper; I had to find out why he did not write. I stood up and, leaning over the notebook which was left on the bed, I scribbled some words on its last page, where a small space was free. Yes! Everything was in order! It even seemed to me that the pen put the words on paper with... pleasure!

“Aha!” I said to myself. “The toilet paper is to blame for it!”

I showed to the Candle that the biro was not guilty. She lowered her eyes, shyly, whispering to me, ashamed:

“I am sorry I picked on your friend, the Wind, for nothing...”

“He is your friend, too, not just mine; we’ve both been visited by him last morning,” I replied, smiling as in her direction as a peace offering.

Leaving the notebook on the table, I looked out of the window to see if the Wind had not listened to us slagging him off.. He was not there. I felt a sense of relief knowing that I won’t have to explain to him, in the morning, how his name had come up in conversation.

“That’s alright, it’s all good!” I turned to the Candle, trying to appease her as well. “It’s only natural to suspect the Wind, bearing in mind he teased us the other night... This is what happens all the time when somebody makes a mistake at some point: next time, be they guilty or not, they will be the first on the list of suspects! Our memory retains more easily the bad deeds, rather than the good: the first scatter all sort of dark blots on the hallways of the brain, and we cannot wash them off at all. They stay there to dominate our vision on life and influence our mind sometimes for the rest of our lives.”

Listening to me, the Candle grew slightly livelier. Mission accomplished: she saved face and was back to her old happy self. We were going to sit together through the night and it knowing that I had made her sad wouldn’t have sat well with me.

“To put your mind at rest, I promise you that our chat will be our little secret and won’t go further than these walls. This is how I am: gossiping is foreign to me...,” I added in a whisper to the candle.

She gave a sigh of relief. In her own way, she was afraid of the Wind, of his unexpected revenge. She knew from past experience that the greatest evil he could do to her was to steal her flame, at a time she would least expect it. But the Candle could always regain the flame with a single dry match. Of course, with my help.

I returned at the table, determined to try once again writing on the piece of toilet paper. I gave it another go, trying to be as delicate as I could with it. I placed it gently on a more forgiving surface, lending it the support of my notebook. Maybe the hard wood of the little table felt uncomfortable, while the kind paper of the notebook, already filed with my story, was prone to sharing some of its rich experience in hosting writings?

But it came to nothing: all my efforts proved to be in vain. Defeated, I placed the biro on the table and tried to see better what was wrong with the paper. Why did it stubbornly refuse to accept the ink of my biro?

When I took a closer look at it against the Candle’s light, it all became clear: the porous texture of the toilet paper made it look more like a cobweb, of an extremely loose weave... How could I have written on it? It was not stubborn, as I had believed, but simply unable to hold out to writing on it ;most likely the cheapest product made somewhere in a sweat-shop out of recycled materials and refuse...

Indeed, the toilet paper given to us, the prisoners, was of the worst quality I had ever seen up to that time.

Anyway, that was the least of my worries at the time; what really got me was the fact that I could not continue writing... One of the prison’s inmates came to my mind. He was Muslim. A good boy (especially when he was sleeping), who had been entrusted with a series of administrative responsibilities in the prison. He was the “camel” who distributed objects of personal hygiene in the cells.