In Unison

Upon request, this is the epilogue to The War We Won.

Assigned to war-torn land, a young man traveled to a new democracy which stood shakily after years of civil strife. Skirmishes continued in the countryside far from the capitol while the new nation began rebuilding.

This young man took the position to escape another war that devastated his very soul.

* * * *

In a village of around a hundred folk, the young man and his mission were welcomed. Villagers were proud to host him – they furnished him a room in an ancient converted coffee processing shed.

This was their best for the young man who was unique among many. His presence protected them from further shelling and skirmishes as any injury he might sustain would begin an international incident. By dint of birthplace, he was a living peace-insurance policy though the strategy of his assignment was not recognized openly. He came to teach.

* * * *

Few amenities in the distant outpost, unfortunately and fortunately the young man was accustomed to a simple life. The village community sang together, built bonfires and danced to music from homemade instruments for celebrations. Fresh fruits from the jungles were their treats. On their unpaved roads, unshod feet tread to work and school. Sunset brought out torches, improvised oil lamps.

In his room was a bucket to haul water. This took time and energy in the heat. Looking at the stream, he saw it was dirty and the children of the area were ill. Many died. The smell of the water alarmed him. Before beginning his assigned task, he addressed the problem.

The telephone was in the next village; he walked. Weeks he spent calling the capitol, international organizations, churches, old friends, enlisting help from abroad. Took almost a year until the village had a tap providing fresh water from a deep well. Water had to be pumped manually; a highly celebrated pump it was.

Villagers dug trenches diverting waste water and many came to the pre-formed concrete bathhouse to wash every day. Women scrubbed laundry outside the unroofed structure, their children played nearby.

At dawn, the young man waited in line at the wash house. Then, finger on his hairline in front of his ear; left cheek, right cheek, he shaved in the bucket-and-cup custom. Ran his hand across his chin, his neck, he washed quickly. Another man waited behind.

Soon, an elderly man appeared near the bath house. With a wooden stool and a pair of scissors, he charged little to keep the men groomed in a fashion distinct to the area. Bowl cuts only; a practical style.

Through this time, the young man noticed there were no mirrors. Occasionally he glimpsed his reflection in the only window left intact. It was at an old bodega where a family now resided; his glances were brief, didn’t want to appear snooping.

* * * *

Monthly, he traveled to a larger village, visited a shed refashioned into a cafe. Different people, music, jokes and news while consuming the bitter local brew. Others’ faces held scars of war, deep lines of hard pasts, accidents made each face distinct. The group he worked for had a good reputation and a few in the cafe knew his face, most recognized his blue jacket with the symbol of his organization.

The next day he’d pick up his supplies and take any mail. If lucky, he’d meet a genial truck driver and hop a lift. Pigs and cabbages were often his travel companions back to the village.

* * * *

Time passed, and the perspective of the young man changed, he took close note of the earth’s changes, the seasons, though there were only two. The height of corn and bean crops in the fields, the blossoms and forming fruits, the beginnings of banana bracts were significant. He observed edible plants intently — he was as hungry as the rest of the villagers. Assuming the quiet faith of the people around him, he took water until victuals were had. Children’s bellies were the first to be filled.

His work was repetitive yet he continued and enjoyed village life, especially the children’s curiosity and spontaneity. The impact of his teaching wouldn’t be fully realized for years, yet what he built in their minds was solid. He was well-respected for his dedication. In turn, he admired the campesinos’ tenacity, their unity in facing hardship.

* * * *

Came time the teacher was called home. Village life, its rhythms had taken root inside him, yet funding had ceased. His school would continue in a greatly reduced manner. The new instructor stayed with him a while. The teacher packed what he gathered but left most of it, supplies were meager.

A grand fiesta heralded his departure. Villagers would miss him. He’d left his sweat on the roadsides clearing fallen trees, helped raise structures. He sat with the dying, taking a share of their sorrow. More than a teacher, he was their link to a better life. By his presence alone, he brought them the peace needed to expand their fields, rebuild houses, flocks, barns and the market.

The market, the very heart of the village, had returned with scant offerings, and it reflected success.

The teacher would miss the people who surrounded him, they’d taught him unspoken lessons in their ways. Sadly, he headed to the airport in the predawn chill. His blue jacket had paled and frayed and it was his most official attire.

* * * *

The international airport was simply an air-conditioned building with wide tarmac strips nearby. Only a duty-free shop, customs agents’ desks inside the structure. The airport was empty, dark; a security guard stood in front.

He approached the uniformed man, “I’m supposed to leave at noon. What happened?”

“Political problems.” He said, “If you were going north, all flights are cancelled until the governments reinstate their agreements.”

“I’ve heard there is a train. Where is the depot?” He was expected soon.

The guard shook his head, “It only goes to Nandaime, not the border.”

Quickly recalculating, the teacher decided to take buses further north, get a plane where he could. Back on the city bus, he asked for directions. Other riders thought him a bumpkin by his dialect. They chuckled, helped him along.

* * * *

Another delay. The bus northward would arrive in the morning. Other riders slept in the station on the wooden benches. The night was warm, there were no walls. Though uncomfortable, it was peaceful but for a family of small, green lizards darting for bugs.

During those years, buses were loud, informal transit. The ancient, bulky, rehabbed carriages were hand-painted, bright transport. Interiors were shabby and smelled sharp of disinfectant.

The first leg of the man’s home-bound trip he sat aside a basket of peeping baby chicks. Children roamed the aisles during stops selling cold drinks and candies. Food vendors handed their snacks through the windows of the bus; drivers didn’t dally.

* * * *

It was on the second stretch of his long journey he sat by a window which still held a pane of glass. Night fell and the driver stopped to refuel. Dim overhead lights came on, riders stood to stretch.

In the soft light he turned to the window. He saw a face. A momentary shudder startled him. His own reflection appeared as a specter, pale and gaunt. Time and life had changed him. His changed features didn’t disturb him, nor the wrinkles. It was his color. The reflection was so white as to be unnatural; so white as to appear dead, but he wasn’t dead. He could feel his heart thumping rapidly from this surprise and turned away.

The bus driver called his riders and they began northward again. The man couldn’t look back at his reflection, it disturbed him. Took many kilometers for him to realize that he’d only seen the faces of dark-skinned people, every shade of the browns and bronze, golden tan but he had not seen his own image for years. He was as troubled as he was puzzled by his thoughts.

Expectations and the unrealized collided inside him leaving a feeling that something deep had detached.

* * * *

Baffling trip he created home. Planes, buses and taxis and the teacher arrived to be immediately shuffled to the capital of his nation to present a report to a subgroup of a sub-committee.

Traffic noises on the streets, moving images and crowds surrounded the man as he strode the steps to the austere building. He’d learned quickly not to ask for help in his homeland, people plugged their ears with wired devices — they paid a stranger no mind. Snippets of conversations on public transit made him aware that their conversations were much like the village folk—dinner, friends and lovers, work, pay, hopes and dreams.

Taking his place at the podium, he presented a well-organized speech, all aligned with the objectives he was given years ago, “Additionally, your funding has brought hope. Peace has allowed rebuilding. Hope and opportunity cannot be assessed by dollars and the village has risen from the destruction to flourish.”

He smiled after being given a certificate for his work, applause and thanks from those present. Many of the other teachers assigned to the same far nation had returned home early, unable to adapt to the continual poverty and hunger. He had stayed.

As he left, a committee member pulled him aside, “We’d like for you to continue. Will you take another assignment?”

“In the same place?” He wanted to reclaim the part of him that had detached.

“Plenary session will decide in July.”

* * * *

The teacher had funds to live almost comfortably and sought out an area where familiar foods were sold, near an immigrant enclave where the sounds and smells were similar to the village. His stomach no longer tolerated the rich foods, a basic diet was in order.

The rooms in his home he decorated in greens, every verdant hue, to again wrap his life in jungle colors. Modestly tasteful, his home was cozy yet he covered the mirror in the bath, avoiding his discomfiting reflection.

Upon occasion he visited local bars. Men’s faces were smooth, beautiful. Almost every one appeared a model or a star. After a few visits, the faces appeared so similar as to be the same. Jokes, news and chatter were repetitive; competition for instant intimacy was the order of the day. During that time, it was a risky, lethal game he avoided.

* * * *

It was on the metro one evening that the teacher saw a man reading a tattered newspaper. Familiar words in a foreign language headed the front page. It was from the nation where he had taught.

Softly, he struck up a conversation with the dark man, “Is the countryside still peaceful?”

“War? No, but drought, floods, bugs—farmers live a hard life. Why?”

“I taught at a school in the countryside for several years; in the northeast.”

“There are teaching jobs here that pay well. Why did you go?”

The teacher hesitated and told a half-truth, “I loved someone deeply. I went — I went because… to distract myself from losing him.” He looked away to avoid another question.

Their conversations continued every evening and the men exchanged phone numbers. They cooked for each other, shared coffee and news.

The dark man’s apartment was as basic as possible, many men lived there; single mattresses leaned against all the walls when not in use. Roommates came and went through the nights and days; all worked several jobs.

* * * *

At the teacher’s home, the dark man asked, “Why is your mirror covered? I looked. It isn’t broken.”

The teacher explained his discomfort with his own reflection. “It happened when I left the village. I seem to have lost the feel of my color. It’s like part of me is missing—very disturbing. Did this happen to you?”

“I miss my family, my friends, but not any part of me.”

“Have you ever felt yourself in the wrong color skin — like you’ve seen so many white faces, you expect yourself to be pale as well?”

The dark man was confused. He’d never felt the loss of his color living in a nation of pale-skinned people. Was this a peculiar Caucasian problem? To him, feelings of discomfort were only passing moods. His life was pressed by other issues. Feeling doltish at being unable to address his friend’s dilemma he left.

Both somewhat embarrassed to speak of these unusual sentiments, they didn’t call or visit for several months.

* * * *

Late on a Friday night, the teacher got a call from his friend, “May I visit?”

“Bienvenido, my friend.” The teacher was relieved, he feared he’d asked a question that carried an unknown insult or perhaps revealed insanity.

The dark-skinned man brought a single, wine-colored rose and a big smile, “My teacher, my teacher,” he shook his head, embraced his host. “What you told me about your color caused me to experiment. I began looking into every face I met. I do see myself differently when I look straight into other’s eyes when I speak. I don’t lose my color, it becomes richer. I am proud of my life, helping the ones who gave me brown skin. Thank you.”

The teacher stared; he’d not expected that.

“Come,” The dark man took his friend’s hand and uncovered the mirror in the bath. “Look at two handsome men. We’re different, yes, and the same inside. The discomfort you feel is the lies you’ve been told about colors. Those lies must stop, they’re causing that detachment you feel. Close your eyes.” The dark man used a simple tactic to comfort a man he respected.

The teacher thought this odd, yet complied.

The dark man tapped on the teacher’s chest, “That place where you feel you lost something, go there and listen.” Then the dark man smiled widely, “You’ll hear the truth that all hearts beat as one – the color of the skin that holds our hearts is so very unimportant.”

With that, he gathered the teacher against his chest and squeezed him close, “Feel it?”

The teacher smelled the dark man’s sweat; memories of a young lover stirred from a blurry past. He took another deep whiff, found the empty place inside. It appeared as an ethereal hallway. Ahead, he sensed the man he’d loved deeply so long ago, still young and brave.

Words he couldn’t speak in life rang through the glowing passage and across the years. Brightness collapsed through him leaving calm.

A stark thought prickled though the teacher’s torso. His detached part wasn’t about color but a fault in how he viewed himself through his regrets. Regrets became the barriers he’d built against another loss. Regrets detached him from loving again.

A teacher’s arms encircled a friend who brought warm consolation. A friend who brought his best to offer freely. Burning tears came, profound gratitude heated, “Thank you.”

With that, he hesitantly kissed his friend’s neck and felt himself squeezed harder.

Hope for rebuilding his heart, his life, flickered. “Yes, I feel it.”

Hearts beat in unison.