⁵ A postcard from the kiosque (facing the bus stop on the main square).
I had forgotten my notebook in my previous host’s house. I could either walk along the highway or go through the Valley. I chose the Valley.
No sound accompanies me to the doors of the village; drawn curtains, no footsteps.
I enter the dirt path. I am not used to such silence, such darkness: strange figures lurk in every stone, observing. I must sing to myself to sense company in the silence; the surroundings turns the song into a hum, which in turn transforms into unsteady breathing. Those crooked cliffs behind the bends —
The clouds part, suddenly: it is light, sound. The neon moon shines through the rocks, their gaze calmed. My footsteps continue, suddenly nimbler. The road zig-zags finally upwards (no sign of wild dog packs), up to my previous host’s village.
Knock. Just once.
Maybe one more time. Knock.
A low rustle. Door opens.
The house is being renovated; the workers will sleep on the piled mattresses where I had stayed the previous nights. Owner and workers are drinking tea in the living room.
We don’t have much to say to each other. We drink tea, in peace and with little other expectation.
Pigeon valley used to be inhabited by men living in a very close relationship to pigeons. In those days, the majority of men could fly. The habit slowly died out. Today, wings appear only rarely on the newborns' backs.
I leave the house and turn back towards the Valley.