El Vaivén de las Aguas

I feel at the farthest edge of the world as I duck my head to avoid crumbling debris of earth. I also try to be careful where I put my feet; scattered pieces of old tombstones, broken crosses and sardine cans litter the floor. Several feet in front of me I see a makeshift bed, large pieces of cardboard layered with old quilts, and a semi boarded-up corner that emits a pungent stench.

Miguel, the caretaker, lives in an earthen alcove underneath Ortigueira’s cemetery. The cemetery rests upon a hill that looks out on the calm ria of Ortigueira which, 15 kilometers north of us, flows into the dark waters that lick Galicia’s coasts: the mythical and ancient Finis Terrae.

The earth serves as the only wall behind us and also as the ceiling above us, in the likes of an awning. Large pieces of heavy white and blue plastic hang everywhere for insolation. Miguel stands facing the water, the high tide of the ria cradling the sailboats of the port. He beams at the thought that has the best view in the entire town. His hair glistens white; remnants of grey tarnish the pure shade. Turning to face me, his eyes travel beyond my shoulder to the wall behind me. I rotate slowly.

Dampness dominates the space. And the decorations – more crosses, Jesus figurines – do not stop my mind’s eye from piercing into the bowels of the earth.

In Spain, the Church buries non-Catholics outside the confines of the cemetery. But luckily for Miguel, this had created the perfect nook for him, tucked away beneath the graveyard and guarded by a humble little gate. The neighbors’ gate on the other hand shuts with wrought iron doors.

Slowly we climb the incline that leads us back into open air, toward the main entrance. A white wooden bench conveniently bridges the gap between both gates, and we take a seat. Each of us unties a white plastic bag filled with lunch items. He had bought too much; he lays out a spread I know is beyond even his weekly intake: a soft cheese, a can of sardines soaked in oil, black olives, jamón Serrano, a thick white bread, and even a bottle of red wine! That was supposed to have been strictly my responsibility, I tell him.

As we begin to have our lunch, I notice he is not eating. His fat lower lip protrudes ever so slightly beyond his upper lip, a smile always rounded at the corners. His eyes gleam, a little watery, and he continues to pour me more wine. “Thank you for the company,” he repeats until I can’t make out what he is saying anymore.