‘Whistling Against The Wind’

Jennifer Weigel

Whistling Against The Wind

Whistling was like consoling without the therapy of words; it brought him as much comfort as a lullaby cradling gently. His voice could be often heard from a distance, yet he seldom appeared, like a phantom in a fado house. He was Fernando, a man with many afflictions, physically broken; his aching back hurt, swollen feet stuttered his walk and calloused hands were hardened like an adamant object, but he still tended to his work as when he first inherited the quinta. All that time he whistled and never stopped working. 

That was his sanctuary and the farm loved him back like nobody else could. His livestock—a micro ranch of cattle with a modest group of chickens and a goat—looked into his domineering eyes like he was their father, a feeling he lost touch with, and in many ways he was their figurehead until it was time for the slaughter. They followed his whistle like a compass. That dominance was enough to make him feel idolized, similar to how his kids once looked up to him but not exactly the same. He was a fractured man. 

Thereabouts was a voice that echoed like a fading light; his daughter, Filomena. He hadn’t seen her in a long time but remembered what she sounded like. Back when she venerated the man with a high-pitched soprano pine. “Play with me, Daddy.” The sound reverberated as often as a draft passed, so whistling was a modality to drown it out. That voice always softened but could never dissipate. Time was cruel to him and with each moment he grew feebler, never forgetting. 

Every day before dawn, hunched over like a crescent, he limped away from his house with a walking stick, feet dragging on the unpaved, gravel road, carrying a tune, making the two-kilometre hike to the quinta. That was his pilgrimage to the Most High. There were no alternative means after losing his driver’s license. He was caught under the influence but that was a long time ago. 

Drinking was his vice, so much as womanizing, but he’d done better to control his demons. Even still, he’d never been the same, as if the culpable incident of intoxication aged him drastically. 

“What happened, Daddy?”

Everything changed after that except for how he took solace in being alone. He was always a lone wolf; strong, self-possessed and tireless. He depended on nobody but still yearned to connect with something, as if there were conflicting winds propelling his demeanour from wherever they blew inside his heart. The man was torn yet craved fellowship. 

Every so often, his neighbour, Carlos, traveled in the same direction to their adjacent quinta. They were friends in the most passive sense of the meaning, tolerating their indifferences while commiserating about their tedious lives as farmhands. It was laborious with no end in sight. The hardest part was that their legacy would be of no interest to their respective families when it was time to go. They had no successor. When there wasn’t much to agree about, they counseled each other during those times of hobbling back and forth. 

“How’s your Bella?” Carlos asked one day. 

“She’s doing better it seems,” Fernando answered, referring to his beloved cow that felt ill as of late. The poor thing had recovered from some bloating, laboured breathing and gooey discharge from its eyes. It was uncertain if it would make it to the table without sickness but appeared to be on the mend. 

“Bem bom.”

“She may get put down sooner than hoped for, so I’ll have the butcher set cuts aside for you.”

“Obrigado. When it’s time for my harvest I’ll have some baskets for you too.”

“Claro.”

The men worked for themselves, bartering their resources as an exchange of goods. That was the nature of the economy on the island. That’s how they looked after their own, even if they were indifferent. While Fernando often didn’t like how Carlos could be so nosey, sometimes asking about personal matters, it was recognized how they needed each other to provide for their household, so little quirks were tolerated. That’s just how it was. 

“Have you heard from your Filomena?” Carlos asked. 

“Não.”

“Suppose she is still in Canada with that lad?”

“I guess,” Fernando said. 

He didn’t lead much into his children. Snooping neighbours could talk enough to make his wool socks a trending topic so he remained stoic and oblique. Besides, it was better left unspoken. His daughter left the island many years ago to marry a Canadian and have her own family. That's all that most people knew about it. His grandchildren never met the old man and it hurt to think about the unfamiliar blood.

“Don’t lose me, Daddy.”

Point of contact was sparse at that time across the Atlantic, let alone for his other children that still lived on the island. They seldom spoke to the father since their eldest sibling, Antonio, died a young man. That moment scarred everyone. Things were never the same again. Of all the ailments that Fernando suffered, and struggled to cope with, the estrangement between himself and his family, both dead and alive, was the most painful. 

So when Carlos prodded the matter, they knew to back off and change the conversation: “So what did your wife pack for lunch?”

“Not sure.”

That was all before a long silence. No follow up. They continued walking in unison with an understanding that only their hearts could comprehend. Those were the moments that made them more friends than they could admit; how they knew each other better than they could explain. Not even their wives knew them like that. The island groomed some of the most phlegmatic characters. 

Moreover, these men were distant relatives a long time ago; descendants of discoverers. Their ancestors were the ones that inhabited the island for the first time. The rocky shores, where they broke through, was the perimeter that contained the farmers. Some got away to forge a new path, like Filomena, however many stayed behind as if it were their duty. That was the calling to agriculture. The men were preordained in the lifestyle. Long days with no long talk. Just work. With each step, they carried on like they’re supposed to. 

“Don’t go, Daddy.”

Right. Left. Right. Every stride was like a wallop from a hoe. Left. Right. Left. Traversing the distance was just part of the job. Two kilometres each way, insulated by the silence between them and looming thoughts. Their movement was backed by a swooshing coast like the soundtrack of a motion picture, until it was broken with a puckered lip. Fernando had an aptitude for carrying hymns, breaking the misery with his whistle. 

Those somber notes of fado consoled their spirits. Otherwise those quiet times were some of the most painful, even with a companion. Stillness, although peaceful, could instigate the most heart-wrenching reflections. Fado relieved their pain as much as a swig of hooch could, and it was healthier for the soul. So he whistled the rest of the way. 

There are times when a man contemplates their being. In the name of everything that is good, they can vindicate what has been done, but when the same intrusive thought crosses their mind, there comes a point when self assurance doesn’t help anymore. Fernando was hurt and he knew it. 

“What’s wrong, Daddy?”

Drowning that sorrow with work was a good diversion until his body failed him. His proficiency was not like it used to be, even still, he pushed as much as he could. On this given day, the stabbing in his lower back was unbearable, his feet felt like they were cast in cinder blocks and worst of all, his heart was shattered beyond repair. Just a little sip could numb those wounds but that was out of the question. There was no going back. No alcohol, no cigarettes, just whistling like it was a buoy to keep afloat. 

Longing was so far gone. Not even saudade could describe it. He was broke. Defeated. The man could only give as much as he had. He needed to stop but convinced himself five more minutes, then ten more. So he pushed. And pushed. His mind scampered like a record out of tune, wrenching his heart with every skip of a beat. The livestock were getting unsettled as if they could sense his disposition, but he pushed anyway. 

Grappling with thoughts of what was or could have been; His children stopped talking to him, eldest son, Antonio, drowned in the ocean and daughter estranged. A ravenous duplicity that his wife resented. Alcoholism that overtook his ambition. None of which worth mulling over, but the nature of intrusive thoughts are unsolicited like that. They beat him down as much as he wished to forget. 

The quinta was like a hideaway, a refuge from reality, so he whistled and worked, but his efforts this morning were futile. Revelations set in with nowhere else to go. His herd was increasingly agitated as their compass was steering askew so they cried aloud. Their voices smothered his now fragmented fado. Slipping notes while trying to catch his breath. Beloved Bella was apprehensive, taking cover in the shade. The animals could feel that something was off. Perhaps they could see it before Fernando. 

Ten minutes were long gone. He kept going. Discomfort in his back spread to his extremities. His arms hit with a sharp pain. Pressure built up in his chest. Cold sweats made him nauseous. Then, shortness of breath stifled his poise. Still, he pushed, gasping, winding up for another strike of his hoe. 

In one swift motion he tilted his head back and swung forward before registering that she was there with him, open handed with a benevolent stare. His motion cut the air without hitting anything. His instrument collapsed in unison as Fernando dropped to his knees at her pedestal, before hitting the ground without any clatter. He lay there, motionless. His farm, silent. The faint current blowing from the ocean carried his whistle. 

“Come home daddy.”

Devin Meireles was born and raised in Toronto, Canada, where growing up around the Portuguese diaspora had a profound effect on him. He has been published in literary journals, health magazines, and cultural newspapers. Apart from creative writing, he enjoys collecting tattoos, banknotes and travel stamps. He lives near Lake Ontario with his wife and dog.