I remember reading The Adventures of Strong Vanya by Otfried Preussler. I never owned it. I borrowed it from a neighbor I once had. Her name was also Blanca and she recommended that I check out one of her favorite childhood novels. 

I have grown to dislike the concept of borrowing books. Not that I don’t get why people like to read stories without having them take any space in their shelves: I’ve owned books in the past that have filled spots I’d much rather reserve for stories I connected to more. But I overall like the freedom given to you once a book is yours. I like being able to leaf through it again—not reading it again, necessarily, but skimming, taking in the smell of worn paper, underlining words with pencils. I often write my thoughts on a story I’ve read on the first blank page, where only the title is written. I can’t do that with borrowed books. Not only would it be rude to the one I borrowed those books from, but I would be offering a perspective on the story that they might not share. I would give them an interpretation they’d rather live without. 

That’s what so special about reading, after all: the visuals are limited to your eyes alone. When I read The Plague, for instance, I always saw Tarrou as mulatto. I saw a long face and a hat and small spectacles. I saw long curly hair. I saw amber-yellow eyes. I saw a thin, sharp smile, one that communicates both intelligence and amity. The character Camus wrote was white—most of the people in The Plague, if not all of them, are just white men, despite the African setting. I didn’t really mind. I could see him now. Tarrou was a young, skinny mulatto with a hat and small spectacles and a confident, friendly smirk. He carried a satchel around and wore a long trench coat. Only I saw him—at the same time, everyone saw him but me. That’s what’s beautiful about reading.

And stories can mean nothing and everything at once. That’s why I mention Strong Vanya. I remember little from the story. What I do remember is imprinted on my memory with bright colors. The novel is about a boy named Vanya the Slack, unambitious and lazy. One day, an old man promises to show him the path to greatness, as long as he follows a set of very bizarre, very specific steps. Vanya is instructed to sit on the mantelpiece of his chimney for seven years and eat nothing but sunflower seeds. The day he succeeds in lifting the roof of his house with his bare hands, he’ll be able to embark on a heroic journey.

Thinking of this book brings back a wave of salty wind. It makes me think of liquid orange sunshine and cold grass. It makes me hear laughter coming from the pool, muffled by the walls. 

And I see Vanya. His hair is black and his hands pillow the back of his head. His legs dangle from the mantelpiece and the fire burns behind them. The sack of sunflower seeds is cocooned into the corner that connects the chimney and the wall. He digs his fingers in there. He chews on the seeds quietly. They shine, black and glossy, on the cold pink of his tongue. He’s younger than I am now, maybe my brother’s age. He looks at me with sheepiness. He doesn’t know if what he’s doing will be worthwhile. He’s not sure if he’s being a fool. He has doubts, but here he is, regardless. The walls darken around him. He sits above the light. His legs wobble from side to side. The flames crackle.

I cannot know how his story will end, because I’ve forgotten how it ends, and the book isn’t mine. I will probably never find it again. And I will not know what happens to Vanya. He’s frozen in the same calm position, on the mantelpiece, chewing on sunflower seeds, feeling foolish, but still chewing.

It’s been eight or nine years since I first saw him. He should have lifted the roof by now.

Copyright © Blanca Parga 2020