ENtities

Convinced of the survival of his gift, Toad decided to abandon the swamps from which he had learned so much. He was absent from them physically but not in spirit, as he would carry the essence of the mud flats to expand his particular vision of the world in each recital that he began to give. Some moonlit night he sang in the city parks and his poems radiated harmony. There was no lack of good-natured people who tossed a few coins at him, although with a little fear and curiosity upon seeing his wide amphibian smile. Little by little, Toad began to earn a living as a travelling artist; he visited every city in the country and his name and presence began to be known throughout the nation. Several journalists wanted to interview him, some television presenters demanded him for their programmes, the Minister of Culture himself offered him an important bureaucratic position as Ambassador for Poetry, successful private publishers proposed to immortalise his poems on paper, international record companies tried, unsuccessfully, to sign contracts to record his recitals, an award-winning film-maker from the other side of the continent begged him (supposedly on his knees) to perform in his new film, and some scholar tried to nominate him as the ideal candidate for the Nobel Prize for Literature. Toad refused every insistent request. Fed up with humanity and its trivial shows, Toad left the city squares forever.

One starry night he discovered a quiet swamp, away from the towns and he bathed in its mud. Overwhelmed by the sludge of fame and popularity, he spent a sabbatical year in the wetlands. From that night on, each evening, he would go to the quiet swamp as if it were his guilty pleasure that he would keep secret until the last of his days.

After his well-deserved retreat, Toad returned to the community that had seen him grow up, carrying with him an immense anguish and pierced by an endless sadness. Nevertheless, he wanted to be kind to life and tried to give himself a second chance. He tried to contact his old friends, those boys who had invited him to the ball games and welcomed him with such warmth. But those aspiring shoeless athletes of yesteryear were gone. In their place were semi-bourgeois gentlemen, educated in private schools, boring, aspiring bank tellers, business executives or ordinary bureaucrats with slicked back hair, who now would not pose next to someone like Toad, not even out of unhealthy curiosity. He tried to find those girls who once pursued him, but all were married, most of them to bank tellers, business executives or ordinary bureaucrats. He tried to visit his old ponds, those that taught him steadiness and calm, but found only sterility and disappointment in them. Deciding to let himself be led along the path of abandonment, he returned to the humid habitat of his cave.

Upon entering, he noticed the gaze of some young and restless girl follow him from a nearby window. He noticed the beauty of the maiden who was looking at him, subtle and in love. She possessed features of a kind of beauty never seen before, sculpted for the delight and fascination of melancholic Toads, inspiring their poetry. Her long black hair could only symbolise the chaste permanence of damsels waiting for love. Toad understood that life was finally rewarding him. In the days that followed, with the discrete skill of the most tenacious amphibian, Toad made contact with the beautiful girl. Their love story was just like those of clandestine lovers.

One moonlit night (Toad loved moonlit nights), they met in the swamp of silence. The girl approached Toad and, trembling, revelled in his dry, rough, warty skin and its permanent smell of humidity. That was the only time they made love.

At dawn, upon noticing the emptiness of the girl's rooms and at the absence of the beautiful young lady, her father, a strict and domineering man like no other, with pain and tears in his eyes, punished the girl and took her out of town. Toad never saw her again.

In the following months, consumed by feverish despair, Toad visited countless villages in search of his beloved. There were women, from the most demure house virgins to vulgar prostitutes who, mad with passion for the aura of rarity and extravagance that Toad gave off at each leap, offered to appease his misfortunes, but Toad's heart refused to tarnish the memory of his beloved.

This is the story of Toad. I loved him, just as dew drops are loved and admired at a serene dawn. Some say that my Toad died wrinkled, dry and dehydrated on a scorching hot afternoon, aching for a romance cut short. Others claim that he entered his small cave and from that day on he did not leave to attempt to catch any insect again. A few say that he sank into the swamp of silence. What everyone assured me though, was that he died reciting a last poem in which he invoked the love of a maiden. I want to think that I was the muse of Toad's poems. Every night I go to the swamps; I like to look out and inhale the foetid and beautiful smell of their water lilies, and let myself be carried away by my personal belief that Toad is that chorus of hypnotic ballads that the amphibians sing in the moonlight. The glare from the stars gives a clarity that brings out the glow of hundreds of eyes as if they were shining stars that unsettle me and at the same time illuminate me.