Where the Bird Sings Best Read Online Free

crabs. At night, she relieved her solitude by working with the seven fleas to create—by reading the lines they traced while dancing on a dusting of flour—a method that would allow her to read the future.
    The Rabbi was not much help to Alejandro in the army. The soldiers’ world seemed impure, and when he saw my grandfather in the mess hall devouring pork chops or other forbidden foods, his face became even yellower and from his slanted eyes poured tears as immaterial as his body.
    “If you don’t understand me, Moisés, bless him, will. I have to eat this Russian garbage because if I don’t, they’ll figure out who I am. It’s hard enough to cover up my circumcision. Leave me in peace. What do you know about the pain in my gut when your intestines aren’t even solid? If all you want is to add more suffering to my sorrows, I’d rather you stopped speaking to me.”
    During those arduous five years of military service, the Rabbi said not one word more.
    Alejandro had other problems. Whenever he held a rifle he went white as a sheet, fell to the ground, and vomited. Tired of trying to cure him with kicks and whippings, the officers made him a kitchen helper and bootblack for the squadron. He also had to clean the latrines and stables. Instead of feeling depressed, he decided, accustomed as he was to the blows of life, to turn his disgrace into an apprenticeship. God had put him here to peel stunted vegetables, to polish smelly boots, to clean up human and equine shit in order to teach him something important.
    Amiable, calm, smiling, he peeled tons of potatoes, carrots, and cucumbers. Though what was demanded of him was quantity and not quality, he tried to do it all rapidly but well, taking care that the food was clean, the potatoes free of eyes and rotten parts, the vegetables not dried out. He was constantly honing his skill in eliminating skin without sacrificing the slightest bit of meat. And it was in this constant separation of dirt-covered surfaces that he ended up seeing himself, as if in each day’s work he were pulling from his own memory old skins, pains, rancor, and envy. Every vegetable that sparkled naked and clean in his hands gave him the sensation of an internal birth. During his final months of military service, he carried out this task singing with the innocence of a child.
    Also with innocence, but that of a thousand-year-old man, he cleared the excrement. Horses and men were one in those evacuations. An immense pity that transformed into tenderness filled his spirit when he purged the latrines. That fecal matter was a testimony to the animal nature of the soul, of the soul’s ties to the flesh. And he marveled when he thought about how in those bodies that produced this fetid magma, faith also could manifest itself, as well as love and so many other delicate feelings. He learned to respect excrement, to consider it his equal, to see things from that humble level. He opened his heart as he emptied the receptacles, trying to be a true servant, one who sees the work of God through misery and who works to make it shine. He recognized in himself the presence of the Divine Superior and desired, with ecstatic joy, to obtain the blessing of being useful to Him. It was there, in those places of defecation, where he learned to pray sincerely for the first time. If a being like himself, an excrement gatherer, was worthy of entering into a relationship with the Supreme Being, the door was opening for other men who had—all of them—more merit than he.
    After shinning boots and shoes for almost five years, thousands and thousands of times scraping off filthy crusts; applying polish, oiling, using a cloth; patching soles; flattening rebellious nails; over and over, hour upon hour, he began to like the work. “The feet,” the instructors would always say, “are the most important part of the military. A soldier with badly fitting boots is a soldier lost.” During cold weather, on the incessant marches,