“Up a bit at your end,” said Cousin Billy. Ricky grunted, put his back into it – bend at the knees, stand up straight, he reminded himself belatedly – and hoisted the sofa up a couple of inches. He wasn’t sure that this was going to work – the sofa looked just a bit too wide to pass through the front door – but he wasn’t going to argue. After all, Billy might have been tiny, but he was wiry with it; and he was, after all, the handyman of the family.

Billy grunted too, but it was a soft snort of satisfaction, rather than effort. Sure enough, the leg of the sofa had just scraped through the doorframe. Thank goodness for that, thought Ricky: he could imagine how the oldsters would moan if they didn’t have somewhere to sit down when they got there: most of them had trouble standing up for very long. Uncle Gary would moan about his back. Granddad Richard and Great-Uncle Barry would start grumbling about their feet. But Great-Great-Aunt Lucy would say nothing at all; she’d just squat pointedly in silent, purse-lipped disapproval.

Ricky was a little resentful, too, that he’d been roped in for this job – he was big, but tired easily. If he asked for a rest, though, Billy would rib him about it for ages. He had a knack for making Ricky feel inadequate, even though Billy was actually quite a bit older and didn’t have much going for him. He was a survivor, you had to say that for him, but he was a drifter, too. To Ricky, it seemed as though Billy was going nowhere fast: no real job, no place of his own – and no children. Billy at least had Flo, even if her mother had done a runner.

Where had the kids got to, anyway? Off trying to get the fire started, he supposed, despite the cautions of their elders. They weren’t much for honest hard work; it was all gadgets and chat with them. Probably for the best: it was brains, not brawn that you needed to get ahead these days. If it was brawn you wanted, though, you couldn’t do much better than Cousin Tony: with his massive bulk, he could probably have dragged the sofa out all by himself.

Ricky smiled to himself. Tony was your original gentle giant: he looked scary, but wouldn’t hurt a fly. Didn’t even eat meat. But Tony was off on an Outward Bound Course somewhere on the West Coast of the US. Ricky could just imagine him stomping about in the woods, putting his big feet in every muddy puddle going. Tony was a sucker for travel: he’d been all over – even to the Himalayas, of all places. Heaven knew what he’d got up to over there.

“Okay, let’s take it straight back,” said Billy, gesturing with one long arm towards the garden gate behind Ricky, while the other stretched effortlessly to support the sofa. “You can manage that, can’t you Ricky?” Ricky smiled weakly, despite Billy’s slightly sneering tone, but inside he groaned. He’d have preferred to put it down and drag it, but then the legs of the sofa would rake furrows through the lawn. If only there was some way of rolling it! It needed something under the feet, something round, but –

His train of thought was interrupted as Heidi emerged from the kitchen. “All right, lads?” she said. “Hard at it, I see. Fancy a cuppa?”

“Bless you, you’re an angel,” said Billy. Ricky, labouring under his half of the sofa, simply nodded grateful assent. His sister had the same rangy frame as him, the same heavy jaw and low forehead. But it looked better on her: there was tacit acknowledgment throughout the family that she was the good-looking one. And the smart one.

Still, Ricky bore her no resentment: to him, she’d always be his little sister and he was proud of her. And he was as fond of her boys, Andy and Sebastian, as he was of his own little Flo. “Right you are,” she said. “I’ll put the kettle on.” She smiled at Billy, then shot Ricky a quick look that said: Don’t let him wear you down.

They had reached the bottom of the garden now, Billy hollering “Mind your backs!” to clear a path through the gathered family members. They were from the Parry branch of the family. Most were a lot older than Ricky, so he didn’t know many of them well, although he recognized Robbie and Boisey and their mum Effie. Ricky found it difficult to communicate with the Parry clan: he didn’t have much in common with them.

For that matter, there were a bunch of relatives from overseas that he didn’t really know how to talk to either: George, Rod and Rene. He hardly ever saw any of them; in fact, he wasn’t really sure how they were even related to him. But he ought to make the effort, he thought: they had come a long way to be here. And then there was Lincoln, who he couldn’t see anywhere. But then, he probably hadn’t turned up: he was always missing. And there was –

“Hello, Terry,” said Billy amiably. Ricky’s dad watched, with the air of a foreman, as they put the sofa down. “Hello, Billy,” replied Terry, with a grin. Ricky was momentarily jealous: he suspected that his dad, a workman all his life, secretly wished he had turned a bit more like the practical Billy. “Good job you’re doing there, keep it up – ah, tea, lovely.” Heidi had come out with a tray full of mugs and they each took one appreciatively.

They stood for a moment, sipping the sugary tea, and watched with slight concern as the kids messed around by the beginnings of the bonfire. Ricky wondered who’d finally managed to get that going – they’d been trying and failing all day. He was glad to see Flo joining in, alarmed as ever that she looked so tiny next to the other kids: she was certainly small for her age. She looked particularly tiny next to Andy’s heavyset frame: he was devouring a chunk of meat that looked as though it had spent barely any time on the barbeque.

But it was Andy’s brother, Sebastian, who caught Ricky’s attention. He was bossing the other kids around, getting them to build something out of stones. Probably him who’d started the fire, too. Ricky could just about hear the rapid patter of his voice – Sebastian spoke so quickly, and was always using big words. And he was always coming up with some scheme or another: Andy tried to keep up, but was always being overshadowed by his clever kid brother.

Despite his youth, Sebastian was already taller and better groomed than most of his relatives. And he had a kind of masterful air about him that was a little spooky: looking at him made Ricky feel as though he was a bit past it. He wasn’t alone. His dad and Billy were both looking at Sebastian thoughtfully, too. “You mark my words,” said Terry, after a moment’s consideration. “That one’s going to rule the world some day.” And Billy and Ricky looked at each other, and nodded. ##

I sought enlightenment, and in a way I found it.
Or did it find me?

I sought enlightenment in the hills behind the Casa de la Madre Dolorosa, and in a way I found it. Or rather, it found me.

It was not an easy path that I took. On one side, the unfriendly embrace of the saguaro; on the other, the grasping hands of the agave. The sun was merciless, its rays cracking the ground into ragged terracotta plates.

The air was dry and still, its only motion evident in the haze rippling about the blue-grey peaks of the distant Picos de Putas. There were no animals, no birds, not even any insects to be seen, so great was the desolation.

My isolation pressed down upon me, surrounded me, suffocated me. I found myself lost without any hope of finding the way home, wandering like a madman, raving at the sky and the earth.

It was as noon approached that I realised the desert would kill me: and yet it would do so with the kindness of the new truth of my insignificance. I resolved to make my final bed here, beneath the saguaro, perhaps one day to be discovered by another seeker after enlightenment.

It was here that Fernet Branca found me.

“Water,” I begged him, through cracked lips.

“You ask for water,” he said. “But will water quench your thirst?”

“Yes,” I croaked, but even as I spoke he emptied his canteen upon the ground.

I knew then that this was the man I had journeyed so far to find.

##

Once, it is said, Fernet Branca came upon a woman sat upon the doorstep of her house.

“What are you doing?” he asked the woman.

“I am mashing sweet potatoes to make food for my family,” she replied.

“Are you?” replied Fernet Branca. “Or are the potatoes mashing you?”

“No, I am mashing them,” said the woman. “Potatoes cannot mash people.”

“Is that so?” said Fernet Branca.

“Yes,” said the woman.

“No,” said Fernet Branca.

“Yes,” said the woman.

“No,” said Fernet Branca.

But the woman had gone inside.

“No,” said Fernet Branca once more.

Such was the wisdom of Fernet Branca.

##

“When you walk into the desert, the desert also walks into you,” said Fernet Branca, as I lay in my sickbed at the Casa de la Madre some days later.

I nodded. It was true enough: the desert had left itself in my kidneys, my guts, even my skin.

“And when you walk out of the desert, the desert walks away from you,” said Fernet Branca.

I nodded, although this time the deep truth of his statement eluded me. Perhaps I was not yet ready to understand. “Is that a bad thing, Fernet Branca?” I asked.

“Is the wind ‘bad’? Is the eagle? Is the desert rose that blossoms in the sand?” he replied.

To this, I had no reply.

##

Once, it is said, Fernet Branca set out to build a house.

First he built the walls.

Then he built the roof.

Then he invited the village to a fiesta to celebrate his new house.

“Please come in,” he said to the villagers.

The villagers said: “But Fernet Branca, you have built no doors, or windows.”

“Haven’t I?” asked Fernet Branca. “Look more closely.”

The villagers did. “Fernet Branca, we cannot see any doors or windows,” they said.

“Can’t you?” asked Fernet Branca. “Look more closely.”

The villagers did. “Fernet Branca, there are no doors or windows,” they said.

“Aren’t there?” asked Fernet Branca. “Look more closely.”

But the villagers had gone.

And with that, Fernet Branca declared that the fiesta had come to its end.

Such was the wisdom of Fernet Branca.

##

I cannot say that Fernet Branca was my friend, any more than I can say that the sun or moon was my friend. But I did see him almost every day as he walked around the village, and sometimes I would join him as he walked. I liked to think that he enjoyed my company, although he gave little sign.

“El hombre loco,” the villagers would mutter affectionately as he passed by.

“They say that I am crazy,” said Fernet Branca. “But is it I who is crazy, or is it them?”

“Who can say,” I said.

“Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our point of view,” he said.

I wrote this down in my notebook. “Perhaps it is less a matter of perspective than of size,” I suggested. “Perhaps sometimes the truths you offer are too large for people to readily understand.”

“Size matters not,” said Fernet Branca. “Judge me by my size, do you?”

To this, I had no reply.

##

Once, it is said, Fernet Branca announced he was going to catch a fish.

He walked out into the desert, and he lay down in the dirt, and he slept for eight hours.

Then he returned to the village.

“I have caught a wonderful fish,” he said.

“We cannot see any fish,” said the villagers.

“I did not catch the fish in the desert today,” said Fernet Branca. “I will catch it when I go out into the desert tomorrow.”

“But there are no fish in the desert for you to catch,” said the villagers.

“Aren’t there?” asked Fernet Branca. “Come, eat with me.”

But the villagers had gone.

“Then I will enjoy it by myself,” said Fernet Branca, “with the vegetables I gathered from my boat.”

Such was the wisdom of Fernet Branca.

##

As similarly-minded travellers came to stay at the Casa de la Madre Dolorosa, word spread of Fernet Branca and his wisdom. As Fernet Branca’s first acolyte, I greeted these seekers after truth, tried as best I could to show them the way, to open their minds.

Still, there were some who did not understand, whose ears were deaf to the truths of Fernet Branca. At first, I was worried that their disrespect might offend Fernet Branca, but as I was to learn, I need not have been concerned.

One evening, we were seated around the fire that we built every weekend.

“Is it warm by the fire?”  asked Fernet Branca. “Or is it cold?”

There was an appreciative murmur.

One of the novitiates seemed confused. He stood up, the light from the fire flickering over his face.

“Fernet Branca, I think you are full of shit!” he exclaimed.

“Ah,” said Fernet Branca. “But is it I who is full of shit, or is it –”

“No,” interrupted his accuser, “I am quite sure that it is you that is full of shit.”

For a moment, Fernet Branca said nothing. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

“A ha ha ha ha ha!” laughed Fernet Branca. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

And we all laughed too.

Such was the wisdom of Fernet Branca.  ##