Richard Lutman
de nada
Something was going to happen tonight, he was sure of that. Even in his drunken state he felt the underlying sinister bone chill of the soft, sweet night tug at him in a way it hadn't before. He shook his head to clear it, quickly finished the bottle of gin, and then shattered it on the hard packed ground beneath his window.
Since arriving at Cristos on the San Paulo Peninsula three years ago, he drank. It had become his only consolation and made him forget that he was still de nada, an alien to this thick green jungle that he had once so much wanted to be part of. He closed his eyes and felt the moon press hot and hard on his lids. The night's heat seemed to focus on him and he heard the bats shift their toes, and drop bird bones to the plaza below him.
After he sold his interest in the tobacco shop to Murdoch, his partner, it hadn't taken him long to decide where he wanted to go. He'd been to Cristos years ago to buy tobacco and never forgot it. It was the paradise he dreamed about, a country of rich,
flowery trees, spicy scents, herons, eagles, butterflies, and the gray-eyed gypsy. She had lain next to him on the cool white sheets stroking his chest with her silky fingers.
"Nothing will be the same after tonight. Can you forgive me for what I've done?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. There is nothing to forgive. Will I ever see you again?"
"Perhaps."
The smell of gardenia closed about him in the dark and trembling air and he remembered her rising to stand in the mists that twisted upward from the jungle.
The jungle still excited him in the early morning. The huge shafts of sun and vapor through the trees was like the beginning of a new world, fresh for discovery. He arrived one day on a bus full of rotting fruit, with enough money from the sale of the shop to stay a long time. He found a room in the hotel where he spent his time drinking and watching the migratory passage of birds above the worn plaza.
One day after his arrival he found himself in a clearing near the volcano above the town. Nearby stood a deserted steel shed that had once housed a generator. Next to it a jeep lay on its back like a great tortoise. Later he'd seen a hawk riding the windy currents and heard its cry, then watched it dive and rise with a snake in its purple talons.
A small fragmented breeze tipped the tourmaline water in front of his hotel. It chattered shoreward, rubbed the palms, and then disappeared into the reflections of the moon. He stared into the dark and thought of the other times he had lain in bed hearing the stir of birds and couldn't fall asleep until dawn came. He remembered in particular the Morning of the Saints, which had burst upon him like an apricot shower and brought the dense smells of new flowers clotting over him until he could hardly breathe. He quickly rose and stood naked at the window, drawing the cool damp of the leaves deep into his lungs. He watched the sun rise piercing and red over the misty jungle, bringing warmth to his cold skin. Below him there had been a rustle, and then a pale and shadowy form of a woman looked up from the red mists. A strong odor of gardenia had lingered.
The moon disappeared behind a ragged cloud, and he let the hammock fall still and listened to the tropical night around him, the distant stamp of the sea, the broad leaves shifting in noisy patterns and the heavy almost unpleasant scent of blossoms. Small animals called from the trees and alleys and the sound of a coffin being moved grated the stone angels and cupids in the narrow alley next to the hotel.
He rose and walked back into his stuffy rooms then headed toward the stairs and down to his battered truck. He had to find something to make his blood flow, to nullify the gin, the night sounds, the moon, and his thoughts.
It wasn't a difficult drive. He'd done it before, streaking through the dark at seventy or eighty, slamming the gears and accelerating on curves, his brain finally cleared, washed out in danger.
The headlights caught a moth, and then he felt the jolt of the machine as it struck a possum-like animal. Looking back, he saw the body drag itself from the road. He put the pedal to the floor and roared down the hill to the village, the scent of death trailing behind him in the thick rush of fragrant air.
For a moment he sat outside the Morado Ăngel, watching the night boats in the harbor before him. The surface of the sea was bathed in a chill, friendless light. The faces of the fisherman were indistinct, undefined, with only the movement of their bodies visible. Gulls clustered in the beam of his headlights merged with the flickering crystals of water until he had been absorbed into their silver. He shut the engine off, lighted a cigarette and watched the ragged blue smoke swirl about his head.
He climbed out of his truck, breathed deeply, and then took a step toward the bar. The door was open to the warm night and he went in. It was a large empty room with a dull wooden floor and jukebox. Adjusting himself to the interior, he finally sat facing the empty terrace where tables stood in the shadows of the leaves.
He smelled gardenia and lifted his eyes to the figure at the bar. He felt his body stir with the brassy rush of fear. Her gray eyes were deep set in an oval face. On her throat she wore a small green stone, which glittered in the light.
The jukebox stopped, and he watched the cook scoop peppers onto a plate with a large slab of meat. A man in a tuxedo leaned against the heavy wooden bar and took out a brown packet, which he placed into her hand. She quickly hid it in the folds of her thin cotton cloak. The man smiled, and then disappeared into the night. He caught her eyes and saw a faint smile on her face.
A stoop-shouldered woman with frizzy hair swept at the flies that buzzed over her sleeping baby who lay on the table. Behind her a man was immersed in the pinball.
"Do you have any gin?" he said, as she came toward him.
She nodded.
"Then bring me a bottle."
A baby-faced sailor stood up and danced with himself. He stopped as the music died and stood in the steady blue light of the jukebox, while he counted his money, his face grotesque and dark. He shouted something in broken German, and disappeared into the night, where he could be heard singing in the street.
She returned with the bottle.
"Stay. Have a gin with me."
"I can't, but give me something for the jukebox. I want to hear some music."
He gave her a coin and watched her go to the machine. It whirred and clicked. He poured a glass and drank it, watching her sway to the music, eyes shut. The song ended and she came to him, face enameled with sweat.
"Sometimes I wish I could dance forever. Don't you? If I could only keep things away for a little while. Perhaps...but that is too much for anyone to ask, even for me."
She reached for his hand and he felt his body rise as he followed her outside. The night air was damp and clung to him. She turned into a side street and climbed a set of stairs. A large spider disappeared into a crack in the stonewall above him.
She opened the door into the dark pungent of her room and turned on a small lamp.
On the table nearby was a loaf of bread in a plastic sphere, some wine and a large bible, which covered an apple.
She disappeared, and then he saw her sit and bend her arm, heard a gasp, and watched her head lifted toward the sky, circled by the cascading silver of the fish nets. The needle glimmered in her hands and she offered it to him. He took it, filled it, and then tightened the surgical tube about his upper arm, feeling the veins bulge. He slid the needle in, hot against his skin, and felt it drain, then withdrew in a spurt of blood that clustered about the hairs on his arm.
A giant ship in the harbor let out a cry, and he heard her voice silently singing.
" The wild plums grow in the jungle
Ba Ba
The wild plums grow in the jungle
Ba Ba
Only a penny a pound-O
Only a penny a pound-O"
He took a deep breath. The drug devoured his bones and made them ache and burn. He suddenly smelled hot wax, damp stone, and the sharp odor of the apple. His body glided its way along a sharp vista of color. He reached out and the light tumbled about him.
"I'm called Margaret, with one 'E', " she said in a voice that sounded faraway. "I tried to kill myself once by walking into the water. It was really grand. The water was so warm as it closed about me. I thought I was in my mother's womb."
She grabbed his hand and held it as if trying to keep her balance. Up close she smelled of dried flowers and old lace. Her face was suddenly delicate and cool like a piece of white porcelain. In the silence he could hear her excited breathing.
She lighted a candle and started for the door. He followed her outside through the damp whispers and scents.
How beautiful the jungle suddenly became, column after column of trees in a vast hall. He felt the old stone of the brush-covered wall that ran alongside them. In the flame of the candle he saw that each stone showed a station of the cross, covered by a gray moss. There hovered about him a mugginess characteristic of jungles at night, caressing him like an anesthetic.
The candle sputtered out, and darkness and grass brushed their arms. Then suddenly they burst onto a stretch of beach that was almost gold in the moonlight. Little waves like bits of fire spouted ashore and flickered out. She stopped and looked him full in the face, her eyes a yellow flame.
"My first lover was a sailor," she said. "The muscles of his body were tight and hard. The Indian Ocean was his favorite place. Once we went to spread the ashes of a comrade over the waves. On the deserted beach were hundreds of stranded jellyfish, baked hard in the sun and a couple making love oblivious of our presence. We dreamed of returning. One day he drowned swimming to a reef. It wasn't very far and the tide was low. It was a night just like now. . . He gave me this." She took the green colored stone from around her neck and held it, her eyes febrile and alive with excitement.
She rose and danced slowly in a small patch of sand. Then laughed and knelt by a dark tidal pool, tracing circles in the water which was full of the reflections of the moon. The light shimmering down lost itself in her.
"I want to die like the sperm whale," she said. "Who even in the flurry of death always keeps his head toward the sun."
"I remember the gypsy," he said, "Saying the same thing."
"She liked you. But there was no more she could do."
"Who are you?"
"Whatever you want me to be. Am I as beautiful as the gypsy was?"
"Yes."
"Yes, I am. I am. I'm like the anemone on a reef, at my fullest when the tide is in. Don't you think so?"
She stood up, undressed and plunged into the water. The currents embraced her in a glimmering cocoon and her body glistened. She dove deep down and rose gleaming, then lay on the sand, spent and heaving. Her breasts were like golden fruit.
A crab's claw lay on the sand. She put it to her skin and watched until the blood came, then tossed the claw away.
"Do you want me?" her voice was silky and warm, as it reached for him.
Her face came close, and he felt the weight of her body on him. A shudder ran through his muscles. He held her eyes not able to turn away.
"Do you want me as much as you wanted the gypsy?" she said. "Do you?"
He nodded.
She tossed her head back in a soft laugh that ended too quickly.
"Then you must do what the others did--you must see what lies beyond the reef, what secret lies hidden there and bring it to me. Then we can lie together forever. Nothing else will matter. You will have found the paradise you seek."
He rose to his feet and undressed, feeling a clarity he'd never known before. He entered the water. It clung to his arms and legs. He swam steadily, aware of sea things around him. They were bright, delicate, unusual.
He was being taken from one region to another, adrift in a gauzy, friendly ground, breathing a strange air full of glittering light. He felt dark, warm, exciting; as though at last a gentle hand glided over his body, soothing him. Before him a ship dented the night with a crown of jewels. He joined their sparkle, opened his mouth and drank--bathed his lungs, his skin, his heart and let the sparkle pour over him. Then he remembered that when she had taken the stone from her throat, it had faded and lost its light.
©2004 by Richard Lutman
