A Theory of Love

by Margaret Bradham Thornton

  The nun, who spoke very little English, did her best to navigate what Helen was trying to tell her, but Helen wasn’t sure how much she understood. She explained that she would be in Cuba for the next two weeks and would like to come back to see the bishop. She left a handwritten note for him, telling him she would telephone the next day to see if they could find a time to meet. Maybe the bishop could be the subject of an article—a story about a holy man creating a community center for the youth of his town, a place where they could study in the evening. She wanted to understand how he worked with the government, given that Castro had expropriated much of the Catholic Church’s land when he came into power. As she walked back to the square, she was struck by the absurdity of what she was trying to do. Here she was, in a country where she couldn’t speak the language, trying to see a bishop who probably wouldn’t see her because he was fearful of her being either an agent of the government or a misguided journalist who could bring the unwelcome attention of the government to his good work.

  She met the driver at the agreed time in front of the rundown hotel. He resumed his position of guide and pointed to the pockmarks made by bullets on the faded mint-green–stucco facade. The hotel had been the scene of one of the last gunfights of the revolution. It had not been touched since then.

  They turned back onto the National Highway and sped toward a sun that would not give up its heat as it descended. They passed a teenage boy standing by the side of the road who looked at them with hope as they passed. She looked back at him. The driver explained the boy was selling bars of homemade nougat, she asked if they could stop. No, he said, it was illegal, but he could not explain why. She leaned her head against the door, hoping to shut her eyes and take a nap, but the unexpected jolts from the worn-out highway and stripped-out car sabotaged her plans and kept her awake. They traveled alone, neither passing nor being passed.

  As they turned onto the secondary road, the cool air scented with orange trees refreshed her, and she sat up and watched for the building placed so incongruously in the middle of the groves. The driver confirmed they were returning the same way they had come. When she saw it in the distance, she asked him if they could stop. He waivered, but she countered by saying, “For only ten minutes.” They were getting back later than expected; it would be dark soon, and his boss would not be pleased; but he was grateful for having been able to spend time with his mother, and he had already refused her once, so he acquiesced.

  He slowed and turned down the narrow dirt road. High weeds ran down the middle. The car bucked across the deep ruts. As they approached, the gray concrete building rose slowly as if a gigantic door leading to a world on the other side of the water-colored evening sky. One strand of barbed-wire fence delineated the property boundaries, which included a half-acre grove of mango trees. As they turned toward the building, the driver turned on his lights. Sitting on the steps in front of the building was a couple who moved away from the cones of light. As the car settled to a stop, the man, in torn shorts and a thin tank top, approached. The driver explained that Helen had wanted to take a look. The woman came out of the shadows. She was wearing a soiled pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. She smiled and stayed at a distance. A thin black cat crouched on the steps of the building and then darted off.

  The man and woman lived in a small apartment on the ground floor. Their job was to keep people from vandalizing the building—not that there was much to steal—copper wiring perhaps. They had no electricity so they spent the evenings sitting outside until the light disappeared. It had been a school and dormitory for students, the man explained. He asked the driver if they wanted to see the building. Helen understood enough to nod her head before her driver could decline. The man led them up a wide set of stairs in the middle of the building. The open staircase was lit by the last slivers of daylight. On the third floor he showed them a large empty room. He explained that the room was the dormitory for the boys. On the other side of the building was the dormitory for the girls. The driver had already started back down the stairs by the time the man was showing her where the boys had written their names—Enrique, Mario, Francisco, Luis, César, Victor, Antonio, Armando, Cuarto—all written by different hands. She asked if anyone ever came back. He shook his head. “Nunca.”

  The woman was standing outside with a small plastic bag when they stepped out of the building. She handed the bag to Helen. Inside were mangoes she had picked. Helen assumed the woman was the man’s wife. They were isolated in the miles and miles of orange groves. They did not have a car. They would have a long walk to get supplies. Maybe someone dropped them off. She wondered if they got lonely or if being with each other was enough. Just the two of them, as if isolated on a tiny island. Maybe being with another person so completely could make any condition bearable. The way she leaned against him made Helen feel alone. When she turned back to wave good-bye, it was too dark to see them.

  The roads were narrow and rough, and Helen had no sense of which direction they were traveling. In the darkness, there was nothing to orient—no lights, no road signs. She remembered reading that in order to get a license, a pilot had to learn to fly only by his instrument panel because in the darkness it was so easy to become disoriented. She could understand that sense of disorientation even without being airborne. When they came to a crossroad, the driver knew whether to turn left or right or continue on.

  The feeling of disorientation felt familiar—that’s how it had been with Christopher. She remembered part of a conversation. She didn’t know why it had come back now. She remembered something he had said to her: “When I first met you, I knew we could have some real surprises. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I was sure things would happen that I didn’t expect.” “Good things?” “Yes, good things.”

  She was beginning to think she would not find enough to write about Glenroy and the circus. She began to wonder what she had thought she could find. At some point she should stop trying so hard and let the story find her. She would call David in the morning and speak to him. She was not sure a story about the bishop would appeal to him—she was not sure the bishop would cooperate. The nun she had spoken to was guarded, and she knew they had to be concerned about any article appearing in the Western press. She sensed the government was allowing the bishop to operate as long as he kept things under the radar, but any sort of profile could cause them to rein in the freedom he had been allowed.

  They arrived back in Havana just after ten P.M. The driver turned into the fringes of the old city, there were no streetlights, and all the houses were dark. Very few houses had electricity after nine o’clock. It had rained while they had been away. She would later remember how the puddles of water on the uneven streets reflected only the light of the moon and made it seem much later than it was. As they pulled up to her hotel, she handed the driver the bag of mangoes. “For your children.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Havana

  The sound somersaulted toward her. It would not go away. It insisted its way into meaning. She reached toward it.

  “Helen.”

  What was this world? Where was she?

  “Helen. It’s Christopher.” His voice steadied and confused her.

  “Christopher.” She had not spoken to him in several months—not since their split—but saying his name again had the odd and unexpected effect of anchoring her in the darkness. She turned the alarm clock toward her. Four A.M. Why was he calling? She sat up and held her head to find her balance. The stone floor was cold.

  “Are you with someone?” His question made her know that he had given up all claims on her. And in that moment, she understood how words were likes pieces of cloth with threads from past feelings and desires woven through them.

  “Where are you? Are you here?”

  “I’m in Fontainebleau. I’m sorry to wake you. I’ve been trying to reach you for several days. I’ve emailed and left messages on your phone.”

  “Yeah, no, I’m in Havana. There’s
no internet, and my phone doesn’t work here.” She was still trying to locate the day that was about to begin.

  “I called your office and David gave me this number—where you’re staying. He said he wasn’t certain when you would be back.”

  She knew where she was now. The remaining fragments of confusion had settled down around her. She looked out the window. Dawn was nowhere in sight. It would be another two hours before people appeared riding bikes to work along the Malecón.

  “There are just some papers you need to sign. I’m putting the mews house in your name.” It was the way his voice closed around the words—as if something fragile had been hidden away all these years—a fragment of a feeling that, if exposed to the elements, would disintegrate.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You can sell it.”

  “Can’t everything wait until I get back?”

  “Yes, it can. I just have to let my lawyer know. I’m leaving today for a while.”

  “I’m back in two weeks.”

  “Okay, I’ll let him know.”

  “Christopher, where are you going?”

  “Bermeja.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Bermeja

  When Helen hung up the phone, she knew her heart would never have full clearance from him. She understood that she had been searching for the wrong person. It was not Glenroy she had been trying to find, but Christopher. She waited for the concierge’s office to open ahead of other guests exchanging money or complaining about the lack of phone service in their rooms. Without internet or the ability to make long-distance calls, she needed help changing her flight. The concierge told her it was impossible to change her ticket—she would have to buy a new one. There was a flight leaving Havana the next morning at six A.M., connecting through Mexico City to Manzanillo with a nine-hour layover. She agreed and paid cash because she had no choice. She had eighty pounds left, but she would have time to find an ATM at the airport in Mexico City.

  She was at the José Martí International Airport by four thirty A.M. Her flight was delayed and did not take off until ten forty-five A.M. She would still have a little over four hours to make her connection. When she arrived in Mexico City, she went to the British Airways lounge to check and answer emails. Three from Christopher over the past week. She read and reread them, looking for signs, but they were basic, factual, unemotional. They all said the same thing—he was putting their mews house in her name and she would have to sign some documents. There was no information about when he would be traveling to Bermeja or how long he would stay. She was oddly relieved. It was better to have no answer than the wrong one. She also knew she could send him an email telling him she wanted to come see him, but she did not want to be wrong about her decision or about him.

  * * *

  The distance from the small landing strip to Casa Tortuga was a little over two miles. Christopher had not arranged for anyone to collect him. After months and months in offices and conference rooms, the thought of being able to walk up a hill with views of the Pacific Ocean over his left shoulder, with nothing to do and no one to see—felt luxurious. To come to a place where life spooled out measured and marked—where the sun rose in a slow and steady way and shadows spilled across the land dictated by unbreakable laws of physics—felt necessary.

  He stopped to watch the small prop plane hurrying back to Puerto Vallarta. He remembered the first time he had seen it. He had watched it dip its wings to the fishing boats below. On such a small stretch of land, the pilot, the fishermen, and the farmers would all know one another. Very likely they were all related by blood or marriage. But today the pilot was in a rush—he had refueled quickly, no time for a coffee and chat at the landing strip. He was worried about the weather. An approaching storm had chased all the fishing boats back to shore. Most of the summer days were interrupted by afternoon thunderstorms—brief interludes of rain that pushed the heat away. The pilot had said that the storm front moving in from the west was different. It was expected to arrive in the late afternoon and last well into the early morning. As he walked along the road hugging the shoreline, his thoughts bent back to the heat. The air was heavy, almost cottony. He shifted his duffel bag to his other shoulder and paused to roll up his sleeves.

  He stopped by the hotel on his way to Casa Tortuga. There was no one in reception, and the gift shop was closed. He walked out to the pool and found the manager having a coffee at the bar. He told Christopher the summer was the slow season, and the increase in drug violence had made the American tourists nervous about coming. There had been a kidnapping, and three bodies dumped on the highway not more than thirty miles north. Christopher asked him if the restaurant was open and he said yes. Did he want lunch? No, but maybe he would come down later for dinner. The manager mentioned that Alfonso did not know he was returning. Christopher said he had decided to come at the last minute.

  As he climbed toward Casa Tortuga, Christopher stopped to take in where he was. The coast of Bermeja always staggered him. He looked out over the sea lit by a midday sun. The storm was coming. He could see it in the way the translucent blue-green waves charged and roared to shore, line after line—powerful and unrelenting. The insistency of beauty racing ahead of destruction. He remembered Helen’s comments about emotions, about how emotions experienced in a place remained, so when you came back you could find them again. He had laughed at her, but maybe she was right. He missed her. But relationships were like chemistry experiments that could never be changed back into their original form.

  He watched an osprey trying to catch a fish. It circled high and paused before making a headlong dive, crashing into the water and then taking off in one continuous movement. As it gained altitude, it shuddered, shaking off water. It performed the same tilted oval maneuver again. Something about the bird made him think it was young and inexperienced. He watched it repeat its maneuver one more time before it flew away hungry, disappearing east over a cluster of coconut palms.

  In Bermeja word traveled fast, and as he walked to Casa Tortuga’s entrance, Alfonso opened the door.

  In the early evening, the wind began to pick up and the temperature dropped ten degrees. The canopies of the coconut palms began to rustle, as if gossiping about what was coming. Soon they would be bending and swaying like arms of dancers racing through the choreography of a piece they were about to perform. On the horizon, a dark line was expanding, blurring the boundary between water and air. On the west coast of Mexico, Christopher could see disturbances from far away. He watched the storm roll in. The lightning—when it came—was fierce, cracking the night sky—an outline of a mountain range, two skeletons holding hands, then three, road maps, river paths, upside-down leafless trees, the flow of blood in a body, the veins of the leaf he and Helen had felt at Willie’s play. He waited to hear the thunder, to mark and measure how far away it was. He counted the seconds until the thunder came and divided by five to determine its distance. The storm was still several miles off the coast. The sea captain had taught him this calibration, and later, in school, he had learned its scientific underpinnings. Before long, the storm arrived like a cavalry of angry, hell-bent horsemen, encasing the small house in an artillery of rain.

  * * *

  At five P.M., Helen’s flight to Manzanillo was delayed due to weather. At eight P.M. it was canceled. There was only one flight per day. The stranded passengers formed a line to rebook for the following day. Helen asked for her luggage, waited another hour to retrieve it, and at nine thirty P.M. was at the Airport Hilton. She asked the night manager if the hotel could find a driver for her. It was a twelve-hour drive, but if they left early she could be in Bermeja close to the same time as the next day’s scheduled flight. And there was no certainty it would take off the following day. It was a regional airline, and she overheard a Mexican woman say, as she was waiting in line to rebook her flight, “Ellos deciden salir cuando quieran.” They decide to go whenever they want. Helen had traveled enough to know to look for alternativ
e routes, plus, right now she did not like the idea of staying still for very long.

  The night manager did not think he could find a driver for her by the following morning. It was late—almost ten P.M. It was too far. No one wanted to drive to Bermeja. It would be expensive. She should take the flight the following day. She asked the manager again to call a taxi or car service. He obliged but after three rings hung up. “Ellos no están respondiendo.”

  “Could you try again?” Helen asked.

  He tried one more time and held the phone out for her as if she would be able to see an answer. He let it ring twice as long, but still no answer. She asked about buses, and he said, “No, not to Bermeja, nothing direct, only to Manzanillo.”

  “Do you have a schedule?” He disappeared into the back office without saying why. While she was waiting for his reappearance, the bellhop came and told her his cousin would drive her. He gave her a price and she agreed.

  “Six in the morning?”

  “Yes, six A.M.”

  * * *

  At five forty-five she was waiting outside the Hilton when an old once-blue truck emerged from the darkness and rolled to a stop. This can’t be the car and driver, she thought, but it was. José Hernandez. He spoke no English, which suited her. For the past week, she had been asking questions that rarely yielded an answer she wanted, and she was tired. She said the name Bermeja to confirm that he knew where he was going. He nodded and said, “Manzanillo.” The bellhop arrived and translated. He explained that José’s brother lived in Manzanillo, and he would drop her off in Bermeja and then drive to his brother’s house. She thought she understood the bellhop instructing his cousin to drive only on toll roads, before turning to her to add that in addition to the fare she would have to pay for gas and tolls. She agreed, and he lifted her duffel bag into the back of the truck and opened the door for her. The plastic seats were grimy and ripped in several places. She got in and rolled her window down. They were off in the cool morning air with an hour’s head start on the sun.