Sweet Jesus
Page 27
The wind was threatening to blow it out, so he used his body to shield it and tried to think of something to say, but now his fingers had begun to burn, so he flicked it on the ground and kicked it on top of the white silk, which gathered and rushed as if sucked towards the flame. What was left of the map unfurled to expose its breast, a fragment of intersecting highways, then started to shrink around the edges in a tightening noose of orange cinders.
He grabbed some leaves and twigs and laid these down on top. The fire exhaled a lot of grey smoke, a foul smell, then the whole thing caught and there was a sudden burst of flame and firelight, illuminating a cathedral of branches vaulted over his head.
Zeus was poking at the fire with a stick, it was burning well now. He stood up and tried to think of something to say. Your death was like a grand piano falling out of the sky.
He thought he saw a flashlight through the trees. A dog barked.
He poked the fire again. There was more barking. He looked out into the darkness. A furious male voice shouted from somewhere off in the distance. Now Zeus could see lights from a farmhouse, then a gun went off.
He tore off through the woods terrified and ran until he couldn’t run anymore. Breathless, he turned to look and saw, through the black pillars of the trees, a dome of pale light and a ghostly vine of smoke rising up into the night sky where a few early stars had opened up their eyes. Then the black figure of a man obscured the light, his shadow rising into the trees. Sparks flew up and darkness again. Zeus didn’t dare go back for his duffle bag. There was nothing in it he strictly needed, his wallet was in his pocket. He decided to keep on walking, without possessions, without ties, alone under the night sky.
After a while, he found a little hollow beside a fallen log and lay down with his head on his arms and looked up at the stars. Same stars over Tripoli.
That night he dreamt of arriving at his parents’ house in a white pickup truck. He got out and stood across the street as a car drove up and pulled into the drive, loud music coming from behind its closed windows. It was his father’s Thunderbird low-rider with a portrait of Zeus and his mother painted on the side and the words ámale por siempre on a ribbon above their heads. The passenger door opened and the music got louder. Two little boys who looked just like he used to sat patiently in the front seat. His mother came out of the house then, braiding her black hair. She paused for a moment and looked in his direction, then called her children inside. His father opened the trunk of the car, lifted out a thin grey dog, and put him on the ground. When he straightened up, he noticed a young man standing next to a shiny pickup on the other side of the street. He could see his wife’s face in him. The young man started to walk towards him, and José Ortega felt as if someone had punched him in the chest. He never thought he’d have the good fortune of seeing his son again. He moved forward with his arms outstretched. Jésus, he whispered, his heart seized hard with joy and pain. My sweet Jésus.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For being my first intrepid champion, heartfelt thanks to my agent, Ellen Levine.
For her amazing skill, generosity, and commitment to this book, I owe a debt of gratitude to my editor, Ellen Seligman. Many thanks also to Kendra Ward at McClelland & Stewart, and Heather Sangster of Strong Finish.
To my friends and readers – who all gave more sustenance than they could possibly know – I would like to thank Natalie Loveless, Michael Redhill, Claudia Dey, Alison Pick, Kathleen Winter, Erik Rutherford, Sheila Heti, Liz Unna, Michael Helm, Laura Repas, Carle Steel, Lisa Moore, and Carole Galand.
To the independent cafés of west-end Toronto, thank you for offering friendly public space in which to work. May the revolution continue!
I would like to pay a note of tribute to the outdoor chapel at Pioneer Pacific Camp on Thetis Island, where all my religious sentiments began.
The skit that Zeus performs at the end of the book was inspired by an act created by the masterful Russian clown Slava Polunin, which he performs in his eponymously titled Slava’s Snowshow.
To my parents, Michael and Elaine Pountney, and my sister, Michelle Troughton, for their love and support, and everything they know, I am very grateful.
Lastly, love and thanks to Michael Winter, for enduring faith and countless hot dinners, and our son, Leo, for being himself a clown of such tender wisdom.