Beale held the tape recorder up in the lifeless trough. Shapiro shuddered—a slight chill was coming down from the mountains.
“And those other sounds—do you hear?” Beale said. His voice was growing louder or Shapiro’s ears were adjusting, seeking out the words. “The little plashings?” Beale said. “The fountain, yes, but what else? Not Spanish. But a language, yes! Just so. A language that’s much, much older.
“Yes, because we’re right across from the servants’ quarters. And right there, on the servants’ portico, the children are playing. The Indian children. Their mothers are all inside, serving little goodies to the guests. Can you hear the chatter behind us, of the guests?” Shapiro closed his eyes. Yes, he could hear it, the chatter, the pointless chatter. And smell the orange-scented garden. Yes—and he could see the children, just beyond the fountain, with their black, black hair, and shrewd, ravishing little faces.
“Good,” Beale said. “Yes. And one of the children has a piece of stone or crockery. The others whisper together. They’re joining hands—they seem to be inventing a game, don’t they? Or reinventing. Some sort of game. Maybe they remember…”
Shapiro’s name floated up from the parking lot. They were beginning to shout for him. Yes, yes, he thought fiercely, and held up a hand as though both to forestall and to shush them. In a moment…He sat down, as quietly as he could manage, on the cool concrete. Another moment and he’d go.
“When I first came to this country,” Beale was telling the tape recorder, “the sky was a blue dome over the highlands. People had more food then, and weren’t so afraid. When you went hiking through the villages, suddenly there would be a waterfall, and fifty, a hundred, two hundred women, swaying along the mountain, coming to do their washing.”
Ah! Along the mountain, coming closer. Their faces were in shadow still, and indistinct. But any minute, any minute now…
“I wanted to speak to them,” Beale said. “But how could I? I was only an apparition! But—are you listening, my darling? I know they’re still there—they’ll always be there, beyond the curtain of blood.” Beale stretched himself out in the trough, tucking the tape recorder under his head like a pillow, and a delicious sensation of rest poured into Shapiro’s body. “I’m tired now.” Beale patted the tape recorder. “I think I’ll sleep. But it’s going to be all right. Because the first thing. In the morning. When the sun is up again and shining? I’ll start back off to them. And finally we’ll speak. Please be there with me. They’ll be so happy. I know they will. Because everyone has something, some little thing, my darling, they’ve been waiting so long to tell you…”
Tlaloc’s Paradise
The young American at the door was looking for a place to rent; Jean knew that as soon as she saw him. No, almost that soon, but in fact she was first seized, facing him there, by the violent and irrational certainty that he had come to tell her something—that he’d come down from the States to tell her something about Leo.
It was a moment before she began to thaw out and catch up with the boy’s disorderly excuses. His name was Mark something, he was telling her; he’d been talking to a man in a café near the square. This man had said she and her husband were likely to know if there were a place available. He was sorry to just show up at her home like this, but he’d gone to the shop earlier and found it closed. He’d tried to phone, of course, but the phones just didn’t seem to work, and since the man in the café had given him directions to the house…How did people manage, by the way, with these phones? Though that was part of the charm of the country, wasn’t it?
He looked at her, and immediately began to apologize again: a cliché it must be no end irritating to hear this sort of thing constantly. And the fact was, he rarely found himself anyplace where phones did work. But sometimes one just opened one’s mouth, and out came some—
“Of course,” Jean said. “Well, and besides.” He was large, and almost puffy, as though with fatigue, or some mild, chronic inflammation. “Anyhow, I don’t think anyone would argue that malfunction and charm are related, at least here.”
“Hmm.” The boy frowned. “‘Related.’ Right. Complicated…”
“I’m afraid I don’t know of any places at the moment,” she said. “Leo would, probably, but you’ll have to come back. I’m sorry. I’m afraid he’s up in the States right now.”
“Ah,” the boy said.
“I’m sorry,” Jean said. “You just missed him. He only went up this morning.”
“Well.” The boy frowned again, nodding. “Thanks. Too bad. Oh—Should I come back sometime? Yes, you said that, didn’t you.”
“Some other time,” Jean said. “Yes.”
“So,” he said. “I’ll try again next week?”
“Fine,” she said.
He was so big, just standing there.
He ducked his head. “Well,” he said. “Thanks.”
She sighed. “Would you like to come in?”
Inside, he seemed even larger, and more formless, as though her fatigue were allowing him to spread into the far reaches of the large room. “Did you take the bus?” she asked, attempting to anchor her attention to one spot.
He had. He was pleased to be asked, she saw; the ride was short—she and Leo were no more than twenty minutes from town—but it was confusing, and, for strangers, difficult to negotiate. Clearly the boy was a good traveler—he’d found her after only one day in town. Though he’d been in the country, he seemed to be saying now, for several weeks.
As he talked, his shadowy bulk moved here and there, beyond the soft canopy of lamp- and candlelight, vaguely inspecting her emissaries, as it amused Leo to call them—the tall figures she’d constructed over the years, of various materials. “The man in the café mentioned you were a sculptor,” the boy said, as though it were astonishing that this should, in fact, be so. Mark, she reminded herself. They looked like they were loitering there, in the dim margins, or massing.
“Welded?” the boy said.
“That one, yes.” Fine, something she could talk about almost automatically. “A number of the early ones are, but I haven’t worked in metal for years.”
He hovered near one of the figures, peering. “Interesting,” he said.
His caution made Jean smile. “You don’t have to…I have no great stake in their quality, as it turns out.”
Each had represented—witnessed and represented—pressing matters; attitudes, preoccupations…Pressing at the time. But eventually each figure was merely subsumed into the slowly expanding crowd. “It’s just something I enjoy.”
“Mmm.” Mark frowned. “Enjoy…”
It wasn’t his size, exactly—it was his obstacle-like quality. Still, Jean reminded herself. New places. Things abruptly inflating with a puzzling significance, or, just as suddenly, draining of any significance at all. She remembered: Herself and Leo, sitting gingerly, like this boy, wary lest some chance phrase burst into flames…“There shouldn’t be much of a problem with a house for you,” she said. “You’re off-season, and there are a few vacation places Leo’s been looking after.”
Actually, there were probably some things she should take care of herself—plants, lights to outwit the tireless thieves…Neither she nor Leo had given any of that a thought in all the chaos of booking his ticket, getting in touch with friends in San Antonio, getting him on the plane. “When Leo’s back he’ll…” She sighed.
“I’d hate to have…I mean, well—a house. I hadn’t really been thinking of a whole—And I’d hate to have…your husband go to trouble if—”
“Leo likes it,” Jean said. “Can you imagine? Well, who knows. Maybe that’s the sort of thing you like, too. I can’t stand it myself. Dealing with the propane, dealing with keys, dealing with cleaning girls. But I suppose it makes Leo feel…” She picked up a cushion near her on the sofa, looked at it, then let it drop. “Well, he likes it, that’s all. That’s all.”
Mark took a deep breath. “Also, the price is something I’d…I mean
, I don’t have all that much—”
“Of course,” Jean said. No, obviously this boy wouldn’t have any money. “Well, that’s something everyone down here…Anyhow, owners tend to want someone just to…Actually, you know, I’ve probably got all kinds of keys around here somewhere. Of course, even if I could find them I wouldn’t know what key was what. Leo always says he’s going to label, but you know how it is. Years go by…” Her head felt rubbery. She pushed her hair back; she’d forgotten to wash it in the morning.
The boy was watching her. “Oh, listen,” she said. “Would you—How stupid I am tonight. Mark. Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes,” he said. “Sure, great. Oh, but maybe you—God, it’s late. I hadn’t—”
“No,” she said. “Believe me. I never sleep till two.”
“Well, great, then,” he said.
He kept his eyes lowered; he seemed almost afraid to look at her. But when he did, the intensity of his scrutiny was outrageous, practically comical. What did he suppose it was that licensed him to display such curiosity? The fact of his youth? His status as newcomer? There was nothing to prevent her from being annoyed, Jean thought, just as he blinked, and turned his gaze to the French doors.
She watched his large, moist eyes. “So,” she said. “What’s up?”
He shook his head and turned back to her, looking bewildered. “Lots of stars…”
“Oh, lots,” Jean said. “Always. Very busy at night.”
So busy. She’d never gotten over it—that sky, this room, dim and glossy with tiles and Mexican mirrors; all the faces amid the complex refractions—the faces of those figures of hers, of the pre-Columbian pieces and the masks she and Leo had scattered around; the brilliant Mexican night beyond the doors, with its festive, agitated stars and roses. Sometimes she and Leo stood here stricken, with all of that right around them, as though it were something that had eluded them…“Oh, heavens,” she said. “Sorry. Usually I’m a bit more—Listen, all I can offer you is Canadian Club. Well, there’s beer or tequila, but you’ll get deeply sick of those if you’re sticking around. We always used to have these great, sloshing reservoirs of alcohol, but I’m afraid we seem to be down to bedrock. The dreadful truth is, we’re utterly at the mercy of whatever anyone grabs on the way through duty-free.”
He’d picked up a small stone carving from the coffee table. “Actually, I don’t really drink,” he said, turning the figure over in his hand. “Do you have a Coke, or something like that? But really, I don’t want to keep you up.”
How often was she supposed to ask him to stay? “Pre-Columbian,” she said. “Not a very good piece, and in terrible condition, but I like it.”
“A big personality,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “That’s Tlaloe. Very important—A harvest-cycle type. In charge of rain, also militia. He has this special little heaven you got to go to if you were a warrior, or died of drowning. A friend of ours brought it the last time he came through. He has great luck finding interesting ones. We have a little Olmec lady he brought us. And the one over there’s Chac-Mool, the messenger. Who carried the sun around—Corrigan brought us that, too. And in fact he’s responsible for most of our masks.”
She reached over for the figure Mark was holding. It lay in her palm as she looked at it. “Good lord, you’re dying of thirst, aren’t you. You’ll have to—I was up at the most horrible—”
“I’m sorry,” Mark said. “You must be—”
“Mark, you know, people don’t get tired when they get older, they get impatient. Oh, look—” Right, hardly his fault that she—“Is Sprite okay? Didn’t even know we had it.”
“Perfect,” he said unhappily. “Sprite.”
“Sprite it is.” It had been a long time now since Corrigan had last been through. He hadn’t even been living in his Mixtec village then, just out in the desert by himself. And he’d seemed to be floating, ever so slightly away from them. She’d thought perhaps she was imagining it, but looking back she was sure. Of course eccentricities often began as choices, or tools, or positions. But they could take you captive…“You’re not going to have some sort of religious crisis, Mark, are you, if I have a drink?”
“No—” He cleared his throat. “Oh, not at all. I mean, I used to drink, myself.”
“You used to?” she said. “My God. How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.” He looked at her. “Is that—”
“Reasonable,” she said. “I suppose. And neutral. Insofar as I’m concerned, at least.”
“Strange,” he said. “Isn’t it? Such a narrow range. I mean, I can’t tell at all how old you are. And then it just closes up behind you again, doesn’t it. I mean, I can’t tell if someone’s seventeen or twenty-two.”
“Seventeen or twenty-two,” Jean said. “Ha. I can’t tell if someone’s seventeen or fifty. Jesus, you know, if the truth be told, I loathe CC. And you know what else? I can’t even remember who the cheapskate was who…You see, at one time we used to have all sorts of…Ah, well. The fact is, people simply don’t come down here the way they used to.”
“No.” He frowned. “I suppose not.”
Twenty-eight. Yes, she could see it. He was boyish-looking, and easily unbalanced, but a backlog of worry seemed to slow, or blur, his movements. Although his features were unremarkable and blunt, his expression reflected with great purity the finest modulations of his embarrassment and confusion. Her filthy hair! Her undisguised rancor! Well, all something for him to contemplate, wasn’t it; Jean noted dispassionately the thorny little tendrils of amusement uncurling within her at the consternation she was causing her guest.
“When is—when is your husband expected back?” he asked.
“It shouldn’t be long,” she said. “He’s just up for tests.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is that bad?”
She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Amazing, the tiny, tiny things you could do to make yourself feel better. Rubbing the bridge of your nose, your temples…There was some spot on her palm where Leo could rest his thumb, and the muscles of her back and neck would relax…
“I’m sorry,” the boy said again.
“It’s just tests,” Jean said.
She propped her feet—nice feet, small feet, even in their funny sneakers—against the coffee table and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. Mark had gotten his hands into the middle of some futile gesture; from the corner of her eye she watched him trying to resolve it.
“Anyway, though, it still is interesting,” he said. “Isn’t it.”
“Yes?” She lifted an eyebrow. “What is?”
“This place.” He squirmed, but persevered. “This country. Even though people don’t come here as much. It’s still interesting.”
“Ah,” Jean said.
“The man in the café was interesting,” he offered after a moment.
Jean meted out a glance of enquiry.
“The man who told me about you and Mr. Soyer.”
“Ah, yes.”
“He was German, I think. Well, I mean, he was.”
“Plenty of Germans around,” Jean said.
“This one was old—”
“Plenty of old Germans.”
“A real character. He kept making these sort of…dark allusions. You know, he’d say, ‘The coffee at this place is better than the coffee next door. Have you tried theirs?’ It was as though he was a spy, and I was a spy, too, only no one had bothered to let me know.”
Jean laughed abruptly. Beyond the seismic dislocation of her body she saw the boy peering at her with hope.
“And then for hours afterwards,” he said, “everything seemed like that. As though everyone was telling me something else.”
“Sounds like Schacht,” Jean said.
“Actually, though, you know what?” Mark said. “Everything is like that, sort of, isn’t it? I mean everyone is telling you…is telling you—Oh, and he had a kind of funny eye, I think, too.”
“
Yup,” Jean said. “Schacht.” Schacht sat at the cafés all day, a hairy disk of a spider, hors de combat. His legs dangled from his chair and one eye would drift enigmatically in and out of alignment while he waited for Mexican boys. A sufficient number were on hand, always, desperate for a meal—the price was no greater than an hour or two of boredom and the humorous remarks of one’s friends.
“He was sort of nice, though, I think,” Mark said. Jean looked at him, but his face had gone deceptively blank. “He seemed lonely.”
“Lonely,” Jean said. “Well, if you can’t really talk about your life—I mean, people manage to believe all sorts of things about themselves, don’t they. And it’s very isolating to have an official view of your life with something else locked up somewhere.”
“Do you—” A slightly gluttonous shine appeared in Mark’s stare. “God. I’ve never actually met anyone from that—”
“Well, who knows, really,” Jean said. She and Leo always referred to Schacht as “the Nazi,” but his hand, as it clung to hers in greeting, was the hand of any old man —tremulous and age-spotted. “Actually, though, it’s interesting—there’s a place here, in town. Run by an Austrian family. And all the old Germans and Austrians in the area sit around shoveling down great slabs of swine and what-not, that’s cooked and served by Mexicans. And they’re all schmoozing away in German. Pretending, believe it or not, that they were born in Mexico, or that they were in this or that resistance. Oh, I mean there are bound to be a few old Jews, and a few old déclassé aristos from one side of the fence or the other, and maybe one or two of them really did hold a match to party headquarters at Berchtesgaden or whatever. But that was simply not the story with most of them, obviously—the place is swarming with fake passports and fake histories. But whoever those people were once, they’re all sitting together now, missing the same real pastries, the same real streets…”
Mark nodded. “Oh, strangeness,” he said. “Opacity.”
As he and Jean raised their glasses to one another she saw a little heap—translucent, gelatinous, torn things. Memories, discarded by the barbed wire under a tiny, oil-colored sun. A little heap, growing on the icy soil as a shivering procession filed, naked and desperate as angels, past the guard post, where meaningless new memories were being issued. “Anyhow.” Jean closed her eyes. “Pardon me, but another burning question—what’s brought you down?”
All Around Atlantis Page 9