Absent Company

by Steve Rasnic Tem

  “Yanomami too fair-skinned,” he replied. “These much darker. These black.” His black face split a grin. “Yanomami fight over women. These fight over everything, I think.”

  The darkness beneath the overhanging branches grew darker still. “How close are we, do you think?” I asked. “It seems we have been travelling for a very long time.”

  “Close. So close. Always been close.”

  It struck me as somehow funny the way the smoothness of Perez’s English appeared to lessen the further we travelled into the Amazon. The way his speech began to break up, the guttural taking over. His features, too, seemed even cruder than before, darker. In the occasional flashes of light through the trees I could detect old scars on his face.

  “Battle scars, Perez? Fighting over some woman?”

  Perez laughed a distorted explosion of sound. Birds and other, unseen, creatures lifted out of the trees along the banks as the boat approached. The vegetation moved as if under water.

  “We haven’t eaten in a very long time. Shouldn’t we eat, Perez?”

  “Close, so close. We find your daughter soon. She dance for you, eh?”

  Shadows moved up and down the bank. Suddenly bile rimmed my mouth. “But we’ll die if we don’t eat.”

  The dark head had shrunk. It turned slowly towards me, but I could not see his features. The broken English came out of the dark hole above his collar. “You rot fast here, I think.”

  The boat turned into another dark tributary, its banks awash with leaping, dancing, tumbling shadows. “How fast, Perez? How fast?” I said. I could imagine hot bacteria working away at my skin. And I no longer feared that I would not see my daughter again.

  “No turn back,” he said, then began popping and snapping his lips, his invisible mouth making a broken song.

  That conversation took place ages ago, it would seem. Since that time, we have wandered the Bario, a stream of near-endless tributaries, a tributary for each hair of a young woman’s head, it would seem.

  The head on Emmanuel Perez has grown steadily smaller, blacker, so that now his grin appears larger than his head.

  Now and then, at the periphery of my vision, on the banks of the stream, appear all those grim monkeys, who come and take bites from me, tiny botfly portions of me, so that it will be ages before I die. Punishing me for my lack of understanding, my prejudice, my need to see things only in terms of myself.

  Perez grins like an ape, his naked, hairy shoulder hard at the pole, pushing our boat further into the ancient darkness.

  But the sweetest teeth are my Ceelie’s, the brightest monkey in a jungle of dark faces.

  Rider

  Black sand, purple waves, golden moonlight. Reay knew the cove didn’t really have those colors, but they were so intense in her imagination that it was difficult to see it any other way. She liked to see the world as a series of pretty pictures, herself the young maiden or small girl in the foreground. In this particular picture she felt she must look much the dark Indian doll: her long raven-black hair, narrow face in shadow, bright red blouse, and heavy quilted skirt checkered in yellow, green, and blue. She was wearing her new black boots, all laced up, the leather well shined.

  As she did every night about this time, she found a place on one of the logs forming the border between wood and beach. She pulled the cloth-bound notebook out of her bulky purse, then the stub of candle fixed to one of the miniature china plates she’d saved since childhood. She lit the candle, musing about her mother’s warning that she’d go blind this way, and set it by her side. Her mother couldn’t understand how a candle was so much nicer than any other source of light. Reay was thirty; she could make such decisions. She opened up her notebook to a blank page and wrote:

  Her tears were like little lakes in which the birds, the fish, the frogs, and even the reeds were invisible; it made her sad to see these little worlds slip away.

  She was pleased by the suggestion of delicate, ephemeral little worlds. So pleased, in fact, she decided she could not write anymore that day. She felt as if she might cry.

  Reay thumbed through the pages, rereading the previous week’s entries.

  Dear god—the plant—the surprise of the water drop on its lower leaf … green-yellow centers like the spot that appears when eyes are closed. The spiderweb—like a face, an elf? Ah, heaven. Who are you?

  Talk with John—his mentioning my quiet disturbed me—I was feeling quite pressured. He helped, joked, got a loud laugh out of me—startling—how spontaneity breaks me. Fish net? Can the fish ever be free? Can he ever escape his death?

  She looked out towards the water, hugging herself, and she thought she was seeing a fishnet hanging like a coat on an invisible hook before her, thousands of strands. With a small cry she leapt up out of her reverie, startled and fearful, so much did it seem like a spider’s web.

  But it was a man, tall, dark, moon glistening off his wet hair. He must have been taking a swim. He was walking up the beach, straight towards her. She had the feeling he was watching her, but couldn’t make out his features, his head a black oval.

  As if to escape him, and her rising apprehensions, she looked quickly, self-consciously, back into her notebook, took up the pen, and in agitation began to write:

  The sea—so restless tonight—I was seeing it as if for the first time. The way the waves grope forth in large curves in places, but only small fingers in others, so much like a living, breathing thing. I visualize a great, heavy, sweating beast beneath the sea, its laborious breath giving the waters this restless quality. Or perhaps a vast, steaming, and sparking machine, but I so hate to think of it as a machine—

  She looked up into clear, almost transparent blue eyes; never had she seen such eyes! The hair was dark, almost jet, with small strands of weed entangled here and there; no doubt he had been in the shallows.

  It suddenly occurred to her that she had forgotten to be startled. And although she had never seen him before, and was a little frightened by his dark good looks, she realized too that some part of her had expected him, expected him since the first evening she came to this beach to write.

  Earlier a dark illustration made me think of being lost in the Miami streets and accepting help from the old, gentlemanly Englishman—

  His lips flattened out, the line of his mouth extending in what she took to be a smile. She knew she must look comical out here, with her notebook, the candle sputtering out, and the way she had so obviously ignored him.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he said, in a voice like a slow wind over water.

  She started to shake her head, not knowing what to say.

  “… by the beach, here …” He gestured at the logs with a smooth, sweeping motion of one hand, his head angled towards her as if he were going to dive.

  —clear sparkle of water from the drainpipe—

  She began to giggle, unable to stop herself. She had just visualized this tall, handsome man diving over her log and headfirst, awkwardly, into the sand. She looked up, embarrassed.

  But he had not moved, and she could see no signs of irritation in his features, no signs of anything. He stared at her so, it seemed uncanny, his features like a grey cliff overhanging the sea. With the candle out she couldn’t see the whites of his eyes, although she would have expected to. Now his eyes seemed grey, blending into the shadows.

  “You … you say you’ve been here before, seen me here?” She busily rearranged her skirt, looking away from him.

  “I’m here every evening … about this time.”

  “Swimming?”

  “Yes. I also ride.”

  “Oh, that must be wonderful! Exhilarating, galloping up and down the length of the beach. But aren’t you afraid the sand might throw you?”

  He looked down at her, angling his head that strange way again, and this time it seemed to her as if he were trying to hear something. Perhaps he was reading her mind this way, gaining a better approach angle into the stream of her thoughts. She shivered.


  He remained silent. For some reason this didn’t bother her. She seemed to be able to sit quietly within his presence with no trouble at all.

  Now, hearing the lovely sea shanty on the record player—icy and billowy, pastel & heavenly—and books on the peach quilt—

  Reay didn’t know when he left her that evening; he had been so quiet. She had been sitting still, meditating, had not even been aware of his presence for a time. She’d been daydreaming about being a little mermaid, and living with an old sea captain in his cottage, where he had kept care of her. Then she had swum home one day—she’d suddenly felt greatly alarmed, only to find him dead, drowned, and it seemed from his body he had been dead for years. She had snapped out of this, shocked that she could ruin one of her favorite fantasies this way, and discovered the stranger had gone.

  She looked around her and saw that some of those worms in the little curled shells had come out, as they often did after a rain, and she noticed the beach around her was damp. When had it rained?

  In any case she walked a long stretch out of her way to avoid the little worms.

  My sea man—so dark and quiet—I’m sure it betrays a kind of gentleness. So many of us afraid to show ourselves, afraid to be vulnerable—and we all go off to our lonely little rooms—I should have spoken to him more, been kinder—

  John today—touched my arm asking for some tissue—his face had a very gentle light in it—his eyes bigger and clearer than usual—then amazement—he put his hand gently on my head as he left the room—I thought I dreamed it I was so surprised and touched—I know I brushed my head with a jolt, expecting the messed hair to be straying—feeling a kind of shine—felt like crying and telling him how soothing that gesture was—I must look very sad, I thought—

  Last night—fierce bright dreams—I awoke twice with a parched throat—draught of sweet cider so refreshing—then back to soft bed and more dreams—

  Twice today people in the laundry have turned to watch and follow my progress—the snow has begun to fall—oh let me love—

  The next three nights Reay didn’t return to the beach because of the snow. She knew that many people would have been surprised at her going there at all in winter, but the beach, in winter, gave her wonderful feelings.

  The beauty of the snow—I felt like an old peasant woman as I walked through the soft crispness—ah how it fell on me gently and entrapped me—I love it when it snows, I feel so less lonely—I felt as if I were walking under a great feather-duster—no, a flower duster, and I was tiny within it—

  It was whiter at the beach than during any other winter she could remember. The trees looked so much more barren than they had only a few days ago, the trunks so dark against the brilliance that they seemed burnt, all the life gone from them.

  She was surprised to see the first footprint, so obviously fresh, but then not so surprised as she followed the trail up the beach. She’d expected him to be here, after all. Then she came to a place where the snow and the sand beneath were quite disturbed, torn up, as if there had been a struggle. Reay was afraid. But out of the tangle came the hoof prints, and she knew her sea man had mounted his horse here, then gone sailing away, his dark hair streaming, strong shoulders moving much as the horse’s beneath him. She hadn’t seen the horse’s tracks until then, but perhaps he’d been leading it through the lap of the surf. But those frigid waters! How could he? These thoughts were forgotten when she caught the flash of dark up ahead. The snow was coming down quite thickly now, the visibility poor, but she hadn’t been mistaken. Between gusts she could see that fluid black flash. What a gorgeous horse it must be! She began to stroll, to dance, difficult in such snow, but the frozen sand beneath began to give her purchase, and then she was running, laughing, chasing the horse off into a sky and shore bleached white.

  The mountains in mist this morning—old chrysanthemums in snow—

  The cold wind hurt her throat and lungs terribly, but still she continued to run, so excited she was by the flash of that wonderful beast. Where was its rider? Because of the speed and the snow she couldn’t make out any figure astride its back. Such speed! How did the horse manage it in these conditions? She was never quite able to see the entire animal, mere bits and pieces, flashes which tantalized. It seemed thin, as if it had no flesh at all really, just black hide stretched over bone. And the shoulders so sharp, so angular, moving alternately into the currents of snow as if the horse were swimming through it, so rapid, the black hide, the tangled hair, the wild eyes …

  Reay suddenly fell into the snow, her nose filled with cold, her skin burning. She began to cry, not so much from this insult as from the knowledge she’d never be able to catch him now.

  She sat up and held her face. She was hearing … what? Faintly at first, a thumping? Pounding? Then, unmistakable as it grew louder, the sound of hooves thundering all along the beach, like a herd of horses. The sound of hundreds of hooves, thundering as if on a dry and dusty prairie.

  Thundering all around her, the heady smell, loud breathing, snorts, beginning to close in the circle …

  I remember being very tense and very frightened last night—afraid somebody was under my bed—

  That next night the beach was a cold, lonely place for Reay, the horse nowhere to be seen, nor the stranger. She had had a long, unsatisfactory phone conversation with John that day; they really didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. The talk had upset her, so she had tried to make up for it by doing some things to the house. She got out all the tin foil from the candy and gum wrappers she’d saved, and in the middle of them pasted pictures she’d taken from some second-hand fairy tale books. She looked over at the far corner—she remembered that moment distinctly—and had thought how she liked the wheat-colored wild grass on her white table there, the red goblet nearby.

  —the weeds on the hill barely lifting with faint pale life—turn my head and the rich green in the stubble—the silver strand of hair crossing my eye—

  Tonight she was wearing her lemon-lime shirt with the delicate strawberries, her hair up. She felt pretty in it. Too bad no one was here to see it.

  My tangled hair—I will be brave about this! I won’t let the tears distract me—melted tracks of water from the cars, tears—

  How could John be so stubborn? It seemed as if he really wanted to be lonely; he certainly seemed to do little to alleviate it. For a moment she thought of bringing him to the beach some night, but no, that couldn’t be! The beach was her place.

  with John—unbearable memories of men not knowing what to say and making me feel I’ve got to take the lead—I hate this sensation—I hate the frustration—it’s an area where I’ve exhausted my patience—oh I hate myself sometimes—

  She’d felt so uncomfortable in her house today; she couldn’t wait to get out. It disturbed her; before she’d enjoyed the solitary moments in her rooms so much. Now it seemed she craved the excitement, the thrill of looking at the great black beast, feeling the thunder all around her, and within.

  So many people—pounding down the years, achieving nothing but boredom—

  Reay remembered the book she’d been reading that morning, about the sea, and those who lived there. Such smooth, capable creatures. She fancied herself a delicate mermaid. Playing, sliding through the cold and dark. Undying. What it must be like!

  Dream of the child giggling somewhere, invisible—afraid I’d be struck at any moment—living in an old mansion—trapped beneath the blankets—deep sense of alarm about to be sprung—such human suffering—Rilke calls sorrow a source so often of blessed progress—

  Reay was greatly disappointed in her next few trips to the cove. Each day she’d sat in her rooms alone, determined not to yield, but finally driven out by John’s persistent phone calls, by her own self-conscious gesturing before the mirror, by boredom itself.

  But each time her anxiety and excitement had been unrewarded; the stranger, her sea man, and his horse had not been there. The cove was white, deathly still, completely iced over.
Nothing moved, not even the usual animals she saw there. There was no reason to stay; it was like walking into a dream of death by mistake. She didn’t want that at all.

  So she returned to her rooms each day to sit quietly, read, and jot thoughts into her notebook. Sometimes she tried to dream about spring, about green growing things, but the fantasies always went wrong somehow, became cold and wet. There seemed no escaping the winter.

  A vision—thinking back to our old house in Virginia—a dark hillside—with cabbage-like flowers that I have to till daily. I work in the darkness but there’s dew on the flowers—I’ve got to work as hard with these spindly flowers as one would with a full flower garden in a sunny field—but my flowers! They look like the souls of animals—crystal & fragrant—a smell much like chrysanthemums—diaphanous, snowflake complexity—wafting like plants underwater—all this within the heart of a petalled flower—

  For the first time she thought to ask herself where her stranger might live, if he was married, where he must keep that gorgeous horse. She would keep it in the house she was sure, no smelly stable! She’d give it a real bed to sleep in …

  The need to punish & be punished; god, how it drives lovers—

  Reay woke depressed, but the energy which had left her body seemed to have collected in her fingers, so she wrote fast and furiously in her notebook for two hours. Only when her fingers began cramping did she realize she’d not yet turned the heat on in the house. She felt the coldest she’d ever been. She held her hands under hot water, grabbed her coat, and started out on her walk.

  Ah heavens—the death scene of the child in my new book—holding the beautiful mother and father—oh the eyes of Marion—oh heavens, the lift of her neck—such utter spiritual beauty

  The boy’s smile—like a pebble-struck brook, goes out into the open after travelling the body—

  Although she hadn’t gone that route in several days, she wasn’t surprised to find herself making the turn towards the cove. The sky was the grey of old lead this morning, made darker by the brilliance of a fresh layer of snow on the fields. There was no one else in sight; she appreciated that. The houses looked abandoned, not even dogs barking. No birds in the sky. As if she were the last creature alive on the planet.