Dream of the Blue Room

by Michelle Richmond

  Dave bent and retrieved two live pairs of angel wings that had just washed in with the tide. He held my palm open and placed the wings there, along with a handful of sand. Their shells were yellow and pink and blue, and the tiny animals, which had no perspective beyond this small handful of sand, continued to burrow, digging straight through the wet sand to my hand. I could feel the tickling pressure of their rubbery tentacles against my skin. I placed the lump of sand in the water, rinsed my hands.

  “Baby,” he called me for the first time. The only word I heard, the word that held me down, that kept me intact. What I remember most is the sense of loosening, a separating of particles that began in the chest, a feeling of coming entirely apart. But Dave was there, broad and tall and solid, he pulled me in to him and held me up, his body and his voice surrounded me. “Baby,” he said again.

  If it were not for his calm presence, the firmness of his arms around me, I would not have been able to stand there on the beach, to move my legs, to speak or eat or propel myself forward through the afternoon.

  “Talk to me,” I said. Dave understood immediately that I desired to be transported to the world of facts, of science and certainty, a domain he knew well. He needed only to decide what fact to hand over to me, by what method he would bring me back to him. We walked several minutes in silence. “There,” he said at last, bending to pick up a large spiral shell. He held it to my ear. The sea rumbled into my head. “Let’s talk about sound,” he said.

  “Okay.” There, we had a subject, something definite. My only goal was to listen.

  “Sound enters the ear through the auricle, where it is concentrated and delivered into the external auditory meatus. It causes a vibration of the tympanic membrane, the drum.” In one ear, the shell, the hollow roar of the ocean. In the other, Dave’s voice, clear and monotone, telling me that the ocean did not exist in this shell, that it was only amplification and vibration. In this manner he disclosed the mystery of the seashell, transformed myth into fact, led me out of the darkness, back to him.

  We stayed at the beach until dark—walking, standing, sitting in the shadows made by moonlight and sand dune. As we drove toward home he said, “Would you like to go to the river?”

  “Okay.” I heard my voice in the closed space of the car. The windows were up, the air conditioner on. It was only us there, moving forward along the dark road. Beside the road were houses on stilts, the dunes, the dark of the beach.

  The short drive to the river seemed to take hours. When we got to Amanda Ruth’s house, he said, “Do you want to be alone?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat in the car while I walked through the yard and down to the pier, out to the boathouse. I spent over an hour in the barbecue room, on the old mattress where Amanda Ruth and I slept the week before she left for Montevallo. At some point, I fell asleep. I dreamt of her. When I woke up I turned in the bed, expecting to find her there. I knew that I was dreaming, and believed that Nancy’s words too were a dream, and that my walk with Dave on the beach had been a dream, and that now I would wake beside her, and she would emerge from sleep slightly fussy, confused, the way she always did. But when I rolled over, I rolled over onto nothing, just a damp pillow with no case, a musty blanket. I opened my eyes and looked out the window. The river moved slowly past, all black and warm in the moonlight. In the near-dark I made out the shapes of things. Amanda Ruth’s sunglasses lay on the metal box beside the stove. Her flip-flops were slung haphazardly beside the door, as if she had just stepped out of them. I walked out onto the pier, searching. Nothing. I was alone. I began to panic. I went back inside, still hoping, still believing in the possibility of the dream, that Amanda Ruth had not been killed, that she was in the boat, waiting, knowing that I would find her in the dark, that I would come to her in my half-sleep, touch my mouth to her collarbone, her hair.

  In the blue room the water was low. The boat knocked about. I felt happy for a moment, convincing myself that the sound of the boat in the water was really the sound of Amanda Ruth, that she was below deck, knocking her knuckles against the fiberglass walls, calling me. I stepped into the boat, avoiding the two fishing poles that lay on the slippery floor, their reels slightly uncoiled, the lines gone slack. I went down into the cabin, which was moldy and damp, and found the light switch with my fingers. There were the two long cushions that met at the bow and widened into a V, where we used to lie, our heads together, talking. There was the tiny stove, the closet with the low, flimsy toilet, the doorway where you had to stoop low so as not to bump your head. She wasn’t there. I went up on deck, felt my way to the salt-stiffened chair, rested my head on the steering wheel.

  Moonlight crept through cracks in the wooden walls. The water below the boat was black; the place smelled of night and old rain, of some dark thing sleeping. I thought of long summer days, when the canvas tarp was raised and sunlight flooded the room, and the water took on the blue brilliance of lapis stone. Amanda Ruth would sit on the edge of the boat, fall backward into the water, and moments later come up laughing, silver droplets clinging to her eyelashes. She wore a yellow bathing suit, with straps made of tiny blue beads. There was nothing so blue as that room, nothing so real as Amanda Ruth.

  I walked barefoot up the pier, through the yard, and out to the road where Dave waited for me. He was awake, listening to the radio. The key dangled in the ignition. “Ready?” he asked, as if he had only been waiting a few minutes, as if we had just arrived.

  It was in the hours and days following Amanda Ruth’s death that something happened between Dave and me. One night we drove out to Gulf Shores, spread an old sheet on the sand, and drank beer long into the night. There were no stars out, just the flicker of headlights behind us on the highway, muted music drifting down the beach from the Pink Pony Pub. We sat close enough to the ocean to feel the spray from crashing waves. The air carried fish and salt and warmth, that heady Gulf Shores scent. At some point Dave leaned over and kissed me. That night I discovered his body with a passion I’d never before felt for a man. The need went beyond words, beyond lust. His touch comforted me. For the next few days he stayed at my parents’ house, and they pretended not to notice that he’d moved from the guest room into my own. Only when we were making love was I able to separate myself from the horrible knowledge of Amanda Ruth’s death. When he was inside me, his hands moving over my back, my legs clenched around his waist, his mouth against my ear, only then did the death exist in another place, some other world that I could push away.

  One year later he asked me to marry him. There was nothing to say but yes. It is possible to love a person for being sturdy and reliable in a single, impossible moment, for responding with perfect timing and absolute precision to your unspoken needs.

  SEVENTEEN

  Late in the evening, the repairs miraculously completed, we feel the grumble of machine life below us, the engine kicking to life. There is a great groaning, a terrible ruckus, and we begin to move. Buoy lights blink on the river. I can’t stop staring at Graham—the tumble of gray hair over his collar, the tight sinew of his neck, the way he bites his lower lip when he is deep in thought. In these moments it is difficult to believe that he is a man already resigned to his own death.

  It is dawn when we reach Wuhan, a day and a half behind schedule. The city stinks of coal, even in the downpour. The dock is crowded with boats. Along the banks hundreds have gathered to stack sandbags for the flood. Shirtless men labor in the glow of flashlights, the headlights of parked cars.

  The passengers, meanwhile, are unhappy. A meeting is called in The Room of the Ancient Poets. The walls are decorated with huge Chinese characters, descending from ceiling to floor. Elvis Paris informs the green group that the ship is going on, since it has another tour group to pick up in Chonquing and take downstream. We may remain onboard, or, for a small additional fee, we may take rooms in town and “enjoy the Alternate Vacation Plan, which is described in your brochure.” I have read my brochure thoroughly but have found no s
uch plan. According to Elvis, the alternative vacation involves a plane to Xi’an to see the Terra Cotta Warriors, followed by a train to “the charming city of Guilin, ancient inspiration of artists and poets,” and a three-hour cruise down the Li River, “which is even more beautiful than the Yangtze.”

  “I have to make it to the Three Gorges,” I tell Dave, thinking of the red tin stashed in the safe in our cabin.

  “Of course. We’ve come this far.”

  I find Graham on the edge of the crowd. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m staying,” he says.

  Stacy appears, wanting to know if we’re staying or going. Dave tells her we’re in for the long haul. Stacy looks relieved. “So am I.”

  Those of us who choose to stay are told that we “embark upon the remainder of the cruise at your own risk. Red Victoria Cruise Line cannot be held responsible for unforeseen dangers encountered due to the unexpected flooding.” This disclaimer is broadcast over the intercom at regular intervals during the morning. “You will spend the day touring exciting Wuhan,” The Voice says. “Those who would like alternate vacation plan, please report to the spectacular Hotel Double Happiness to join the group at 1500 hours. If you choose to go all the way to Chongqing, please report to ship by 1700 hours.”

  “So,” Stacy says. “What’s there to do in Wuhan?”

  “We should go see the baiji,” Graham says.

  “The what?”

  “It’s a type of dolphin that’s inhabited the Yangtze for millions of years,” Graham explains. “There are only fifty left. I believe one of them is still in captivity at the Institute of Hydrobiology in Wuhan. We’ll have to find someone to take us.” Graham warns us that the trip may be futile, as it is possible that QiQi, the captive dolphin, is no longer living. He saw QiQi three years ago, at which time he had a friend at the Institute, a respected scientist who was researching the threat the dam would pose to animal life. As a result of her outspoken opposition to the dam, the friend was stripped of her title and sent to do manual labor in the countryside.

  We approach Elvis Paris with our request. He shakes his head. “The dolphin preserve is off-limits to foreigners.”

  “Is there a way to buy a ticket?” Graham asks.

  Elvis shifts from foot to foot, thinks for a minute, and says, “How much can you pay for this ticket?”

  “Four hundred yuan for the four of us.”

  “I think is not enough. Is very difficult to see the baiji. Maybe Institute is closed, I have to do special procedure.”

  Graham ups his offer to two hundred yuan each. Elvis contemplates this for a minute. “I think maybe I can arrange,” he says finally, accepting a wad of bills from Graham and folding it into a fake leather wallet. He takes out a cellphone and makes a call, then accompanies us out to the dock, where he hails a red taxi. “I go with you,” he says, climbing into the front seat.

  During the heart-stopping ride through the jam-packed streets of Wuhan, Graham explains that the Chinese have several different names for the baiji: galloping white horse, river panda, king of the Yangtze, river goddess. This last title was taken from the Song Dynasty myth of how the baiji came to be. Graham first heard the story from a fisherman in Anhui province twenty years ago, when the baiji could still be seen swimming alongside sampans.

  According to legend, a beautiful young maiden was captured and taken from her family. As she was being ferried across the river to be sold into slavery, the boatman tried to rape her. To preserve her honor, she leapt into the river, but the boatman jumped after her. God took pity on the maiden and turned her into a dolphin. In punishment, the boatman was turned into a finless porpoise, known today by fishermen as the river pig.

  No one here shows much respect for lanes, and our driver is no exception. He speeds on, paying no mind to cars or cyclists. Finally, the taxi screeches up to a pair of ugly concrete buildings beside a lake. We are met by a friendly man in a white oxford shirt and gray trousers who introduces himself as Dr. Wu. “Do you have permits?” he asks.

  Elvis Paris shows him a well-worn document with an official-looking red seal. I have no idea where he got this document; he didn’t have time to arrange for any special permits this morning. Perhaps this piece of yellow parchment with its elaborate seal is like a skeleton key that opens many doors. Dr. Wu looks skeptical, but nevertheless accepts the document as proof that we have official permission to be here. He doesn’t ask for tickets, and Elvis Paris doesn’t offer him any portion of the eight hundred yuan.

  “I am very glad you came,” Dr. Wu says in impeccable English. “There is not much interest in the dolphin today. Everyone thinks about electricity and the economy, not dolphins.”

  Elvis Paris smiles. “Millions of people depend on the river,” he says. “Only fifty baiji. Who is more important?”

  Dr. Wu laughs nervously, then falls silent. He takes us into a building that houses a small circular pool, ten feet deep. “He is the only baiji in captivity,” Dr. Wu says. “We have tried to breed him, but it is very difficult to find a mate. The female we brought here two years ago died.”

  QiQi is about seven feet long, with an almost comical needle nose and hauntingly human, childlike eyes. He circles the tank, twisting and rolling, showing off. He comes close enough for me to touch him, then flips over on his back and waves a white fin at us. He rolls again and lets out a long whistle.

  Dr. Wu says that QiQi, who was rescued after being caught on a fisherman’s rolling hooks, is fortunate to be alive. The marks from the hooks are still visible, hundreds of small scars down QiQi’s back.

  Dave leans over and peers into the tank. We’ve never had a pet, because he believes animals shouldn’t be cooped up in a New York apartment. I can tell he’s moved by the sight of the captive dolphin. “How long will he live?” he asks.

  Dr. Wu shakes his head. “The baiji is a social creature. To be alone like this is not good for him. As a boy, I saw many dolphins on the river. My father was a fisherman. Fishermen in those days had great admiration for the dolphin. Once, my father accidentally caught a baiji in his net. At that time we were very hungry, but my father released the baiji anyway. Soon after that, Mao declared that the fishermen could not show special allegiance to the dolphin. Mao did not like that the baiji was called ‘the river goddess’ and ‘king of the Yangtze.’ He said that there were no goddesses and no kings, and to admire the baiji was counterrevolutionary.”

  Elvis Paris smiles, revealing a row of small gleaming teeth. “This was long time ago. Is not important now.”

  “The dolphin isn’t the only creature that faces extinction because of the dam,” Dr. Wu says. “There is also the cloud leopard, the finless porpoise, the Siberian crane.” QiQi slides past, his silver-white belly upturned, and Dr. Wu reaches down and passes his fingers over the dolphin’s scarred skin. Twenty years ago, he explains, there were thousands of baiji. But the dolphin has had too many enemies: boats, pollution, starvation. Over millions of years, the baiji adjusted to the darkness of the river, and they are almost completely blind. They navigate the river by sound. “But now there are too many boats,” Dr. Wu says, “too much noise.”

  “Okay, very good, we go now,” says Elvis Paris. But Dr. Wu has one more thing to show us. He takes us to another room where less fortunate baiji are on display, those who were killed by the rolling hooks. Their silver-gray skins are ripped and ragged, and their eyes stare out blankly. I snap a picture, and immediately Elvis Paris says, “No pictures here! You may take photo of QiQi, but this dead baiji is no good. Please, your film.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Graham takes me aside. “You should give him the film. He can make problems for Dr. Wu.”

  I slide the film out of the camera and hand it to Elvis Paris. He drops it in the garbage can and leads us outside, into the gray afternoon.

  In the night, on deck, beneath an awning that keeps me dry from the fine continuous rain, I dream of the baiji. In this dream I see the dolphin swim
ming back and forth in the river, but then it is not a river but a swimming pool, and finally, not a swimming pool but a bathtub. Then we are on the river again, and the dolphin is swimming alongside our ship. The dolphin is slick and white, slender, its skin extremely taut, its eyes deeply sad. The boat roars through the water, cars rumble over a bridge. Onshore, cranes howl and pickaxes ring. The dolphin, confused by the noise, twists and turns. I say to the captain of our ship, to the passing sampans, to the couple from Texas, “Look! It’s the bajii! There are only fifty left in the world!” But no one comes to see. In the distance a temple rises from the hillside, and The Voice on the loudspeaker says, “World famous hanging temple of China.” Everyone rushes to the back of the ship to take pictures against the backdrop of the temple. When I look down again, the dolphin is gone. There is a terrible noise, what sounds like a human cry. The river churns up red.

  EIGHTEEN

  About half of the passengers have stayed in Wuhan, along with a disproportionately large number of the crew. We become then a ship of survivors, the ones willingly left behind. There is excitement on board. The crew becomes more leisurely. All through the night they can be found drinking to excess with the passengers, gambling, playing charades. The ties of the stewards have been loosened. The second captain has taken over, the first opting for a few days of rest in Wuhan. Elvis Paris is in his glory; he calls us the mutineers.

  The next day the rain comes down hard. “This way,” Graham says.

  “Where are we going?”

  “So many questions.”