by Conrad Aiken
“This is very unlucky for you—platitudinous, I’m afraid, but true.”
“Nonsense, Blomberg. I’m only too glad if I can be of any help. As soon as the post office is open, we’ll buzz down and send off your wire. Not much else we can do till then.”
“No.”
“I suppose your further plans you can’t, as yet, know. Neither you nor Gil.”
“Personally, I think I shall go right back. But first I’ll find out what Gil wants—if he needs me, and wants to stay here, of course I’ll stick around. One of those things it’s not too easy to find out! I suspect he would like to stay here alone with you—but he may feel shy about saying so. Once I feel sure about it, I’ll shove off. Perhaps today.”
“Yes. I see. I can understand that.”
“Not much point in it!”
“No.”
They were silent again; he noticed for the second time the bright yellow little flower by the gutter’s edge, candid, wide open—it reminded him of something else—yes, it was like the periwinkle. And that little blue flag—he hadn’t seen it since his childhood. Brilliance everywhere—as they turned a bend in the road, and looked downward into the extravagant richness of the valley, with its cornfields, its terraced groves of papayas and bananas, and the morning sunlight already hot as honey over everything, he couldn’t help, for just an instant, thinking it was all an outrage. Brilliant, yes, but meaningless! As meaningless as a tomb. Would Gil want to stay and face that——? He found himself reflecting that nothing of this could really be discussed with Gil—nothing at all. Years must pass before that could happen, if indeed it ever could happen. Probably never. The realities must be concealed, Gil must be protected.
A tiny donkey came up the muddy road toward them, almost completely hidden under its burden of grass, head downward, walking with neat quick little feet. Hambo gestured with his stick, pointing ahead, where below them lay the little stone bridge in a clump of trees.
“That’s the barranca, there,” he said. “Where Cortez crossed. Shall we go down and smoke a morning pipe? Have you got your pipe?”
“Yes—let’s have a morning pipe.”
“Right! But watch your step, it’s slippery.”
He led the way down the narrowing path, and Blomberg followed.… That absurd figure, with the forked stick—and such a damned good fellow——! He began shaking his head from side to side, slowly, as he took out his pipe; it was all too much for him, too much altogether. He wanted to laugh at Hambo—wanted to laugh out of pure misery. “And, Christ,” he thought, patting his pocket to see whether he had any matches, “Christ, but I’m a long way from home!”
About the Author
Conrad Aiken (1889–1973) was an American poet, novelist, and short story author, and one of the most acclaimed writers of the twentieth century. His numerous honors include the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Award for Poetry, the Bollingen Prize, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters Gold Medal. Born in Savannah, Georgia, Aiken was orphaned at a young age and was raised by his great-great-aunt in Massachusetts. He attended Harvard University with T. S. Eliot and was a contributing editor to the influential literary journal the Dial, where he befriended Ezra Pound.
Aiken published more than fifty works of poetry, fiction, and criticism, including the novels Blue Voyage, Great Circle, King Coffin, A Heart for the Gods of Mexico, and Conversation, and the widely anthologized short stories “Silent Snow, Secret Snow” and “Mr. Arcularis.” He played a key role in establishing Emily Dickinson’s status as a major American poet, mentored a young Malcolm Lowry, and served as the US poet laureate from 1950 to 1952. Aiken returned to Savannah eleven years before his death; the epitaph on his tombstone in Bonaventure Cemetery reads: Cosmos Mariner, Destination Unknown.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1940 by Conrad Aiken
Cover design by Michel Vrana
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1142-6
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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