by Roy Kesey
Not quite to Sullana we leave the highway, push west on a paved but unstable road, try for Punta Pitos. The first four turnoffs end in washouts, the smallest twelve feet deep. A dump truck driver gathering gravel tells us that one route is still open, draws a map in the dirt, and when we go that route too is closed. We hit very large holes, and bang our heads on the metal ceiling.
Back to the paved road. Watching the bushes and trees, I imagine new and better ways to teach the present perfect. Five minutes of this and again turning, this time toward Punta Dorada. The trails here are also abysmal, but running ravines and up we arrive at a bluff.
The sunlight bounces off the white rock, hovers in the black, drenches us as we hike around the point. Below us penguins nest. They are an unexpected phenomenon each time I see them.
Farther along, a hundred sea lions on the sand, a flock of pelicans, and Reynaldo leads me to a ledge from which one might fall fifteen feet into the ocean if the wave below is cresting, or thirty if it gutters. He looks at me and jumps. For a moment I think I will be unable to follow but then I do. The surf drives us against mussel beds, pulls us away and drives us against them again. Our skin opens on the shells and for a time it seems there is no way out of the water, but at last we are lifted on the largest of waves, a savage and desperate happiness.
A second jump, a third, and that is sufficient. On our walk back to the bluff I pick a new path, lead us into a rising cloud of mosquitoes with bites like bee stings. We run to the truck, drive to the paved road and then southwest toward Colán. Along the way we eat our sandwiches and drink our beers and sing with Aterciopelados, toasting Miss Panela and Chica Difícil.
The toasts and singing end when we arrive at the crest. Reynaldo pulls the truck off the road, and points though there is no need: the ocean has broken through to either side of the town below, has formed an inner barrier of water, a moat, and Colán is the crumbling castle.
As always the massive cross is to our right, and to our left is San Lucas, an old church claimed to be far older. We edge down through the bluffs, come to the edge of the water. Reynaldo smiles and guns the engine. Two young boys wade in the channels alongside the roadbed, draw away from our splashing as we pass. We arc toward the town, and to our left is a broken-toothed smile: house intact, house destroyed, house inexistent.
At Reynaldo’s aunt’s house, crazed waves smash at the breakwater he has built, at what is left to either side. The surf pounds twelve feet deep up the walkway, and the water is thick with lumber. We watch. We count half an hour from the moment of our last bite of sandwich. Then we jump from the upper deck. The sea is feverish and fast and we swim for a very long time.
As we come out, Reynaldo invents a sport, running from one property to the next between waves, holding fast to whatever still stands as the water slams in. One house has benches set in concrete, and we sit on the benches and lock our arms and feet as the thick wild waves break over us. At one point I am dragged from the bench, wrenched and staggered and thrown back toward the house, see a rail-end rushing at me but ripple blindly past it, untouched.
Back to the house, and another beer, and then abrupt darkness. The rain begins as we run to the truck. It thickens as Reynaldo starts the engine, roars as we race out through the ruins of town.
Now Reynaldo points. A young woman is standing in the water off to one side, the rain cutting furrows around her, and she waves at me or us. Reynaldo stops the truck. She runs toward us, walks, runs, water rising at each footfall, rivulets down her arms. I open my window as she nears. She is of medium height, her hair is of medium length and she, yes, neither dark-skinned nor light, she half-smiles and it is her, the girl from the Pórticos Hotel, putilla, chilalo, though now she is a waterbird, an avocet or egret.
- Hello, she says.
- Hello, says Reynaldo.
- You are going to Piura?
- Yes, I say. Let me just—
- I would rather ride in back. May I?
Reynaldo punches me in the arm.
- No, I say. You ride in here and I’ll ride in back.
Reynaldo punches me again.
- Or the three of us could fit here inside if the seat is sufficiently—
Reynaldo punches me a third time, and I punch him back as hard as I am able given the spatial arrangements. He shakes his head and whispers:
- Jackass. In your lap.
- No thank you, she says. I would much rather ride in back.
She climbs up over the sidewall. I look at Reynaldo. He balls his fist.
- If you hit me again, I say, I will push you from the vehicle and drive back and forth over your body.
- Absolutely terrible, he says. The worst I’ve ever seen.
- Sorry to disappoint you.
- You should come to my house and practice with my aunt. She is free on Tuesdays. Also on Thursdays. Also on every other day.
He laughs, and we drive. Water thickens the windows. The woman stands in the bed of the truck, leans forward into the wall of wind and rain, and a different smile, complete.
We enter Piura and the woman stretches to Reynaldo’s window, directs him toward the river. She has us turn one block short of the malecón and head up Calle Lima. She says the next house is hers, and jumps before we have stopped.
She runs, knocks, turns and waves. An old and worried-looking woman opens the door. I try to see past her and fail. The woman turns again, mouths her thanks, enters.
- On Valentine’s Day! says Reynaldo.
I say nothing.
- You should have asked for her name, he says.
- I am not in a position to be asking for anything.
- But I think that you are, he says. I believe and think that you are.
Home, I thank Socorro, swing Mariángel in violent circles and she vomits mashed banana. This does not appear to bother her. I clean both of us as well as I can, and carry her to my room. She walks in rough ellipses, takes my wallet from the nightstand and throws it across the room, turns to see if I am pleased.
I say that her velocity is adequate, that we will need to work on her aim. We briefly discuss objects and their places. I set her on my bed, stare for a moment at my headboard. It is entirely bare.
I pick up my wallet and set it on my desk. Then I lie down flat on the floor to look under my bed. Mariángel slides to the ground, lies beside me, understands this as some kind of game and there against the far wall, dust-covered and surely damp, is the image of Sarita Colonia.
I pull the bed away from the wall, bring up the picture, clean its plastic cover with my shirttail. The image appears unhurt. Mariángel reaches for the string, and I hold it up and away, try to consider. Mariángel grabs at the fat of my neck. I hang Sarita again from the headboard, take up Mariángel, and how we dance.
29.
OUT MY FRONT DOOR AND NO TAXIS VISIBLE and walking through light drizzle. My shoulders dampen, my hair and beard. I near the park, and its greens are so bright, the air itself tinged with green. I am in the midst of an unnecessary happiness when balloons begin to strike around me.
I am very ready for Easter and the end of all this but because I am already damp I feel no great need to chase the children and catch and crush them. One balloon moreover does not break when thrown, skitters across the grass behind me. It is small and dense and substantially less than full. I retrieve it and throw it back as hard as I am able, which is very, very hard. It hits the boy on the forehead. He wavers, tumbles, and the other children cheer and then are furious.
A taxi now, and I climb in quickly, expect the children to follow but they are already tracking new victims on the far side of the park. The taxi lurches into and out of each hole. At the speeds that are possible, stop signs are unnecessary. The rain strengthens and the window thickens and blurs.
Around the corner and to the light. The morass of final exams has been traversed and even the worst of my students passed, all but two who chose to cheat, wrote lexical sets on their wrists. By the time the exam be
gan the lists were useless, smeared by sweat and rain, and the students surely would have passed without them.
To and into the parking lot and something has happened. Something large, it seems. There are students gathered in many groups. I walk toward them, and look down the slope at the lower ground beyond, and understand: they have gathered to see the flood.
Already in certain places scaffolding has been assembled and planks have been laid to form interlinked walkways. I walk slowly along them toward the Language Center, and from any distance they appear to rest on the surface of the water, make Jesus of us all in one respect. Everywhere things float, chairs and lecterns and wastepaper baskets, and on each floating object is an insect resting or drifting to safety: cockroach, dragonfly, uncollected species.
Many trees have fallen, and men in boots slosh in all directions. It is the water table, say the hydraulic engineers when they stop to rest from their sloshing. The water table has been rising, they say, and with last night’s rain it rose above the level of the ground.
I ask how it is that this area and my neighborhood flooded months apart. They look at me as if such a question were too stupid to bear consideration. I nod and laugh and smile and say that I hold them responsible for this flood at least, that I expect them to clean my classrooms personally. They have been here since four in the morning organizing the rental or purchase of large pieces of equipment, the removal of earth and the digging of ditches, the installment of scaffolding and planks and pumps and pipes and thus do not smile back.
In the Language Center the water stands at our knees. My office now smells less like melted plastic than like Venice in late summer. Back by the photocopier Arantxa is screaming out a window. It is unclear at whom she is screaming and why and I wish my smile were less obvious. I go to Eugenia, and confirm that we are only responsible for local salvage: course books, resource materials, administrative records, whatever is not waterlogged or coated with filth. We must move it all to higher ground where the sun, Eugenia says, will dry it.
At the moment there is no sun. I return to Arantxa, who has begun to calm, has sent Günther to Groundskeeping for rubber boots. I remove my tie, and she tells me to put it back on. I hang it around her neck, and when Günther arrives with the boots, she calls for Eugenia and the four of us begin ferrying stacks to the balconies above.
It is thought that we will soon be joined by other language professors who hear of what has happened, who come to see and help; we assure one another that at the very least the other coordinators will arrive to assist at some point. Arantxa carries well, Günther and Eugenia are acceptable, but I am the outstanding ferryman. Stack after stack of soaked documents, and even dry the paper will only be worth recycling. Sweat runs. Insects of varied size and color skate along the surface, cling to the legs of our trousers, are crushed and brushed away.
Sign-ups for the fall term were to begin today, so we arrange a temporary space for Eugenia in a classroom on the third floor, and post notices. I ask Arantxa if the semester’s starting date will be postponed. She says that of course it will not.
Workers rush past us bearing sandbags. They are exhausted, filthy, pleased at the thought of more overtime. The sun occasionally shines, and in those moments there are rainbows, and we sometimes pause to look. When we are finished spreading the books, there are damp special request forms to be sorted from dry ones. There are also people with cameras—university historians and local photojournalists. I smile at most of them when asked.
Altogether seven hours of this. At no point do any other Language Center employees appear. We concur that they came and saw and snuck home. Arantxa thanks the three of us for our good work, says that tomorrow we are welcome to arrive up to twenty minutes late, and details several phrases the other coordinators will soon hear.
I take up the briefcase I have not needed all day. The letter in its envelope is somehow still nearly dry. I ask Eugenia for a large ziplock bag, seal the letter inside, and wade for the chemistry laboratory as here there are no walkways.
Halfway to the lab I stop. I had forgotten or never realized that the deer pen sits in a sort of natural basin. The deer swim in circles, their tongues out. They do not have much longer.
Wading on as quickly as possible. Reynaldo is standing outside the chemistry laboratory, holds an armful of wet files and stares at an algarrobo, his favorite algarrobo, uprooted and fallen. He looks at me, and I look back.
- I’m sorry.
- Yes, he says.
- And your other trees?
- Every single one grown from treated seeds has fallen. And it was our own fault. We loved them too much.
- I don’t understand.
- We watered them constantly. Their tap roots had no reason to reach deep enough to hold through something like this. So much work wasted.
- Yes. And there’s something else.
- What?
- The deer pen is flooded.
- They’ll be fine.
- I don’t think so.
We walk to the pen, and he shakes his head, watches the deer swim.
- What should we do?
- Release them, he says. I have no pods with which to feed them anyway.
He takes out a ring of keys, but the lock on the gate has rusted, and he leaves, comes back with Don Teófilo and two pairs of wire cutters. Together they slice through the fencing, a strand at a time, a perfect square opening. Don Teófilo wades in, the water up to his armpits. He herds the deer slowly out. They stagger to higher ground and head for the bright green desert.
Don Teófilo wipes his face with a handkerchief, and I ask how it is that rain causes the water in our homes to be cut off. He says that he is not sure, but perhaps it has something to do with sediment and the filters in the dam. I look at Reynaldo and nod. He stares at me. I tell him again that I am sorry and he shrugs.
- Yes. But tonight I fly to Lima and with any luck—
- Speaking of which.
I bring out the letter in its bag.
- Thank you, he says.
- You’re welcome. What else are you taking?
- This, and a letter from my bank, and a new letter from the university. I think it will be enough.
- You’ve checked to make sure the airport will be open?
- They have special machines, I believe.
Reynaldo shakes my hand, turns and walks back toward the laboratory. There are still dozens of workers moving sandbags, and I see the rector, glassy-eyed. I ask if he is feeling well, and he says something about tractors. I say that the Language Center situation is under control, and ask if there is any other way in which I might serve, and realize halfway through the sentence that I want nothing but to be home.
He says that more sandbags need to be filled, that my strength would be a welcome asset. I agree that it would. When he has walked away I wade toward the front gate. There are no taxis and so it is the old walk but now longer and slower. Corner, light, Panamericana, across and along. Corner, light, corner. Park, corner, Virgin, hairless dog and quickly inside.
Mariángel, shrieking with pleasure. Again there is no electricity but Socorro has prepared an adequate causa. The telephone line is intact, and after dinner for a time Mariángel explains excessively complicated things to excessively foolish imaginary people. After that I bring out the two books about elephants and read to her by candlelight. Then we dance to my singing, and when she is bored with my voice I lay her down to sleep to the chattering rain.
Following this I prepare the dining room and open the windows and watch insects drown once again. The repellent my aunt sent functions well against none of the local species, and we now face the next great plagues. Socorro is slightly sickened by our growing collection, has asked me to keep it somewhere other than the kitchen.
There is a moth-shaped insect with wasp eyes and a long black nose and a tail that flexes and expands something like a horsehair brush and something like a mace. Its wings are white and reedy, unscaled, a purple iridescence
with brown along the ridges. There are also small black bugs with the forearms of weightlifters, and multicolored bugs with backs like shields. They are equally slow, easily caught, and die quickly.
Finally there are cucambas, a type of beetle, large and black with an oily green sheen on their backs. They emit an acidic stink that lasts for days and clings to all surfaces and survives through many washings. They do not appear to fly and cannot walk up steep surfaces, do not move in groups but at each conjunction of walls there are dozens that have arrived individually, and one by one they starve to death, stinking, unable to find their way out.
30.
I HAVE SPENT MUCH OF THE PAST FEW DAYS MAKING AND UNMAKING THE DECISION. In the end Reynaldo agreed to come as well. This does not change the fact that it will be my first date since Pilar died.
Socorro has agreed to stay late. I sing Mariángel to sleep, and choose clothes that will camouflage the worst of my bulk. Reynaldo will be here in an hour. I stub my toe on a dike, gasp obscenities, will not let this be an omen.
I turn on the news, and a new thought now. I send Socorro to the store and when she returns I run the basin full of hot water and take off my shirt. It takes forty-five minutes and three dulled razors and half a dozen cuts but is at last done: I am beardless the way I have not been since high school.
My jaw is not as prominent as I remember it being and Reynaldo arrives, sees my face, smiles but does not laugh and thus I do not have to ask whether or not he was given a tourist visa. Instead I ask what was wrong with the paperwork, what was lacking, and he says that the consul did not even peruse it. So it is at times, he says. I offer to help in any way he sees fit. He thanks me, says that all he wants is to drink, that he will think the process through and wait three more months and try one final time.