A Marker to Measure Drift

by Alexander Maksik

  “Saifa, Saifa, Saifa.” On and on and nothing more.

  “Saifa.” The girl running across the lawn chasing a feral orange cat.

  “Saifa.” The woman standing at the edge there where the grass broke into jungle, looking down on the shantytown below, belly in her hands as if it weren’t a part of her at all. Looking down on the tarps. Late dusk. Fires burning. Fires flaring yellow and settling to orange.

  All quiet, the city besieged by then, the lull, the hollow pressure. No longer possible to lie, to make believe. The pantomime ended.

  And yet they were in that house as if nothing but benevolent spirits waited for them out there in the night.

  They waited: willful, arrogant, stupid, blind, proud.

  As if everything she had hated in their father, everything Saifa had ignored in him, had come all at once to be law. That house, that land, had become its own country. Those last days, their own isolated and stubborn king, housebound, pacing the halls, dressed to rule, dressed to work. His ruby tie knotted fat and high, suit jacket fastened by a single button, thick gold-nibbed fountain pen in his fist. His loyal queen, stubborn in her own faith, gliding through the house in her elegant Italian dress the color of a pale and unpolluted sea, in her highest heels, a darker green, drinking gin and tonic and the juice of a whole lime, her glass rattling with ice cubes. Ice cubes because there was no reason not to run the generator. Everything would always be easy to come by. There was nothing to protect against. No catastrophe to prepare for. No reason to save gasoline. Run it and keep the house cold, keep the freezer going.

  She longed for her family as they were years ago, a particular version, a version that may have never existed. She wanted those three people to occupy the bare concrete room.

  She did not want her recent father. She wanted the younger man. She wanted the early history. The man possessed with the stillness of certainty, of happiness. She did not want that pacing and weakened fool, but she could not filter memory.

  Despite her father’s determined blindness, Jacqueline believed Bernard, who had been telling her for months that it had all ended. Bernard had told her and she believed him.

  He would not be surprised if Taylor was already gone. Gone to Libya, or even to America, hidden there by the CIA, or if nowhere else to Nigeria. Anywhere else but here in this pit. He was willing to bet that he’d already fled. And if he hadn’t he would soon. The captain would not drown with the crew, he said, and Jacqueline knew it was true. The country was no longer his. No longer theirs. They were all absurd, Bernard said, dressed up in their houses. He had seen the LURD. Had spoken with them, had been to their camps, seen the men, listened to them calling themselves captain and commander. They were dressed for war, and not some cocktail party. He’d seen those children, their eyes. He had seen them rip out a man’s intestines and use them for rope. Rope for a checkpoint. Strung across a road, Jacqueline. Time had run out. Like it or not, he said with an arrogance so similar to her father’s. An arrogance and even some satisfaction, as if perhaps in hating Taylor, in partly hating her father, he also hated Jacqueline. If only immediately. There at the hotel, out on the terrace in the heavy heat, in those moments as if there were no difference between any of them.

  “Idiots on a hill,” he said and may as well have spit.

  As if she still needed convincing. As if it were so simple to condemn one’s father.

  “So what next?” she asked.

  “On verra,” he said. “The first thing is to get out safely when the time comes.”

  Jacqueline nodded.

  “And the time is coming quickly,” he said with satisfaction. As if he’d won. Proven his point. Wise and world-weary journalist. He’d seen it all. “And you wanted me to write about the beaches.”

  She returned her face to the plywood and looked out at the blue day. It was the same. The caldera remained. The water remained. A couple passed. A dog trotted by. Great ships were on the water. Sailboats.

  When the wind came up she could feel it cold against her open eye.

  Gradually she came to understand that she’d have to continue on. Here she would be found out. She would never feel in possession of this place.

  Her mother, of course, was right.

  She could not leave in daylight, though. She watched herself, a black woman coming out of a construction site, sliding the plywood back, stepping onto the path. No. She would have to leave at night. Until then, she was a prisoner. Until then, she would have to wait alone with her mind.

  When she woke her jaw was sore. She could not remember her dreams. The sun had set and the room was graying quickly into darkness. She folded the blanket and packed her bag. She went upstairs, and in an act of quiet rebellion, she carefully pulled the plywood from the window. If she stood back and kept in the shadows, no one would see her. The path was unlit below. There were more people out now, and from the shadows she watched the couples strolling along, the children running by, all the feral dogs in search of their suppers. The sun had set over the other side of the island and had left the sky above the caldera streaked with blood.

  For a while she faded from herself. The wind softened, turned to gentle currents of air.

  She was waiting for a lull in the foot traffic. She thought of Bernard. And from there she came to a decision. An absolute decision, a point of certainty that went beyond what was necessary, and in so doing felt buoyant.

  She could hear her mother in the distance, in the other room, coming up the stairs, calling from outside, saying, Be careful, my heart, be careful. Think of what you can control, think of what’s next, but Jacqueline stepped forward and crossed the line of shadow that fell across the floor. She moved closer to the window so that her whole body was there for anyone to see. She laid her palms flat against the rough sill, kept her arms straight, and leaned forward to feel the air more fully on her face. She gave her arms her weight.

  She could see her own silhouette.

  She looked up at herself from the street and saw a dark figure, a regal shadow framed in the wide window of an unfinished house. Like a dictator, face obscured, looking down upon a great square.

  The decision was simple: Wherever this ends, whenever I stop, whenever I have a kitchen and a bedroom and shelves for my things—that place will be somewhere open, somewhere high, somewhere like this, somewhere like the house in Mamba Point, like the cave, like the cypress tree and the bed of needles. Wherever this ends, she thought, wherever I stop and what’s next begins, whenever that is, it must be somewhere far above everything else.

  What kind of decision is that? her mother asked. What good does that do?

  But Jacqueline didn’t listen. She knew she had to leave soon. Still, she waited a bit longer, strengthened by her meaningless decision, by the passing world, by the rising light to the east, the rising light, which might have been a far-off city, but that she knew was the moon.

  Now she would have to leave. There was no more time to wait.

  The figure vanished into the shadows and was replaced by a rectangle of black.

  Jacqueline descended the stairs, picked up her bag, and made her way quickly across the dirt yard, paused at the fence, pulled the wood back, and then she was gone.

  NOW JACQUELINE WAS a woman enjoying the evening.

  She followed the path and soon she was walking in the light of quiet tavernas. Here she drew herself up and prepared to smile.

  She did not know what she looked like, so she stopped and pretended to consider a menu board. Those who noticed gave her only a glance. The waiter raised his eyebrows and pointed to an empty seat. She smiled and shook her head. It was as much a mirror as was necessary.

  She continued on. She could hear the hollow, percussive sound of people in a swimming pool behind the walls of a hotel. There were taxis waiting. Drivers standing in the streets smoking cigarettes.

  And then she was out of town. The moon had come up behind her. First it was rust-colored. As it rose, it yellowed and then paled to the wh
itest blue.

  There were no more buildings. The path turned to crushed lava rock. There was no more wall. The moonlight cast Jacqueline’s shadow before her. She listened to her sandals crunching against the path. As she walked, it was the only noise she could hear. When she stopped and stayed still, there was the faintest sound of water sloshing against the rocks below.

  The path dropped away and disappeared into shadow, then it rose again and followed a steep ridgeline, marked by occasional white stone cairns reflecting the moonlight. Beyond the top of the ridge, she could no longer see where the path went, but she knew that there was that last town. And even if she’d not thought it precisely, she knew that was where she was going. As if she’d been heading there all along. As if from the beginning she’d had that town in mind.

  She climbed onto a warm boulder and removed her sandals.

  What beginning? her mother asked without any acid in her voice. She asked it calmly, as if she were interested and had no lesson to provide. She asked as if with hope. That perhaps her daughter had come to understand something important.

  Jacqueline didn’t know what beginning she meant, but she felt it anyway. No matter how momentary this fit of certainty. It would pass. It might pass halfway up the ridge, or before she could slide her feet back into her sandals, but now, she was calmed by it. Foolish and illogical and dangerous, she was calmed by it.

  She waited a while longer, drank some water, and then tried to remain as still as possible. It was not only the rock that held the heat, but the valley itself; its black walls radiated warmth between themselves. And Jacqueline in the middle. She imagined them speaking to one another—the walls, the water, the moon, her mother, herself. She could not imagine what any of them were saying, but she imagined them speaking nonetheless. She felt joyous and clear and she worried again that she might be going mad, that this was the start of lunacy.

  Then she saw herself back on that beach. She was unwashed and laughing to herself, the Senegalese men mocking her, tossing her scraps of meat. She saw herself wearing a pair of cheap sunglasses for their amusement. On her knees, the neck of a wooden giraffe between her teeth.

  She closed her eyes and stood naked beneath the shower, under the orange light. She climbed into her cave. She was clean and dry and warm beneath her blanket, and from here she could look out onto the bay and watch the lights of the boats pass silently in the night like satellites.

  When she opened her eyes she understood, again, that the battle was the same.

  She would have to climb the ridge and continue on in the direction of the last town. It was there she’d been heading all along.

  And her mother said nothing. Only bowed her head and smiled.

  And Jacqueline, not quite ready to continue, waited a little longer, listening to the wordless language of the valley.

  Eventually she stood, raised her arms, and stretched. She turned away from the water. A dog, thin and wolflike and as white as the cairns, was watching her from the path.

  At first, Jacqueline was afraid. The dog was close, maybe twenty-five feet away. But then it dropped its head once in a quick nod. As if it were bowing to her. Jacqueline smiled at this. “Hello.”

  The sound of her voice was surprising and seemed loud and foreign as if it had come from somewhere other than her own body.

  “Hello,” she said again to the dog, who bowed again.

  Jacqueline laughed and in response the dog sat as if it had been given a command.

  She slipped her feet into her sandals, climbed down from the rock, and faced the dog. She extended her hand and again it dropped its head. She approached, carefully closing the distance between them. She kept her hand out and when she was within a few inches of touching the animal’s nose, she squatted and said again, “Hello.”

  She could feel its breath on her hand now. Jacqueline waited until the dog, losing patience for all that formality, stood up, moved forward, and nuzzled her wrist. She stroked its head and scratched its ears. The dog wagged its tail and pushed forward and turned so that it was pressed close to her body.

  Jacqueline laughed again and with both hands rubbed its neck and belly while the dog turned tight circles in the small space between them.

  The dog was young, she could see now. She ran her hands over its ribs. It was lean and undernourished like all the dogs wandering the island.

  “What’s your name?” Jacqueline asked. “What’s your name?”

  The dog licked her chin and rolled onto its back. She rubbed its chest.

  “So you’re a boy,” she said. “What’s your name, boy?”

  The dog said nothing.

  “Well,” she said, “it’s time we go, don’t you think?”

  Jacqueline stood. The dog scrambled to his feet.

  “Ready?” She asked. They looked at each other, the dog dropped his head, and the two of them descended into the darkness.

  Soon they’d reached the very bottom of the valley, so low they could no longer see the moon. Instead of following the path she focused on the dog and like this they made their way.

  They moved between giant boulders, sharp hunks of lava rock, gray silhouettes against the blue night sky, through the shadows, protected by the valley walls. She had given herself over to the trail, and to the guidance of the dog trotting expertly forward.

  Her mother said nothing, of course. Did not admonish Jacqueline for this kind of indulgence. It was not the same as spending money on the wrong food. Or becoming too comfortable in a dangerous place. This was something else. This was in a different realm. The realm of spirits and signs. The realm of God.

  A white dog does not appear in the night, out of nowhere, for no reason.

  Her mother’s silence was an argument itself.

  This was how to proceed, her mother would say. With faith.

  Jacqueline was irritated by her mother’s arrogance, her condescension, but she was in no mood for a fight. So she did her best to ignore the serene and knowing look. That familiar expression: I am certain. And you are a fool.

  She wanted not to think. She wanted to follow. She wanted to move through the night and consider nothing but the moonlight and what to name the dog. She did not want to argue, but it was too late. She could feel the rise of anger.

  Saifa was at the edge of the lawn looking out over the ocean. Saifa cradling her belly in her hands, the orange cat working figure eights through her long skirt, between her solid legs. The boys were coming up the hill. Jacqueline knew this before the boys themselves.

  The argument was so old. It was exhausted. Wrung out. Leave it be, she told herself, and yet it continued to cause her such rage. Her mother a victim of her own stupidity, her own blindness. She hated her for it, even in death she hated her for it. Hated all of them. Above all, her father.

  And yet, sometimes, there were moments. Moments when it was undeniable.

  It?

  Something. Call it what you will. At certain times of day. In certain places, in certain wind. Beneath the moon. Under the protection of a warm valley. Under the protection of a white dog who appears out of nowhere. A skinny white dog who drops his head the way this one does. Who, rather than staying at your heels, leads you instead. Who looks back from time to time to make sure you’re following.

  So the rage was twofold: that kind of stupidity, stupidity you call faith, the stupidity that killed us. And yet it exists in me as well and you are responsible for that too.

  You who in the end I discovered to be arrogant, proud, lazy, drunk, and broken.

  They began to climb. Jacqueline walked hard. Furious. Ahead was the sharp line between shadow and moonlight. She watched the dog cross it, watched him turn back and look for her. She wondered if down here she was invisible to him. The path grew steeper. She had to shift her weight forward to keep her balance. Once she crossed out of the dark, she stopped to rest. The dog was waiting for her.

  She could see the caldera again, could see back to the other side of the valley, could barely
make out the path she’d descended, could see the lights of Fira, and far to the south the lights of smaller towns. And somewhere out there, beyond what she could see, was the black sand beach, and her cave and her cardboard bed, and the man who’d given her lunch.

  And beyond that.

  They pushed forward. She continued to follow the dog. As they climbed the gradually rising ridgeline, the valley no longer protected them from the wind.

  Jacqueline watched. Woman and dog silhouetted against the sky. Just the two of them marching forward, as if there were some warm bed waiting for her. As if she were coming home to someone, as if Bernard had prepared a meal for her on his hotel hot plate, as if there were bowls of food and water waiting for the dog. As if there were a door to close and bolt behind them.

  They walked on and on, the woman and the dog, as if they were expected.

  Far ahead, at the very top of this last rise, Jacqueline could see an unlit building pressed against the sky.

  Soon they arrived at a small church. They came up from behind it and then made their way around to the main door, where a cement terrace was fronted by a low plaster wall. The dog had leaped up and was now standing and panting and looking out over the island’s last town. Jacqueline stood next to him for a moment, and then sat with her legs hanging over the edge. Below, the path dropped away steeply at first and then rolled out gradually.

  Here was Oìa.

  The lights began near the base of the small mountain, where they were only intermittently scattered. Then they began to gather in a concentrated light. At the far end of the town, they narrowed so as to form the shape of a bird—a fat egret maybe—with its head at Jacqueline’s feet, then the long neck, then the bright body, and its tail hanging above the water, where the lights ended.

  Among it all were shapes of translucent green and blue. Lit swimming pools, which looked to Jacqueline exactly like the glass beads she once kept beneath her bed in a yellow metal Twinings tea box.

  She imagined it was the view that caused the dog to be so suddenly still. She reached for him and stroked the soft fur at the back of his neck.