IGMS - Issue 16

by IGMS

  "I had a dream last night," he said. "In my dream your name was Anna Marie, but when I tried to call you that, I couldn't. I could only call you by another name."

  "What name?" she asked.

  "What does it matter? It was only a dream." He was taunting her. He knew she trusted in dreams.

  "You dreamed of me, and in the dream my name was Anamari?"

  "It's true, isn't it? That is your name, isn't it?" He didn't have to add the other half of the question: You are a virgin, aren't you?

  She lifted the sheet from the water, wrung it out and tossed it to him. He caught it, vile water spattering his face. He grimaced. She poured the washwater onto the dirt. It spattered mud all over his trousers. He did not step back. Then she carried the tub to the water tank and began to fill it with clean water. "Time to rinse," she said.

  "You dreamed about an airstrip," he said. "And I dreamed about you."

  "In your dreams you better start to mind your own business," she said.

  "I didn't ask for it, you know," he said. "But I followed the dream out to this village, and you turned out to be a dreamer, too."

  "That doesn't mean you're going to end up with your pinto between my legs, so you can forget it," she said.

  He looked genuinely horrified. "Geez, what are you talking about! That would be fornication! Plus you've got to be old enough to be my mother!"

  "I'm forty-two," she said. "If it's any of your business."

  "You're older than my mother," he said. "I couldn't possibly think of you sexually. I'm sorry if I gave that impression."

  She giggled. "You are a very funny boy, Yanqui. First you say I'm a virgin --"

  "That was in the dream," he said.

  "And then you tell me I'm older than your mother and too ugly to think of me sexually."

  He looked ashen with shame. "I'm sorry, I was just trying to make sure you knew that I would never --"

  "You're trying to tell me that you're a good boy."

  "Yes," he said.

  She giggled again. "You probably don't even play with yourself," she said.

  His face went red. He struggled to find something to say. Then he threw the wet sheet back at her and walked furiously away. She laughed and laughed. She liked this boy very much.

  The next morning he came back and helped her in the clinic all day. His name was Sam Monson, and he was the first European she ever knew who dreamed true dreams. She had thought only Indios could do that. Whatever god it was that gave her dreams to her, perhaps it was the same god giving dreams to Sam. Perhaps that god brought them together here in the jungle. Perhaps it was that god who would lead the drill to oil, so that Sam's father would have to keep him here long enough to accomplish whatever the god had in mind.

  It annoyed her that the god had mentioned she was a virgin. That was nobody's business but her own.

  Life in the jungle was better than Sam ever expected. Back in Utah, when Mother first told him that he had to go to the Amazon with the old bastard, he had feared the worst. Hacking through thick viny jungles with a machete, crossing rivers of piranha in tick-infested dugouts, and always sweat and mosquitos and thick, heavy air. Instead the American oilmen lived in a pretty decent camp, with a generator for electric light. Even though it rained all the time and when it didn't it was so hot you wished it would, it wasn't constant danger as he had feared, and he never had to hack through jungle at all. There were paths, sometimes almost roads, and the thick, vivid green of the jungle was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. He had not realized that the American West was such a desert. Even California, where the old bastard lived when he wasn't traveling to drill wells, even those wooded hills and mountains were gray compared to the jungle green.

  The Indians were quiet little people, not headhunters. Instead of avoiding them, like the adult Americans did, Sam found that he could be with them, come to know them, even help them by working with Anamari. The old bastard could sit around and drink his beer with the guys -- adultery and beer, as if one contemptible sin of the flesh weren't enough -- but Sam was actually doing some good here. If there was anything Sam could do to prove he was the opposite of his father, he would do it; and because his father was a weak, carnal, earthy man with no self-control, then Sam had to be a strong, spiritual, intellectual man who did not let any passions of the body rule him. Watching his father succumb to alcohol, remembering how his father could not even last a month away from Mother without having to get some whore into his bed, Sam was proud of his self-discipline. He ruled his body; his body did not rule him.

  He was also proud to have passed Anamari's test on the first day. What did he care if human excrement touched his body? He was not afraid to breathe the hot stink of suffering, he was not afraid of the innocent dirt of a crippled child. Didn't Jesus touch lepers? Dirt of the body did not disgust him. Only dirt of the soul.

  Which was why his dreams of Anamari troubled him. During the day they were friends. They talked about important ideas, and she told him stories of the Indians of the Amazon, and about her education as a teacher in São Paulo. She listened when he talked about history and religion and evolution and all the theories and ideas that danced in his head. Even Mother never had time for that, always taking care of the younger kids or doing her endless jobs for the Church. Anamari treated him like his ideas mattered.

  But at night, when he dreamed, it was something else entirely. In those dreams he kept seeing her naked, and the voice kept calling her "Virgem America." What her virginity had to do with America he had no idea -- even true dreams didn't always make sense -- but he knew this much: when he dreamed of Anamari naked, she was always reaching out to him, and he was filled with such strong passions that more than once he awoke from the dream to find himself throbbing with imaginary pleasure, like Onan in the Bible, Judah's son, who spilled his seed upon the ground and was struck dead for it.

  Sam lay awake for a long time each time this happened, trembling, fearful. Not because he thought God would strike him down -- he knew that if God hadn't struck his father dead for adultery, Sam was certainly in no danger because of an erotic dream. He was afraid because he knew that in these dreams he revealed himself to be exactly as lustful and evil as his father. He did not want to feel any sexual desire for Anamari. She was old and lean and tough, and he was afraid of her, but most of all Sam didn't want to desire her because he was not like his father, he would never have sexual intercourse with a woman who was not his wife.

  Yet when he walked into the village of Agualinda, he felt eager to see her again, and when he found her -- the village was small, it never took long -- he could not erase from his mind the vivid memory of how she looked in the dreams, reaching out to him, her breasts loose and jostling, her slim hips rolling toward him -- and he would bite his cheek for the pain of it, to distract him from desire.

  It was because he was living with Father; the old bastard's goatishness was rubbing off on him, that's all. So he spent as little time with his father as possible, going home only to sleep at night.

  The harder he worked at the jobs Anamari gave him to do, the easier it was to keep himself from remembering his dream of her kneeling over him, touching him, sliding along his body. Hoe the weeds out of the corn until your back is on fire with pain! Wash the Baniwa hunter's wound and replace the bandage! Sterilize the instruments in the alcohol! Above all, do not, even accidentally, let any part of your body brush against hers; pull away when she is near you, turn away so you don't feel her warm breath as she leans over your shoulder, start a bright conversation whenever there is a silence filled only with the sound of insects and the sight of a bead of sweat slowly etching its way from her neck down her chest to disappear between her breasts where she only tied her shirt instead of buttoning it.

  How could she possibly be a virgin, after the way she acted in his dreams?

  "Where do you think the dreams come from?" she asked.

  He blushed, even though she could not have guessed what he was thinki
ng. Could she?

  "The dreams," she said. "Why do you think we have dreams that come true?"

  It was nearly dark. "I have to get home," he said. She was holding his hand. When had she taken his hand like that, and why?

  "I have the strangest dream," she said. "I dream of a huge snake, covered with bright green and red feathers."

  "Not all the dreams come true," he said.

  "I hope not," she answered. "Because this snake comes out of -- I give birth to this snake."

  "Quetzal," he said.

  "What does that mean?"

  "The feathered serpent god of the Aztecs. Or maybe the Mayas. Mexican, anyway. I have to go home."

  "But what does it mean?"

  "It's almost dark," he said.

  "Stay and talk to me!" she demanded. "I have room, you can stay the night."

  But Sam had to get back. Much as he hated staying with his father, he dared not spend a night in this place. Even her invitation aroused him. He would never last a night in the same house with her. The dream would be too strong for him. So he left her and headed back along the path through the jungle. All during the walk he couldn't get Anamari out of his mind. It was as if the plants were sending him the vision of her, so his desire was even stronger than when he was with her.

  The leaves gradually turned from green to black in the seeping dark. The hot darkness did not frighten him; it seemed to invite him to step away from the path into the shadows, where he would find the moist relief, the cool release of all his tension. He stayed on the path, and hurried faster.

  He came with relief to the oilmen's town. The generator was loud, but the insects were louder, swarming around the huge area light, casting shadows of their demonic dance. He and his father shared a large one-room house on the far edge of the compound. The oil company provided much nicer hovels than the Brazilian government.

  A few men called out to greet him. He waved, even answered once or twice, but hurried on. His groin felt so hot and tight with desire that he was sure that only the shadows and his quick stride kept everyone from seeing. It was maddening; the more he thought of trying to calm himself, the more visions of Anamari slipped in and out of his waking mind, almost to the point of hallucination. His body would not relax. He was almost running when he burst into the house.

  Inside, Father was washing his dinner plate. He glanced up, but Sam was already past him. "I'll heat up your dinner."

  Sam flopped down on his bed. "Not hungry."

  "Why are you so late?" asked his father.

  "We got to talking."

  "It's dangerous in the jungle at night. You think it's safe because nothing bad ever happens to you in the daytime, but it's dangerous."

  "Sure Dad, I know." Sam got up, turned his back to take off his pants. Maddeningly, he was still aroused; he didn't want his father to see.

  But with the unerring instinct of prying parents, the old bastard must have sensed that Sam was hiding something. When Sam was buck naked, Father walked around and looked, just as if he never heard of privacy. Sam blushed in spite of himself. His father's eyes went small and hard. I hope I don't ever look like that, thought Sam. I hope my face doesn't get that ugly suspicious expression on it. I'd rather die than look like that.

  "Well, put on your pajamas," Father said. "I don't want to look at that forever."

  Sam pulled on his sleeping shorts.

  "What's going on over there?" asked Father.

  "Nothing," said Sam.

  "You must do something all day."

  "I told you, I help her. She runs a clinic, and she also tends a garden. She's got no electricity, so it takes a lot of work."

  "I've done a lot of work in my time, Sam, but I don't come home like that."

  "No, you always stopped and got it off with some whore along the way."

  The old bastard whipped out his hand and slapped Sam across the face. It stung, and the surprise of it wrung tears from Sam before he had time to decide not to cry.

  "I never slept with a whore in my life," said the old bastard.

  "You only slept with one woman who wasn't," said Sam.

  Father slapped him again, only this time Sam was ready, and he bore the slap stoically, almost without flinching.

  "I had one affair," said Father.

  "You got caught once," said Sam. "There were dozens of women."

  Father laughed derisively. "What did you do, hire a detective? There was only the one."

  But Sam knew better. He had dreamed these women for years. Laughing, lascivious women. It wasn't until he was twelve years old that he found out enough about sex to know what it all meant. By then he had long since learned that any dream he had more than once was true. So when he had a dream of Father with one of the laughing women, he woke up, holding the dream in his memory. He thought through it from beginning to end, remembering all the details he could. The name of the motel. The room number. It was midnight, but Father was in California, so it was an hour earlier. Sam got out of bed and walked quietly into the kitchen and dialed directory assistance. There was such a motel. He wrote down the number. Then Mother was there, asking him what he was doing.

  "This is the number of the Seaview Motor Inn," he said. "Call this number and ask for room twenty-one twelve and then ask for Dad."

  Mother looked at him strangely, like she was about to scream or cry or hit him or throw up. "Your father is at the Hilton," she said.

  But he just looked right back at her and said, "No matter who answers the phone, ask for Dad."

  So she did. A woman answered, and Mom asked for Dad by name, and he was there. "I wonder how we can afford to pay for two motel rooms on the same night," Mom said coldly. "Or are you splitting the cost with your friend?" Then she hung up the phone and burst into tears.

  She cried all night as she packed up everything the old bastard owned. By the time Dad got home two days later, all his things were in storage. Mom moved fast when she made up her mind. Dad found himself divorced and excommunicated all in the same week, not two months later.

  Mother never asked Sam how he knew where Dad was that night. Never even hinted at wanting to know. Dad never asked him how Mom knew to call that number, either. An amazing lack of curiosity, Sam thought sometimes. Perhaps they just took it as fate. For a while it was a secret, then it stopped being secret, and it didn't matter how the change happened. But one thing Sam knew for sure -- the woman at the Seaview Motor Inn was not the first woman, and the Seaview was not the first motel. Dad had been an adulterer for years, and it was ridiculous for him to lie about it now.

  But there was no point in arguing with him, especially when he was in the mood to slap Sam around.

  "I don't like the idea of you spending so much time with an older woman," said Father.

  "She's the closest thing to a doctor these people have. She needs my help and I'm going to keep helping her," said Sam.

  "Don't talk to me like that, little boy."

  "You don't know anything about this, so just mind your own business."

  Another slap. "You're going to get tired of this before I do, Sammy."

  "I love it when you slap me, Dad. It confirms my moral superiority."

  Another slap, this time so hard that Sam stumbled under the blow, and he tasted blood inside his mouth. "How hard next time, Dad?" he said. "You going to knock me down? Kick me around a little? Show me who's boss?"

  "You've been asking for a beating ever since we got here."

  "I've been asking to be left alone."

  "I know women, Sam. You have no business getting involved with an older woman like that."

  "I help her wash a little girl who has bowel movements in bed, Father. I empty pails of vomit. I wash clothes and help patch leaking roofs and while I'm doing all these things we talk. Just talk. I don't imagine you have much experience with that, Dad. You probably never talk at all with the women you know, at least not after the price is set."

  It was going to be the biggest slap of all, enough t
o knock him down, enough to bruise his face and black his eye, But the old bastard held it in. Didn't hit him. Just stood there, breathing hard, his face red, his eyes tight and piggish.

  "You're not as pure as you think," the old bastard finally whispered. "You've got every desire you despise in me."

  "I don't despise you for desire," said Sam.

  "The guys on the crew have been talking about you and this Indian bitch, Sammy. You may not like it, but I'm your father and it's my job to warn you. These Indian women are easy, and they'll give you a disease."

  "The guys on the crew," said Sam. "What do they know about Indian women? They're all fags or jerk-offs."

  "I hope someday you say that where they can hear you, Sam. And I hope when it happens I'm not there to stop what they do to you."

  "I would never be around men like that, Daddy, if the court hadn't given you shared custody. A no-fault divorce. What a joke."

  More than anything else, those words stung the old bastard. Hurt him enough to shut him up. He walked out of the house and didn't come back until Sam was long since asleep.

  Asleep and dreaming.

  Anamari knew what was on Sam's mind, and to her surprise she found it vaguely flattering. She had never known the shy affection of a boy. When she was a teenager, she was the one Indian girl in the schools of São Paulo. Indians were so rare in the Europeanized parts of Brazil that she might have seemed exotic, but in those days she was still so frightened. The city was sterile, all concrete and harsh light, not at all like the deep soft meadows and woods of Xingu Park. Her tribe, the Kuikaru, were much more Europeanized than the jungle Indians -- she had seen cars all her life and spoke Portuguese before she went to school. But the city made her hungry for the land, the cobblestones hurt her feet, and these intense, competitive children made her afraid. Worst of all, true dreams stopped in the city. She hardly knew who she was, if she was not a true dreamer. So if any boy desired her then, she would not have known it. She would have rebuffed him inadvertently. And then the time for such things had passed. Until now.