Drink the Sky

by Lesley Krueger

  Should she leave him in? Holly forced herself to turn back to the canvas. It was true she was making a powerful image. That prim, vulnerable girl was so terribly unaware of the sneer on the face of the lounging man that Holly could scarcely bear to look at them. But Darwin’s future daughter did, hovering above them. Maybe Annie was sitting in judgment. Maybe in Judgment she would die.

  Except that this was wrong, lazy, superstitious, and not what Holly had been reaching for. Darwin couldn’t be Powell. Powell was post-Darwin, growing up a century after Darwin’s theories of evolution had shaken the tree of religion so forcefully that morality fell down. Darwin himself was pre-Darwinian, his personality formed years before his theories changed the world. No, Holly had put Annie in the picture to suggest Darwin’s ties to his own future, not to any future Powell. There were always lines running through people’s lives, an invisible rigging that gave them consistency, which was perhaps more commonly called the self. Holly was trying to trace one of those lines in Darwin. And even if he wasn’t Powell, even taking into account his younger daughter’s caution, it was clear he was always far more passionately responsive to children than most men. He hired choir boys to sing in his rooms at college, cried out in pain to see a slave boy beaten in Brazil, campaigned in later life against using children as chimney sweeps, and lovingly, relentlessly, despite his appalling ill health, he fathered ten children.

  Maybe this was what obsessed Holly. Despite the biographies and the portraits proclaiming Darwin’s goodness, his sweetness of manner, his eagerness to please, he seemed to her a strange and passionate man. More than that. He lived out the passions of a different age, which, if she could understand them, might say something about Passion itself, Passion Eternal — something in every way more compelling than the tired social conventions that drew arbitrary lines between acceptable and unacceptable behaviour, and called them right and wrong.

  How should one behave? How should she behave? Given that she was evolved from the apes, not created by God to serve Adam. These days, Holly often felt that what she’d been taught to call “morality” was really just a set of rules drawn up aeons ago by shrewd old women trying to make life safe. Keep your virginity until marriage (or your husband will always suspect you.) Stay faithful to your husband (or he’ll throw you out.) Don’t indulge in murder (someone’s going to get you back.) Men had always broken the rules, especially powerful men, because they could deploy their force and wealth to keep themselves safe. They didn’t need to be moral. Morality was a shelter for the weak. But was Holly so weak she needed a shelter? Did she value safety above everything else? Or did she want something more profound out of life?

  The problem was Powell. If there was no right or wrong, then what he did with children wasn’t wrong, either. She hated that. There had to be lines between what one should and shouldn’t do. But where did it lie? And on what side was she?

  “The other point in her character,” Darwin wrote of Annie, after she had died, “was her strong affection, which was of a most clinging, fondling nature...She would at almost any time spend half an hour in arranging my hair, ‘making it,’ as she called it, ‘beautiful,’ or in smoothing, the poor dear darling, my collar or cuffs — in short, in fondling me.”

  This man had helped overthrow religious morality. Replacing it with what?

  “Occasionally she had a pretty, coquettish manner towards me, the memory of which is charming. She often used exaggerated language, and when I quizzed her by exaggerating what she had said, how clearly can I now see the little toss of the head, and exclamation of ‘Oh, papa, what a shame of you.’”

  Who was he? Holly no longer wanted to disguise herself as the Consul’s wife. She wanted to get right inside Darwin, to work her way out from his bones, growing taller, thicker, broader, male. She sprouted hair on her chest, lost it from her temples, felt the drop of balls between her legs and the meaty forward growth of her clitoris. Darwin’s clothes would be heavy and too warm for the climate, thick knit socks chafing his ankles. But he wouldn’t notice that, would he? It was all he’d ever known. Nor was it hot. He checked his thermometer at nine o’clock every morning and night and was finding a pleasant mean temperature of 72° F. throughout this May and early June.

  Darwin was scrambling downhill, heading back from the forested base of Corcovado with two heavy bags on his shoulders. They batted against his thighs, the vials jingling faintly. So fecund were the forests of Brazil that he’d collected 72 different specimens of insect life that day, augmented by the planaria he’d dug out from under fallen and decaying logs. He would soon be sending another shipment home to Henslow. Awkwardly packaged, it was true. He knew himself to be a clumsy man, and regretted that he could not draw his specimens as a botanist ought, nor play an instrument for his solitary pleasure. Yet he did love his work, and could boast of energy. His collections seemed bound to advance his name at some future date, as well as to ameliorate the present: for he found that strict concentration on his work served as a corrective to severe home-sickness, or sea-sicknesses, or love-sickness, all of which Darwin feared he had experienced to an uncommon degree for a twenty-three-year-old man.

  The path emerged from the forest onto a broad tamped street, uncobbled here, and puddled into mud during the frequent rains. Walled, whitewashed compounds stood to each side, a glaring background for the black slaves emerging barefoot from their doors, and walking in white garments through the street as if they remained individually walled. These were tall people — taller often than the bellicose, excitable Portuguese, who trotted their portly horses past him. They were sweeter tempered too; with a dignity and intelligence he recognized from John Edmonstone, the freed slave who had taught him taxidermy while he lived as a student in Edinburgh. It was Edmonstone’s stories which had first awakened young Darwin’s desire to visit these tropics; to embrace so fervently the chance to stay ashore in Rio, while Captain FitzRoy sailed the Beagle north again to map the turbulent shores of Bahia. Edmonstone had been servant to the Catholic traveller Charles Waterton, and brought by him to Scotland from Guiana. Nearing his cottage door, Darwin felt he would have liked to find such a one as Edmonstone within. Yet any thought of hiring a servant here had been pre-empted by Captain FitzRoy, who left with Darwin the Indian girl, Fuegia Basket. She had been taught to cook and sew by the good evangelists in England, and she was to perform such duties now for him.

  It was six o’clock and nearing sunset as Darwin entered the cottage. From a back room, he could hear the snores of Augustus Earle, the ship’s artist who was his companion in Rio. The rain that day must have pained Earle’s barometric leg, and he had taken an early dose of his usual medicine to stabilize the pressure. Darwin would have no company that evening. But he must have food, and called to Miss Basket to bring his tea to the table on the broad porch outdoors; for the rain having long ago ceased, it was a pleasant evening, warm and clear, with a full moon rising. He walked out into their small plantation of banana trees, breadfruit, and the orange, its leaves of far more vivid a green than the pallid, homesick things he’d seen in hothouses in England. Around him, the frogs had begun their sunset concert. He could make out the expectant chirp of a tiny fellow from the genus Hyla, who was soon joined by others of his species singing in delightful harmony. All that was lacking was his tea, although as he weighed a ripening orange in his hand, Darwin heard a footfall behind him and turned to see Fuegia Basket, who was swaying like an African as she emerged from the cottage with a tray upon her head.

  She was an uncanny girl. Uncannily like a woman now, increasing in every direction except height, and adopting the ways of the African slaves with a perfection almost disturbing, being ever at odds with her childlike stature. She was a mimic, was Miss Fuegia Basket, possessing the unimaginable skill of speaking both Alikhoolip and Tekeenica; the languages, respectively, of York Minster and Jemmy Button; both so rude and guttural it seemed a good enough trick to be able to distinguish between th
em. Yet to this accomplishment she had lately added a casual mastery of far more Portuguese than Darwin himself had been able to learn. It was true he was a blockhead at languages, but it was equally true that there was something provoking about a mimic, something untrustworthy, and even freakish. He disliked the tendency of so many butterflies in Brazil to cloak themselves in deceptive dress. Too often, he found harmless creatures mimicking the markings of their poisonous cousins; seeking only to fool their predators, but succeeding also in confusing the poor, beetle-browed Naturalist to an unnatural degree. Mimics were an aberrant, irritating breed — yet he almost laughed out loud to hear Fuegia call, in the accent of a home-country maid, “Your tay, sir.”

  Tea, pipe, a moonlit night. He set to work immediately to prepare those specimens which must be prepared, and to conduct a few candlelit experiments. Work was both necessary and right. He could see now his father’s wisdom in wishing him to prepare for a career, for though he suspected his father would leave him rich enough to be an idle dog of a fellow if he pleased; yet he found it did not please him to be idle. He must do something, especially when he wished to drive away provoking thoughts; and he was old enough now to suspect that life might prove to be filled with provocations, large, small or perfectly sized, with delightful black ringlets and an excellent seat upon a horse. How much easier he found it to work than to think about the problems of family and future. How much easier to slice a planaria most sharply in two, so that one single organism might soon regenerate as two separate individuals — infinitely easier, indeed, than to somehow make two separated individuals combine back into one.

  Darwin worked as the stars rose, the Southern Cross most clear above him. To the frogs and cicadae were added the night-time conversations of his neighbours, their speech carried through the cooling air from cottages near at hand. Their Portuguese was impenetrable, thank God; for the laughter that accompanied it was rude. Then he heard something else, something more delicate; a footfall in his garden. Leaning forward in his chair, he saw a flash of lighter garment, heard a giggle, and moved outside the light of his candle to see Fuegia Basket chasing fireflies through the trees.

  Charming sight! She was a child again, surrounded by the phosphorescence of fireflies, and without a thought, Darwin ran to join her. Laughing, they ran back and forth; and he showed her how to capture one pulsing insect in a bottle. She cooed over it, saying something in her own language. A rare novelty, a pet for the girl, who would not have had such a thing before. It was transitory, certainly; but it occurred to Darwin that much was transitory in her uprooted life; and he felt an odd tenderness for the child. Then she was off again, forgetting her pet, and he was after her, running for the pleasure of running, running to feel the physical pump of his legs against the hard grassed flanks of the earth; running to lose himself in the animal gladness of breathing, of sweating; of grabbing Fuegia’s arms and spinning her around so she shrieked with laughter, spinning her so fast that she took flight, her legs lifting, her arms stretched tight as she laughed and shrieked and flew through the air. Oh, he could remember the feeling; remember his brother Ras spinning him thus; though it was absurd to think of tiny Fuegia being able to lift him, and he laughed and laughed till he was out of breath and lowered her gently again to earth.

  Dizzy. He was so dizzy when he stopped, he fell down beside her, the unfamiliar stars spinning above him, the very ground in upheaval beneath. Young Fuegia laughed still, and when he regained his breath, he leaned down to tickle the child, liking the sound of that baby laughter. He was laughing himself, sitting astride her legs to keep her to ground. But what was this? And this? Hands roving too widely, tickling too far from her wide, soft belly, he finds another mound down here, a mound up here, a hard/soft mound of new-formed breast peaked by a teasingly erect nipple. Kneeling there, the young man groans, suddenly so hard himself and burning, imagining, he imagines, he.....

  No. No, it’s Holly imagining this, not him; her obsessions that invade the tropical evening. Holly can’t really believe in this scene, although she knows, she knows, that very late that night, still awake in his hammock as the whole rest of the world lies seemingly at rest, Darwin will hear another sound from outside, a cry from a nearby cottage, sharp and grieved, as if a whip is descending rhythmically, a thumbscrew turned by cruel strong hands. The groans are desperate, deeply pained and painful to hear. My God, he must do something! Darwin leaps to his feet. And hesitates by the doorway, heart pounding. For what he doesn’t know, what he cannot tell, is whether this is indeed the sound of torture, or whether it is passion; for, like Holly, he can no longer distinguish between the two.

  19

  The television set was fixed high on the wall, angled to be watched from the king-sized bed and playing the pornographic video Holly had seen her first time at the motel. She decided to keep it on. She liked a routine, the familiar seediness of the flickering black and white images, the Three Stooges-style comedy of porn stars looking stunned as strange things happened to their bodies. Groping around on their hands and knees. Tied up in chairs. Burlesque; wasn’t that what they called it?

  The shimmering blue of the television screen was reflected faintly on the pink sateen bedspread on which Holly lay. The first time she’d seen the video, she’d laughed so hard she’d spilled her drink.

  “You’ve really never seen any porn before?” Jay asked.

  “I’ve led a sheltered life,” she answered dryly.

  The motel was just over the mountain from Holly’s house, ten minutes along the coastal road and down a driveway that led to a toll booth like the ones at the mouths of underground parking garages. She could do a painting of the toll booth with its anonymous-looking Charon inside negotiating passage to the Underworld by taking credit card imprints. He controlled a metal arm that went up and down, stopping Jay’s rented car to take the imprint, then letting it rise so they could continue down the darkened drive. There were no keys. Instead, one in a line of automated garage doors would clank open. A light would go on, and they would drive into a private bay. As the metal shield clanked shut behind them, they would find the door to their suite in front and a decorator box of plastic plants to one side. A large Jacuzzi was just inside the door on the first of two floors. At the top of the stairs was a dining area with a large wooden table ruined by glass prints and cigarette burns. Behind this was the bed, fully mirrored. Greasy food could be delivered to a private door behind the dining area by waiters trained to look at the floor.

  That night, the Jacuzzi had been running and filthy when they arrived. Holly didn’t care whether she took a Jacuzzi, but Jay wanted one and called the maid to drain and clean it. Holly thought it good of him to make the call himself. She was tired of trying to clean up messes; confounded by Cida’s stubbornness. In the four days since Holly had first learned the girl was pregnant, Cida had covered her ears at any mention of adoption, refused to telephone her mother, and insisted time after time that she wanted to go to Canada. What should Holly do? When Jay called from the airport a day earlier than expected, Holly felt relieved. He could often see through moral complexities with an ease that often stunned her.

  She was lying on the dismal bed in a bias-cut shot silk dress. Holly enjoyed coming here in designer clothes, leaning toward Jay across the water-stained table, laughing and eating tasteless food as if they were actors on a film set, vital and lit while everything around them was makeshift, soiled and falling into shadows. Jay always ate his dinner late. How fascinating to find he did everything late, up all night, sleeping into the afternoon. Remembering that he’d be hungry, Holly rolled over to pick up the phone, ordering steak and cocktails before getting up to troll a restless path through the red shag carpet. She could see him from the top of the stairs, and leaned against the upper wall to watch him leaning at the bottom, chatting with the maid, practicing his Portuguese, exuding ease and camaraderie. Meanwhile seeing that the tiles were well-cleaned. Jay had a dread of infect
ion and disease; one Holly found reassuring. Sensing her, he glanced upstairs and smiled.

  This was Jay’s fourth trip to Rio. Each time he’d come back, she’d schemed to spend more time with him. At times, this made her cringe with guilt. She saw her reflection in the mirror once, singing to herself, prettily dressed in case of an unexpected phone call. The guilt made her grit her teeth and hunch as if cowering from a blow. It wasn’t just Todd; she spent even more time away from the boys when Jay was in town. Rearranging schedules, hurrying them out to play dates, rushing off this evening. .

  “Mommy has an appointment,” she’d called, running lightly from the phone. Yet as she turned in the doorway, the sight of Conor’s drooping figure made her drift back toward him. A silhouette: frail shoulders in a blaze of window light. When he looked up, the light caught his pale face, and Conor gave Holly a look of such rueful stoicism that he broke her heart.

  “Make an appointment with me for tomorrow,” she said, kneeling to put an arm around his shoulders. Conor shrank away.

  “You missed our last soccer game.”

  “I’m sorry. The carpenter finally showed up and I — “ She broke off and hugged him tighter. “What are we going to do tomorrow? You decide.”