Poe - [Anthology]

by Edited By Ellen Datlow

  “Not much,” I said. “Like everyone else, I’ve been dogging it.”

  “Nobody’s dogging it!”

  “Right. Claudia’s putting together a face and Taylor’s chopping brush and God knows what Macyory’s doing. You better crack the whip, because they don’t seem real motivated. They’re more interested in each other than in St. Gotthard. Me, too. I just had a close encounter with Claudia.”

  It took a second for her to decipher my meaning. “Congratulations,” she said frostily.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I said. “It was... odd.”

  “Odd how?”

  I told her about stumbling across Claudia in the garden, about our conversation afterward and what had happened earlier that day.

  “I don’t think she was even into me,” I said. “It’s like she’s addicted to sex.”

  “You must have enjoyed it.”

  “I realize academics are a horny bunch and Claudia’s attractive, but this was freakish. I wasn’t in the mood and then, wham!”

  Wind scattered petals from a rain tree along the paving stones. I thought how strange it was to be there among these ruins, these enormous, moronic monuments to fucking.

  “Why tell me about it?” she asked. “Are you trying to injure me?”

  “I doubt that’s possible.”

  Her sigh held a note of exasperation, of condescension, as if she were saying, “Oh, you pitiful child!” The attitude this implied—that she was being forbearing—uncorked my anger.

  “God, I detest you,” I said.

  “I understand that.”

  “No, you don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly understand. You’ve got a PhD in self-deception. If the stories about you are true, and I’m sure they are, what you did to me, you’ve done to other guys... and women, too.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “It’s your M.O. Where relationships are concerned, you’re a sociopath. A serial rapist.”

  “You’re being ridiculous!”

  “You violate your lovers emotionally. You display no sign of conscience, or if you do, it’s barely enough to inspire the occasional ‘I’m sorry.’ But you only say ‘I’m sorry’ when you want to prolong the rape. You’re a pathological narcissist. You can’t accept that anyone could sustain a low opinion of you, though you have a low opinion of yourself. At least you used to. Hanging out with Doctor Phil must have boosted your self-esteem.”

  “I’m not going to listen to this,” she said.

  “You said we’d talk. Well, let’s talk. We can do it later, when everyone’s around, or we can have a chat now. Either way is fine with me, but I won’t be put off much longer.”

  Half out of her chair, she sat back. “Fine. Go ahead.”

  I felt a pulse in my temple as I struggled to recall my train of thought.

  “You cut people off at the knees and watch them bleed out. You contrive a scenario that justifies what you’re doing, but the pain you cause is the only thing that matters. How you perceive the situation, how you felt about it at the time, is irrelevant.”

  “I loved you, Jon.”

  “You’ve convinced yourself of that, I’m sure. It’s half the kick. All that drama feels so authentic. You feel the pain, but it’s a good, crunchy pain. It gives you a taste of what the poor slob you’ve sliced up is going through.”

  She was tearing up, but I didn’t care. I understood that what I wanted was not an explanation, but a chance to say these things.

  “The crying is a terrific special effect,” I said. “I always wondered why it was so much more persuasive than the rest of your repertoire, and I think I’ve figured it out. Before you came to Miami, I bet guys fucked you over routinely. You weren’t that pretty, and you were a brain. That’s a buzzkill for high school guys. You probably had to do tricks to get laid. I’m sure they laughed at you. Maybe they passed around dirty pictures of you. Whatever they did, it was cruel. You probably cried a lot, but you learned how to manipulate people. By the time you earned your degree, you were ready for some payback. Your pathology’s a form of compensation. Like theIn Cold Bloodguy. Perry Smith. He told Capote the Clutter family had never done anything to hurt him, not like all the other people in his life. He said he thought the reason he’d killed them was simply because he felt someone had to pay. You haven’t killed anyone, but the principle’s the same.”

  “You’re blaming me for your obsession,” she said, wiping her eyes. “A normal human being, someone balanced... they would have cut their losses.”

  “It’s my fault now? I shouldn’t have put my neck in the way of your ax? Because I’m not normal, that excuses you?”

  “I’m not trying to avoid blame.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re telling me because my involvement with you was deeper than your involvement with me, it means I’m neurotic. Abnormal. And you think that lets you off the hook somehow?”

  “What I’m trying to get across is that however despicable I am, the fact remains you have a problem with obsession. You better deal with it or you’re going to be unhappy for a long time.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m doing. Dealing with it. I’m talking to the cunt who denied me the opportunity to deal with it when dealing with it would have been material.”

  She fixed her eyes on a distant point and adopted a stoic expression. “Name-calling’s helpful.”

  I watched her for some seconds and then pointed at her forehead. “What’s it like in there? All gray and gloomy? Every now and then a sizzle of electricity, a sky full of flapping things illuminated by a short circuit? I may not be normal, but to rationalize things the way you do, you’ve got to be bat-shit!”

  “Is this helping you? Wouldn’t a discussion be preferable?”

  “Sure. If you’re going to contribute some emotional truth. Something less general than protesting that you loved me.” I paused to work at a sliver of food trapped between my teeth. “You know, I used to daydream about hurting you, but I guess I’m not that kind of guy.”

  “You don’t think this is hurting me?”

  “I don’t know. Is it? If so, it’s not hurting enough. I engaged in some violent fantasies. That’s par for the course, I suppose, for people who’ve been raped. But you’ve chosen your victims well. Wimps. Kids. Lonely professors. Otherwise you might have wound up chained in some maniac’s basement, begging Jesus to let you die.”

  I stood and she looked at me sharply, as if to make certain I posed no physical threat. I had more to say, but I perceived her then not as a woman, but as a peculiar bug with breasts whose bite had weakened me. I wanted nothing more to do with her.

  Her voice followed me as I walked to my tent. “I hope this has been therapeutic, Jon.”

  * * * *

  I lived through a long wasted dream that night and my mind was still fogged with anger when I stepped out into a sunny morning. Nubia and the others were gathered around Sgt. Perdomo. Though she deserved every abusive word I’d delivered, I felt diminished by the exercise and didn’t want to face her. But Taylor called to me and as I walked up he said, “Abreu’s okay. He’s sick, but the Moravians are taking care of him.”

  “The Moravians?” I looked to Perdomo. “You’ve seen them?”

  “The captain is recovering at their village,” Perdomo said. “A little dysentery. In two or three days he will be well.”

  “Where’s the village?”

  “Up in the hills.” Perdomo waved at the green slopes above and smiled. “He is receiving excellent care.”

  I had never observed a smile on Perdomo’s heavy-jowled face. From the outset he had radiated antipathy toward our party, especially toward the Americans. This attitude was doubtless related to the Chavez regime’s issues with the United States and his general behavior was typical of an Army lifer, ill at ease and sullen in the company of civilians. Now he was positively beaming and, another peculiarity, his speech was hoarse and somewhat stilted. When Macyory aske
d him the name of the village, he said, “Kirikh’quru. It’s a strange name, don’t you think?”

  Nubia studied him. “I’ve seen that name used in association with the word ‘Krokundor.’ Do you know what it means?”

  Perdomo shook his head. “I only know the name of the village.”

  “I want you to take me there.”

  “It’s far, the village, and I need to rest,” Perdomo said. “I walked most of the night.”

  “You made it there and back in a day.”

  “With respect, I can cover rough terrain much quicker than you.”

  “Make a map,” suggested Taylor, and then to Nubia: “I’ll go with you.”

  “The Moravians are a reclusive people,” said Perdomo. “They took the captain in because he was sick, and they let me see him because I am his friend. They don’t want to meet with you.”

  “They told you that?” Nubia asked.

  “Yes. When I go to collect Captain Abreu, I’ll take you with me. Perhaps they will have grown more amiable.”

  “Why won’t they meet with us?” asked Claudia.

  “They have adopted our ways and live as we used to live,” Perdomo said. “They wish to be left alone by those they consider impure.”

  Macyory and Taylor chimed in with simultaneous questions, and Nubia said, “We’ve imposed on Sergeant Perdomo enough. We should let him rest.”

  The sergeant inclined his head.

  “I do have one last question. You are Chama, correct?”

  Perdomo said, “Yes.”

  “The Chama live in the north, clustered around Merida. I assume that when you referred to the Moravians having adopted ‘our ways,’ you were referring to another tribal group?”

  “I used ‘our ways’ in the sense of the general Venezuelan culture. I wasn’t referring to a specific tribe.”

  “Of course,” Nubia said.

  * * * *

  After breakfast I located a small clearing off to the side of the Pleasure Dome offering an unobstructed of the Andes. The black rock of their flanks showed in cruel relief and the snowy peaks looked deadly sharp against the sky, capable of penetrating its blue skin. Sunlight fired the surface of the glass dome, its brightness making me squint, and I had an image of its heyday, of cool, shaded bowers, lovers coupling under the pupilless eyes of the statues.

  “Catching a break?”

  Nubia emerged from the brush and stood waiting for a reply. When none came, she kicked away some vegetable litter, and sat down facing me. Cicadas struck up a droning. “I have something to discuss with you,” she said. “Can you put your feelings on hold?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Sergeant Perdomo seemed more voluble than usual, don’t you think?”

  I wanted to disagree, to reignite our old argument, but I said, “ Yeah, little bit.”

  “More voluble and more fluent. I don’t buy his story. The Moravians may live in a nearby village, and they may be taking care of Abreu. But he’s hiding something. When I said the Chama lived in the north, he agreed with me. The Chama have settlements all along the river system. Remarque bought this land from them.”

  “He might not know about the settlements,” I said. “He’s not an educated man.”

  “He’d know. The Chama have a strong tradition of oral history.”

  A bird whizzed past overhead, a flash of green and yellow, and gave a shrill cry.

  “Another thing,” she said. “Two nights ago in your tent, my body reacted to you. I wanted you to make love to me. I attributed the reaction to nostalgia, yet I knew you wanted me, and...”

  She looked down at her knees. I tracked the curve of her inner thigh into the shadow of her loose-fitting shorts and imagined running my hand along her thigh, into that shadow.

  “I’m not sure how I got out of your tent without jumping you,” she went on. “Then the next morning, Macyory told me she’d slept with Taylor.”

  “I thought she was gay.”

  “So did Macyory. She was confused and I consoled her.”

  “And that’s when I found you together at lunch?”

  She nodded. “After you left Macyory and I... we got busy. No matter what you’ve heard, I’m not a lesbian. Not until yesterday.” She batted at a fly trapped in her hair. “People’s wires are getting crossed. It’s not so far afield that you can’t explain it rationally. Out in the wilds, freed from normal restraints. But you and Claudia, Macyory and Taylor, me and Macyory. And now Perdomo. If it were just one thing, I could accept that explanation. But taken all together, something’s not right.”

  “We’re under stress,” I said. “Especially you and me.”

  “You think this is a stress reaction? Come on!”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know! I hoped you’d be able to help me put it in perspective.”

  “It’s weird, but this is a weird situation. Truthfully I’m more concerned about the helicopter.”

  “Perdomo says it’s in good shape. If you believe his story, I guess you should believe him about that.”

  She hung her head, prodded a leaf on the ground beside her hip. I lifted my eyes to the dome. The light shifting across its glass surface reminded me of the opaque shapes I’d seen the previous day. I thought to mention them, but didn’t want to prolong the conversation.

  “Right now I feel like I did the other night,” she said. “I’d do you in a heartbeat. Which seems unlikely in light of your diatribe last night. That was a potent anti-aphrodisiac.” She left room for a response and then asked, “Are you feeling anything similar?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why’ve you been staring at my crotch? Is my voice coming from down there?” She appeared to be searching for something she could throw. “Damn it, Jon! Can’t you be honest? I’m not trying to seduce you.”

  “All right. I feel something.”

  “Well...?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Do you have an opinion on what might be happening?”

  “What the fuck do you want me to say? A mysterious force is making us crazy for sex? If we discard the rational, that’s the only option left. Let’s say that’s true. Let’s say an airborne poison or a witch doctor’s curse or whatever is coercing us to screw ourselves stupid, and we’re going to disappear like the Moravians. If you’re right, we can’t count on anything Perdomo told us, so we don’t have a pilot. We can wait for help to come from Merida... or take a little hike along the river. That’s the way to go as far as I’m concerned. We’re all such accomplished outdoorsmen.”

  “I saw boats when we flew over the lake,” she said. “They may still be serviceable.”

  “You’ve considered leaving? Before now, I mean?”

  “I’m responsible for Claudia and Macyory and Taylor. I have to consider their welfare.”

  “This wasn’t a good idea,” I said after a pause.

  “Coming to St. Gotthard?”

  “Coming to St. Gotthard. Inviting me along. What did you have in mind? You must have been hoping for some specific outcome between us.”

  “If I was,” she said, “I’m not anymore.”

  * * * *

  I kept apart from people for most of that day, strolling in the forest that encircled the buildings until I became spooked by things I saw along the dim avenues leading off among the moss-furred trunks. The forest was of the sort such as can be found anywhere in northern Europe (oaks and hawthorn and other species transplanted from Germany), and I felt almost at home in the gloom beneath the thick canopy. But I began to encounter life-sized statues of smiling men and women, fully clothed, normal in every respect, who had been magicked into stone mid-stride as they hurried toward St. Gotthard: some glanced over their shoulders as if encouraging their slower comrades in the race to pleasure; others pressed forward eagerly, bearing gifts in their hands. Moss covered the marble, but someone had taken pains to clean their faces and, when I looked deeper into the forest, past roots thick as croc
odile tails, beneath low-hanging limbs, and behind gauzy veils of spiderweb, I caught sight of tiny white ovals suspended in mid-air, the green of their torsos and legs invisible against the myriad greens of the backdrop.

  I came upon one statue that sounded an intentionally sinister note: a beautiful woman with eyes bulging from her aghast face, breasts swelling from her nightgown, a noose about her neck, the marble rope cunningly affixed to an oak branch. Her hands grasped the rope and she strained to touch the earth with her toes, making it appear that were she to relax, she would strangle. The message embodied by the statue was, I thought, that there were rules even in this licentious place, and he or she who broke them would meet with Remarque’s justice. He, after all, had been the lawgiver in his domain. This started me thinking about the man—I wondered whether his decision to build in the valley had been informed solely by an appreciation of its beauty, or if the force that was afflicting us had influenced him to a degree. If such were the case, considering our state of distraction after only three days, the Moravians wouldn’t have been able to carry out their good works for a period of sixty years. But what if the effect had been muted in Remarque’s day and something had occurred during the Moravians’ residency that amplified the force?