“It’s all right,” Rita shrugged. She plopped down on a drift log. “I’m beat.”
He sat down beside her. Her eyes started spilling over, she couldn’t help it. She hoped Jack wouldn’t notice, but he did.
“Hey,” he said, “what’s up?”
She shook her head.
“What’s his name? Kirk?”
Rita laughed despite herself and wiped at her tears.
“He’s history,” she said. Jack nodded. He looked back out at the bay.
“It’s nothing really,” she said after a while, “or it’s everything, but it’s not.” She didn’t know what the heck to say.
“Rough waters?” asked Jack. She guessed so. “Well,” he said, “sometimes you just have to ride it out.”
* * *
Rita spent the night in her childhood bed, in her old tiny room with the sloped ceilings and single window, that was now crammed with her mother’s sewing machine and boxes of fabric. She and Jack had sat out by the water until dusk, and then he’d walked her back to the house. He had somewhere else to be, and she’d had dinner with her parents: her mother’s ravioli in the living room with doilies over every armrest and under every vase, where they usually ate now that the younger and older generations had moved on, watching Gunsmoke or the detective program her Pop liked.
* * *
On BART on the way home the next afternoon, back under the Bay, the black tunnel outside the windows and the ghostly white lights slipping by, Rita noticed she felt more settled inside. Settled but heavy, like lead almost. She made her way from the Ashby station back to her house, climbed the stairs to her room, shut the door and fell onto the bed. She slept there in her clothes clear until the next morning, and she might have kept right on sleeping if there hadn’t been a loud knock on the door and a voice that yelled,
“Phone!”
Rita wasn’t fully awake until after she heard Cynthia on the line say, “Okay, see you then!” and then hang up. She was on her knees in the hallway outside her bedroom door, holding the receiver next to where someone had stretched the phone, on its extra-long cord. She vaguely remembered that Cynthia had invited her somewhere and that she had agreed to go. Which was how she ended up back at the ashram the next Thursday night.
The days of the week went by just like the seats on a Ferris wheel, each new one popping up as the old one went down. Now she was leafing through some books at the Sunday flea market; now there was griping at the house meeting; now she was typing a memo while Mr. MacNamie leaned over Cynthia’s desk; now a role-play at the encounter group; now more memos, now the wet clay was spinning, spinning before her. Rita regretted saying yes to going along with Cynthia, but she wasn’t the type to... the type to... What was she about to say? She told herself she wasn’t the type to skip out on a friend just because she had a headache.
* * *
Here again were the dim corridors, the wafting incense, the hanging sheets, the long bench where they removed their shoes. Cynthia was just going up the short flight of stairs into the chanting room when Rita said, “Be back in a sec.” She suddenly had to pee in the worst way. She picked up her macramé bag and noticed for the first time that it was made of doilies.
She located the bathroom, used it, and began the return trip. But she must have taken a wrong turn because at the end of the corridor she found herself in the ashram kitchen, deserted now since everyone was at the service. Back among the hanging sheets and partitions there were some stairs she didn’t remember, some doors she thought she did, and just when she thought she knew where she was, there was the kitchen again.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” she said aloud. It was like they designed the place on purpose to get you lost. Her headache was spreading down her neck when she went down another narrow hallway, darker and hard to see, until she hit a dead end and there was nothing but the slightly undulating white sheet hanging over the wall in front of her. Nothing, until she felt eyes on her, and she turned.
To her left in the darkness was one of the shrines, the portrait in its frame, lit by three glowing candles. The Guru Luigi gazed directly at her.
She sensed him sitting on his mountain top. A breeze played about his face. From somewhere far away she heard a chinging of chimes, drums; the chanting was starting. Faint though it was, the rhythm of the music flowed around her.
The beat of the drums invited her hips to sway and her shoulders to let go. She closed her eyes. Little goats leapt in circles in slow motion. She raised her arms and danced.
Six
The Kid
Granada, Spain 1995
The shop was situated on a cobbled side street, in a curvature of tiled balconies and doorways with single steps, shadows etched into the stone by a bright and stentorian sun. Rubén sat behind a counter in the dim light, leaning on his elbows and consulting a manual. That morning a customer had hauled in an unusual job, a machine for making some kind of ice cream. Rubén had told him it might not be a quick repair, and the man, whom he knew by sight from the neighborhood, said it didn’t matter. It was the off-season now, fewer tourists, and the ruthless summer heat was finally abating.
Rubén looked up from his reading and checked the clock. Siesta. Already the shops across the street had lowered their shades. He looked forward to the simple meal he had ready upstairs in his apartment: a dish of spinach and garbanzos, bread with olive oil, and after that a coffee and the newspaper by the open window, with the breeze coming in over his geraniums.
Just then the hanging bells tinkled and the door opened --two tourists, after all. He didn’t get many, only people asking directions to the station or elsewhere.
“Good afternoon,” they said. Latin Americans, he guessed, with cameras and backpacks, just a couple of kids.
“Good afternoon.”
They wondered if he knew where they could buy some film. They’d been at the Alhambra all morning and had run out. He gave them directions to a place nearby but told them they’d have to wait a couple of hours for it to reopen. Their eyes wandered around the shop, the small array of refurbished household devices for sale in front, the shelf of vintage blenders, the various tools and mechanical parts stacked or hanging neatly in the back. Repairs in progress were laid out on the wooden workbench, with finished jobs and the odd bicycle piled in the corners.
Suddenly the girl cried out, “It’s you!”
He smiled. “It’s me.”
It was. Another Rubén --his likeness, from the neck up at least-- and oversized, built of glue and foam, paint and a touch of genius, sitting at the far end of the counter. The boy and the girl examined it closely now, laughing with delight. The boy looked over at him.
“It has more hair,” he said.
“I was younger.”
“Where did it come from?” asked the girl, adding, “if you don’t mind me asking.” He told them a friend had done it, just for fun. This was largely true. Felipe had been more than a friend, but he was one now, wasn’t he? They kept in touch; cards or a call a few times a year, and they’d seen each other a couple of times since Felipe had left. They always called the puppet Segundo: the second Rubén.
“It’s even got your mole,” said the boy coyly, letting his big, long-lashed eyes linger on Rubén’s face. Rubén was startled. A slight flush came to his cheeks.
He hadn’t gotten a look like that for quite a while, except from women, on occasion. Women were pleasant people generally, neighbors, relatives and sometimes even good friends, but there was nothing magnetic for him about femininity; nothing, as they say, that ignited the flesh.
Flesh.
He was old enough to be this kid’s father. Rubén looked away and let them know it was closing time. They asked if they could come back later and take his picture with the puppet.
“Certainly,” he said.
* * *
Rubén had had a number of lovers, but no one since Felipe, who’d been the longest. Five years, and that was a few years ago. They’d met at a bar o
ne evening, with friends who were acquainted, and had struck up a conversation. Felipe was tall, dark and square-shouldered. The sculpted quality of his hands and the gap in his front teeth were arresting.
Rubén was thirty-four at the time. His father was no longer alive and his mother had stopped asking him when he would get married. He already had his shop and the apartment, but he spent most nights with Felipe in his cottage at the edge of town. They had a garden with flowers and vegetables, and a shed in the back where Felipe made his puppets and Rubén built a small darkroom.
He took his mother, Leonora, there, one Sunday afternoon. She praised the flowers, and Felipe’s cooking, and when it was time to go, she burst into tears. Rubén sat
beside her, holding her hand, while Felipe --who couldn’t stand to see anyone’s mother cry-- hurried to get her a glass of water, a box of tissues, another chair to put up her feet. At last she straightened, wiped her eyes, blew her nose and stood up. She collected her handbag, pronounced them both her sons, and said she would see herself home. She left in a taxi.
* * *
It was nearing six o’clock when Rubén heard the bells of the shop door again and went to the front, wiping his hands on a towel. They were back, the two kids.
They took turns posing for the pictures: Rubén with his puppet, with the girl, too, and then the boy. He asked if they were brother and sister; they had a similar look. They said no, just maybe very distant cousins. Rebecca was an American and Marcelo from Argentina. They’d met on the train to Granada and were staying at the hostel up the road.
Rubén went into the back again to get his own camera, a nice manual 35mm Leica with a variety of lenses and filters.
“So, you’re a photographer,” Rebecca said.
“An amateur,” he smiled.
They asked about the framed prints he had hanging in the front of the shop: the caves of Sacromonte, his nieces and nephews piled together on a street curb, a neighbor on a balcony with his poodle. They were fascinated, or seemed to be, and he was flattered.
“Come have a drink with us,” they said. “We like you.”
“Why not.”
* * *
It was a warm evening, the streets full of movement and conversation. At an outdoor table at a café they shared the anecdotes typical of travel: humorous, or strange, or frightening tales. Rubén recounted some of these from many years before, just after completing his military service, hitchhiking through Morocco and France and Germany.
Rebecca and Marcelo were bright kids, astute and generous in their observations, maybe a little precocious, maybe a little naïve. He could see why they liked each other, but why him? Not that he wasn’t likable, just older, stodgy by comparison, if only a shade. And Marcelo was certainly paying him a lot of attention, giving him a lustrous look just now from under his arched brows.
Rubén quickly fiddled with the stem of his wine glass and tossed out something obvious like “travel does increase one’s knowledge of the world.” Marcelo leaned forward and murmured, “Surely you are very worldly,” which caused Rebecca to laugh and slap him on the shoulder.
“Shameless!” she cried.
Sara and Diego, a pair of Rubén’s old friends, passed the table on their way to the cinema and he introduced them. Diego asked if they’d been up to La Zubia. They hadn’t.
“Why don’t you take them there?” said Sara. “It’s one of his favorite haunts.” She mussed Rubén’s thinning hair. “He’s always running up and down these mountains.”
“I’m taking my mother to Mass,” Rubén said, by way of excuse.
“After!” said Sara, “I know you aren’t working on the Lord’s day.”
“I guess we’ve bothered him enough already,” Rebecca said.
“No, no,” said Rubén, “come to Mass too if you want,” which came out more sarcastic than he meant.
“Maybe not Mass,” said Marcelo, and Rebecca chimed in,
“Jesus was one of our people, but we’re not His people.”
Rubén relented. Why not play tour guide? His mother would be spending the day with his brother’s family anyway.
* * *
It was close to twelve when he said good night. They would meet him at the cathedral after the Mass the next day.
Rubén passed through the darkened shop toward the stairs up to his apartment.
He heard a voice.
“Good night, Rubén.”
Segundo.
This often happened when he’d had some wine. He paused, and over his shoulder addressed the shadowed shape of the puppet on the counter.
“And a good night to you.”
“I have one thing to say to you,” said the voice.
“Alright,” said Ruben.
“The winged horse.”
Rubén dropped his head. Could no one leave him alone?
* * *
Undressed and lying in bed he gave in to the memory. Not long after they met, Felipe invited Rubén to Seville for a weekend, where he was working on the set for a large theater production. After hours he gave Rubén a tour backstage, through the stacks of scenery and under the riggings. The theater still had an ancient set of gas lamps and these threw a rich ochre light over the folds in the velvet curtains, twists of cable, grain of wood, gleam of glass.
Felipe showed him the piece he was especially proud of, a huge Pegasus painted on boards in silver and white and shades of blue. It rose diagonally on a series of cables, past a sky of rose-colored clouds. The engineering had a few kinks that had yet to be worked out. Rubén had a knack for all things mechanical and began to posit a few ideas, but completely lost his train of thought when those sculpted hands suddenly enfolded his own.
Rubén snapped his mind shut like a book, preferring not to retrace all the details of that early encounter. But the gates of the psyche are loose, especially at night after something unexpected, like this young Argentine. Celibacy was a safe haven, but maddening at times all the same. He took hold of himself there in the dark, under the sheets, and couldn’t help seeing those big eyes and long lashes, and, somewhere behind, floating silver wings.
* * *
He suffered a little during Mass the next morning. The incense made his eyes water and the groans of the organ were like trouble in the bowel. He held his mother’s arm while he accompanied her to the alcove where she always lit a candle and said a prayer for his father. Leonora was a brave woman, facing her widowhood as if into a gale from the prow of a ship. She enjoyed horticulture, and the four grandchildren that Rubén’s brother and sister had given her, but she still grieved, and she badly wanted to see all her children settled. She asked now and then about Felipe.
The light and fresh air outside overtook them abruptly as Rubén and Leonora stepped with the crowd over the threshold of the massive carved doors. His brother Mario was already coming up the street to take Rubén’s place at their mother’s elbow. And there were the two young travelers, on a low wall that edged the stairs down to the plaza, backpacks sprawled out, bulging with water bottles and what seemed to be groceries. They looked up and waved.
* * *
It was a truly beautiful day, crisp, with just a few small clouds sailing tranquilly at the edge of the sky. Rubén led them down the winding streets, through the outskirts and up into the dry hills, to an old cart road he liked to follow. He was in good condition, thanks to his habit of traversing the mountains, still lean, with long legs and an easy stride. The air was invigorating.
His father used to take him and Mario there when they were children. His father’s father had traveled the same road long before, walking or by mule cart, from their village, before harder times brought the family to the city. Rebecca and Marcelo asked questions here and there, or stopped to take a photograph. Absorbed in the scenery and the quiet, Marcelo was much less forward than the night before. Rubén was thankful for that.
They stopped to rest beside a fountain, a natural spring that trickled over a smooth rock face and into a sto
ne basin carved by people who had used the cart road centuries before. A dip on the lip of the basin allowed the water to run over in a thin stream, under which one could fill a cup or some other vessel for drinking.
Rebecca climbed the short incline beside the spring and out of view, to find the “Ladies’” leaving the two men momentarily alone. Marcelo filled his water bottle and then held it out to Rubén. The gleam was back in the kid’s eye, warm and, he couldn’t deny it, inviting. Rubén put the bottle to his lips. Marcelo drew his wrist across his forehead and flashed a smile.
“It reminds me of home here,” he said.
“Does it?”
“Just a little.”
Marcelo said the mountains he knew were more wild, more raw and bare. He liked both. There was nothing like this fountain there, for example, a place in the earth carved so gently by so many hands. Even in the colonial places the New World wasn’t inhabited in the same way.
The new and the old.
Footsteps. Rebecca reappeared.
“What did I miss?” she asked.
* * *
At mid-afternoon they reached the top of a ridge. The view was stunning, the whole of the city and beyond, a haze at the horizon’s edge. The white walls and red tile roofs, grey and yellow stone, arches and towers, all these were as natural to Rubén as the mountains, olive groves, native trees and sky, and as natural as walking the same paths as his forebears, under brown hawks whose own ancestors once glided in the same circles. He’d enjoyed his travels in the past, but nowhere else did he feel wholly himself.
A shelf of bare rock protruded from the earth beside a small grove of ancient almond trees. Rubén sat down with pleasure on the familiar stone, dabbing at the sweat and dust on his forehead with the bandana he’d knotted around his neck. Rebecca began unloading supplies from the backpacks, bread and cheese, peppers, cucumbers, olives.
For the Love of Meat Page 5