by David Bergen
He handed the phone back to her and said that he didn’t need a photograph to remember this time.
A path opened before her, but the path was narrow and hard to follow, and she thought that if she said anything more, she might lose sight of him on the path, and so she said nothing.
Leaving San Lucas, he took a different route and they rode up around the lake towards the highway that would take them to either Antigua or Panajachel. The road was rough and full of potholes, and she had to hold tightly to his waist, and when she did so he pushed his body back towards her so that they were as one. They stopped by the roadside, high above the lake, and they sat on a guardrail with their feet on the cliffside, where there grew chicozapote and puna and ciprés, and far below was the lake, which was calm. In the distance a boat made its way towards her village.
They didn’t speak. She took his hand and held it and she thought of all the lovers who had sat in this exact spot and looked down at the lake, which had existed for thousands of years. And she thought that the lake and the volcanoes around the lake, which were all beautiful, and inspired one to speak of their beauty, were indifferent to beauty, and they were indifferent to her own existence and her own desires. She was the only one who knew and cared about her own existence, and her own wishes, and her own desires.
She wanted to explain this to Eric, but she didn’t have the words, or perhaps she was afraid that he wouldn’t understand. She said, I’m very happy to be me and not that tree, or that rock, or even this large lake. And with this statement she flung her arm out towards the lake.
You don’t know the half of it, he said. What you said before. You forgot the the.
Thank you, Mr. Teacher, she said. She touched his forehead and said that she wanted to know what was in there.
He said that she was everything in his head.
These words, said so casually, stunned her.
THEY stole as much time as possible for each other. One Saturday they rode down to Monterico and sat in a restaurant where they ate crab and shrimp, and in the evening, when the mosquitoes were too much, they found their small room and made love as the fan blew hot air over their sweating bodies. After, he fell asleep immediately, but she was restless and hot and the only clear thought she could muster was that she was incapable of thinking clearly. She got up and peed, and as she sat on the toilet she realized that she had been peeing a lot in the last while. She lit a candle and placed it on the table beside the bed and in that flickering light she studied him. He always slept as if completely innocent. It seemed so wasteful, to be sleeping when they had so little time together. She wanted to rouse him and hold him and she wanted to ask him if he loved her. She had asked him that just before he slept, and he had kissed her forehead and called her silly. Of course I love you, he said. It was dark, and she could not see his eyes, and she realized that lately he had confessed his love only in the darkness, and so she had been unable to look into his eyes and verify his words. For the eyes cannot lie. They shift sideways and close, or they blink, or the gaze is averted, and she realized that it might have been her fear all along that he was being untruthful, because she asked the question only when they were in darkness.
And now, she lit the candle, and she studied his body and his head and his hair and shoulders. The sheet lay across his lower body and she saw the hair at his stomach, which she loved to touch, and she saw his chest and one long arm thrown up above his head. Who are you? she whispered. She was ashamed to doubt him. It was not in her nature. Nor was it in her nature to light a candle in the darkness, or to rummage through his pockets, or to steal his hair from his comb. Sometimes she saw herself as a madwoman, though she was only twenty-two.
Their bungalow was situated near the beach and she heard the waves come in and recede and then rush in again onto the sand. She heard the voices of a man and a woman as they passed by the open window. The man was saying something about his shoes. Íso was sitting cross-legged on the bed and she heard the voices and she thought that if her father had not died when she was just a child, she would have known the quality of a man’s voice, other than Eric’s, and she might have known how a man’s inner thoughts worked. Or if a man had inner thoughts. Tonight, Eric had felt far away, as if he had already left. As if his thinking was already in another country, with those things that awaited him.
She fell asleep.
And woke to the sound of the couple fighting about the shoes. At first she believed it was a dream, and then she was awake, and the man was shouting that they were not his shoes, he’d never seen them before, and if they weren’t his, where had they come from? The woman said that he was drunk and that he had probably bought the shoes in Pastores and forgotten that fact. The man said that he’d never been to Pastores in his life. He said that the shoes were too big on him, and why would he buy shoes that were two sizes too big? The woman said that he was fond of big things, and that was why he had bought shoes that were too big. And then the woman’s voice went soft and she whispered something that Íso could not hear. But the man would have nothing of it. He shouted, Look here, look here. This is not my shoe. And if it isn’t my shoe, whose is it? Are these Hugo’s? The one with big feet? His voice was sad and high and he began to cry. The woman shushed him some more and said that he should leave the shoes in the sand if they weren’t his. It’s hot, she said. Come, come to bed. Forget the shoes.
Íso didn’t hear the couple leave, but she thought they had moved on because now all she heard was the surf, which sounded like a wind that was starting up and then subsiding and then starting up again.
THEY ate breakfast at a comedor on the beach—scrambled eggs and tortillas and fresh pineapple and refried beans. He had slept well. And you? he asked. She said that she had been very hot and the air had been stuffy and there had been people walking loudly past their window. And a couple arguing about shoes. She told him what had transpired. She wanted it to sound interesting, or even a little bit funny, but he found it neither interesting nor funny, and when she had finished the story he asked if the shoes were in the sand by their bungalow. Did he leave them there? he asked.
I never looked, she said.
That is what would finish the story, he said. If they were lying in the sand.
I don’t think so, she said. Why does the story have to be finished?
Because if it isn’t finished, it isn’t a story.
It might be finished in a different way, she said. The man might have thrown the shoes into the water.
Or the woman might have.
This thought was surprising to her, but it didn’t seem surprising to him. She looked at his eyes, but he was busy eating. They saw the world in different ways. For him, life was like a story that had answers, or a conclusion that made sense. For her, the story was sinuous and unclear, and if there was happiness to be had, it might arrive unannounced, or it might land in the arms of another person.
Later, they found themselves on the beach, and he touched her, and talked to her, and throughout all his close attention she felt as if she were floating above the scene, looking down on the man and the girl on the beach. She was very quiet and he asked if she was okay and she said that she was tired. She hadn’t slept well. At noon they packed and climbed on the motorcycle and rode the five hours back towards the village. Ascending the hills, she was relieved to be leaving the humidity and heat behind her. She’d been lonely in Monterico. Perhaps it was because of the little flies that attacked during the hottest part of the day. Or the mosquitoes. Or the tourists. On the back of the motorcycle, holding him, she still felt very much alone.
SHE sometimes chided him for driving too fast. Behind him on the motorcycle, she would grip his waist and shout at him to slow down, and he always did. When he was with her. She knew that when he was alone, riding the back roads or taking the coastal route to the city, he rode even faster, and often without a helmet. He loved the wind and the danger. He said that it made him feel alive.
Tuesday of that week, after
a long ride alone into the hills, he was returning at dusk, his hair blowing free, and just as he came up out of San Lucas, before the long climb, he hit a child. The child was chasing a dog that had run out onto the road and Eric hit the dog first and his motorcycle went out from under him and he flew off and his body hit the child, killing the child instantly. Eric was not wearing a helmet, and though the body of the child broke his fall, he still hit the road heavily, first his shoulder, which broke, and then his head, which gave off the sound of a soft thud, a simple sound, but important. Momentum carried him into the concrete culvert beside the road.
The boy who had been killed came from a family whose father picked coffee at a nearby finca and went into the hills on the weekends to gather wood to sell as fuel in San Lucas. The boy was five years old, the youngest of ten children. His name was Juan. The father was eating supper in his small house when word came that Juan had been hit by a motorcycle and was lying in the road. The driver of the motorcycle was also in the road. They were both dead.
When the father arrived at the scene, he picked up his son and cradled him, and kissed his forehead and his face and he called out for him to breathe. But the boy was limp and lifeless. The father carried him to the side of the road and placed him in the dirt beneath a shrub. Someone brought a blanket and laid it over the boy. A voice called out that the driver of the motorcycle was alive. By now, a crowd had gathered. The father of the dead boy found the motorcycle driver sitting up at the edge of the road, calling out, Soy médico, soy médico. He’s a doctor, someone shouted. The father took the doctor’s hair in his hands and pulled him to his feet. He cursed at him. He called for a rope. A few minutes later a young man appeared with a rope and handed it to the father. The father looped the rope around Doctor Mann’s neck and tied it tight. He dragged him towards a nearby eucalyptus tree that had a branch that was solid and perfectly parallel to the ground. By now others in the crowd were chanting and calling out. Some were kicking at Doctor Mann’s body, at his arms, and when they found the mark, especially his broken shoulder, he whimpered. His pants were pulled down. There was laughter. The doctor said, Soy americano, and then he said, Estados Unidos. For a moment the crowd paused, but it made little difference that this man was an American. He had recklessly killed a child of theirs, and so they converged on him once again.
They would have lynched him if the pastor of the evangelical church in San Pedro, Carlos Iclash, who was also the owner of the small coffee finca where the dead boy’s father worked, hadn’t been passing by on a return trip from the city. The road was blocked as Señor Iclash approached the scene. Carlos stopped his pickup and rolled down his window and asked a young girl what was happening. Linchamiento, the girl said. Un americano. Carlos carried a pistol. Because he believed it was necessary. He took the pistol from his bag and got out of the pickup and approached the rabble. The people were very excited, like children at a circus. He pushed his way into the crowd. He fired a shot in the air. The crowd halted and then set to again. He pushed through to the inner circle and walked over to the father of the dead boy. The man was pulling at the rope, which he’d strung over the branch of the eucalyptus. He was hoisting the American by the neck, and the American’s legs were kicking at the air. Carlos held the pistol to the father’s head and told him to release the man.
He killed my son, the father said.
Release him, Carlos said. This isn’t for you to decide. There will be proper justice.
The father looked Carlos in the eyes and said that he would release the man, but only because Carlos Iclash had promised justice. And he lowered the body of the doctor. Carlos called out to the crowd to go home. The mob, grumpy and disappointed, mumbled and then slowly dispersed. Carlos bent to inspect the doctor. The doctor was unconscious. He removed the noose. He pulled up the doctor’s pants. He asked for help to carry the body to his pickup. No one offered him help. He stooped and picked up the doctor. It was difficult, and he dropped him twice before he managed to hoist him over his shoulder. He walked back to the pickup and laid him in the bed of the truck. Carlos climbed back into his pickup and drove to the clinic at Ixchel, where he knew there were qualified doctors.
ÍSO heard the following morning that Doctor Mann had been driven to the city, and that he was in surgery at one of the private clinics there. Her manager told her the details of the accident, and of the attack. She worked that day, but her heart was elsewhere. At noon she sat in the garden and she put her face in her hands, making certain that no one saw her. She knew nothing about Eric’s condition.
The following morning when she arrived at work, she asked after the doctor. Her relationship with him was seen as friendly. It was not known how deeply she cared for him. And he for her. And so she had to pretend that she was simply concerned because he was popular, and they were friends. The news was that he had suffered a broken clavicle and he had some swelling on the brain. He would be okay. She was amazed at her relief. At the end of the day she found Illya, and Illya, who had heard about the accident, hugged her, and it was then that Íso cried and cried as Illya spoke softly into her ear.
What will happen? Íso asked.
He will live, Illya said. Don’t worry.
Poor Eric, she said.
The following morning she arrived early at work and asked again after the doctor. She was told that the doctor’s wife had been contacted, and that she might arrive soon. Or she would come later. In any case, it was clear that the doctor’s wife would be making an appearance. When she told Illya, Illya said that she should go to see him as soon as possible. The next day was Friday, and even though there was work, she should go. Illya said she would tell the director that Íso was not well. She hugged Íso again, and said, You must.
And so on Friday morning, she went with her mother to visit Doctor Mann. They rode the boat across the lake in the early morning and took a bus up to Sololá and transferred to another bus that would take them into the city. It took a long time to reach the main highway, and after many stops they turned onto the Panamericana. She held her mother’s hand and they looked out at the fields and as they ascended the highlands a mist enveloped them and it began to rain and the world disappeared.
The doctor was in a private hospital that resembled an expensive hotel. It was silent and spotless and there was no poverty to be seen on the faces of those who whispered through the halls. The floors were of hardwood and ceramic, and the chairs in the waiting room were of leather. Her mother sat in one of these chairs while she made inquiries at the front desk. Íso would be allowed to see the doctor for ten minutes.
A nurse guided Íso to the elevator and then took her to the third floor. The nurse was young and she had a strong jaw and she didn’t say much to Íso except to state that Doctor Mann was known here. He is very fortunate, she said.
Will he live? Íso asked.
The nurse looked at her as if she were crazy. Of course, she said. Then she said that Doctor Mann did not like to be touched. It upset him. Íso nodded. She could not imagine Eric not wanting to be touched.
He was sitting up in bed. The nurse went in first and told him that he had a visitor and announced her as Íso. His face, when he saw her, registered no surprise or curiosity, and it was as if she were a stranger. She went to him and told him again that she was Íso. He repeated her name several times, as if it were a game. The nurse remained in the room, but this did not stop Íso from standing near his bed and saying his name. His neck was bruised and she put her hand near his throat and asked if it hurt. He shook his head. She was crying. And then she said that all was good, wasn’t it? You’re alive, she said.
Look at you, she said. Your hair.
It had been cut. He looked like a young boy. Smaller and more vulnerable. His arm was in a sling.
She had many questions, but she didn’t ask them, because the nurse was present and because he couldn’t move past her name, which he said again and again, as if it were something new that he had just learned.
And
she said his name, Eric, over and over. And their ten minutes was wasted speaking each other’s name, and saying nothing of importance. And not touching. When the nurse said that Íso’s time was up, that the patient needed to rest, Doctor Mann seemed confused. His eyes looked tired. She wanted to ask the surgeon in charge if Doctor Mann would be okay—she didn’t trust the nurse—but she couldn’t locate anyone who might give her a clear answer, and so she and her mother left the hospital and returned to the village.
When she went back alone to the hospital the following weekend, his wife was there, and when she saw the wife she knew that everything was over. The doctor’s wife was feeding him puréed apples from a small bowl, lifting a spoon to his mouth, whispering something that Íso could not understand. He looked even more like a child. He ate slowly. When the doctor’s wife saw Íso, she stood and went to her and hugged her, holding her tightly, and then she stepped back and said, I’m taking him home.
Íso didn’t say anything.
She sat beside the doctor’s wife and held her hand while the doctor held his wife’s hand, and so in some distant way there was a connection. The doctor’s wife told her husband that Íso, her keeper, had come for a visit.
Hello, Íso, Eric said.
Hello, Eric.
He looked at her, and then he looked at his wife, who reached out to wipe saliva from his bottom lip.
Íso freed her hand, but the doctor’s wife didn’t seem to notice.
He’ll have to have rehabilitation, she said. He has trouble walking. And he’s suffered trauma to the brain. He can’t remember anything about the accident. At first he didn’t even know my name. What a terrible story, she said. What a godforsaken place. They want to press charges or something horrible. But we have a lawyer and the lawyer says that the sooner he goes home, the better chance we have of no charges being laid. And so we’ll go home. She leaned towards the doctor and whispered, Isn’t that right, Eric?