Treating myself to a second cigarette, I empty out my various possessions on the floor: the box of tampons, the scorched metal tin I used as a frying pan, the plastic disc with the picture of the gentle middle-aged couple . . . My playing cards are still soaked through from my time in the forest. Their bright nursery colours have bled into one another, and are dotted here and there with specks of mould. I spread them out to dry, carefully peeling each one away from the pack and laying them on the warm linoleum in suit order: Coins, Swords, Leaves and Cups, arranged in columns side by side from the ace to the king. Then I turn off the lights and curl up on the floor, and soon the hum of the machines, the little coloured lights and the happy memory of the sauce commercial soothe me into a deep and contented sleep in a kind of miniature city all of my own.
I can try again in the morning to find a way of sending a signal, is my last coherent thought. Failing that, I can write a note on the board saying where I’m headed, and then damage something – throw a rock at the instrument panel, perhaps, or cut through a cable – so that someone will have to come out and fix it.
‘So how was your day?’ Amanda asks when I rejoin her. She’s put away her school books, and has been sitting reading a novel on the balcony in the evening sun in the same swimsuit that she was wearing when I first met her by that warm lake in the forest of the Upper River.
‘I hope this doesn’t sound too needy,’ I tell her, ‘but I really missed you. I couldn’t quite settle to anything, as if there was some part of me that won’t function properly when you’re not there. I barely wrote a word. I walked along the promenade. I had a look through one of those telescopes. I bought a couple of coffees and a bit of lunch, but I couldn’t bring myself to write. In the end, I went on a boat trip out to the island for something to do.’
‘Was that nice?’
I’ve brought us up two cold bottles of beer from the bar downstairs and I pass her one of them as I sit on the other chair.
‘Well, there were flying fish on the way over, and I saw a giant jellyfish just below the surface, and the little town on the island is quite pretty in its way. I’m sure I would have liked it if you’d been there. We could have had a beer in one of the cafés and talked about all the stuff we talk about, and – you know – just enjoyed the feeling of being on an island. But, as it was . . . well . . . I could see it was quite nice, of course I could, but there was a “so what?” quality to it. I couldn’t help thinking, What does it really mean anyway when we say a place is nice? Places are just places when it comes down to it, aren’t they? Just lumps of matter arranged in a certain way at a certain point in space. But if you’d been there, I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt that way.’
‘And yet, when I first met you, you were living quite contentedly by yourself in that cabin, not talking to anyone at all.’
‘I guess I’ve had enough solitude recently to last me for quite a while.’
I offer this as a theory, actually, rather than a statement of fact, because I genuinely have no idea if my recent history has anything to do with it, but Amanda is immediately convinced. ‘God, yes. That’s perfectly understandable.’
‘A kind of bleakness creeps in, you know? I suppose it does date back to that time.’ As I speak, I’m having doubts as to whether that’s really true, but I press on anyway. ‘Even when I’m with people I sometimes feel alone.’
‘Even when you’re with me?’
The beer is relaxing me. I’m enjoying the warm evening sun, and the warmth of her presence. I really can’t imagine why I was so thrown by that text from Estela. It’s not as if anything of any significance happened between us. We just met a couple of times, and there was a charge between us – well, that was really the whole point of our meetings – so that I didn’t feel able to tell Amanda about it afterwards.
‘Well . . . you know . . . sometimes . . . But you’re the best antidote, and I’m certainly not feeling it now.’
Amanda has her large feet up on the railing. I love the largeness of her, not just the fact that she’s tall and muscly, but the way she’s entirely at home with being that way. I love her good humour. It’s easy to imagine the kids in her class absolutely adoring her.
She raises her bottle. ‘Well, that’s good, because I’m not going anywhere!’
It’s hard to tell where I am exactly on the river after dark. One row of silhouetted trees looks much like another, one right turn in the river is pretty much the same as another right turn, but in a way that makes the anticipation still more pleasurable. Is it going to be this turning? No? Then it’ll be the next one, or the one after. I know it can’t be far because of the time that’s elapsed since I passed the last village.
Meanwhile, I have the fireflies, and the coolness of the water, and the steady rattle of the insects over on the dark banks on either side of me. A naiad snorts in the water maybe twenty metres away from me, just loud enough for me to hear it over the noise of my outboard motor. All I can see of it is a paler patch on the water. What are those things anyway? Are they a kind of whale, or are they more like sea cows? Or perhaps that’s a silly question. Maybe sea cows are a kind of whale. I ought to know this stuff. I need to grow up. It really is rather adolescent of me to remain wilfully ignorant of the natural world just to be different from Dad.
A monkey of some sort lets out a series of shrill hoots in the forest to my left. Several others answer it. Sometimes when I’m out in the boat at night, I like to turn off the motor and just drift for a while, listening to the sounds that emerge from the silence, and smelling the scents that waft around me, when the stink of exhaust fumes has blown away. But I’m too tired for that, tonight – not unhappy at all, but keen to get home.
I roll a cigarette, enjoying the way the tiny orange glow flares up as I draw in smoke. A solitary bird – a cormorant, perhaps? – crosses the river just in front of me, having made a decision for some reason that it wanted to be on the other side. How does that work in a mind that has no language? Does it picture something it wants, or some place that it would rather be? Or is it more of a feeling?
Another turn is coming up. There’s still just enough glow from the sky for the river to be paler than the banks. I think this must be the one. In fact, I’m almost certain I recognize that tree over there to the left that’s a little taller than the others, standing up against the sky. But even if I’m mistaken, it won’t be long before I turn a corner and see my little blue light.
Dru is excited. Over there is one of the stars of a well-known TV series, over here is a prize-winning feminist author, and right behind him – Dru whispers it, though it would be rude to look round again – is an extremely famous fashion model from the sixties who is now an ‘ambassador for human rights’ around the world. Dru has never been in the presence of so many cool and famous people. Myself, I’ve grown up with all that – such people were guests at my parents’ dinner parties – and I wish he’d calm down. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I wish he hadn’t come at all because, sweet and pretty as he is, I’ve very nearly made up my mind that he won’t be a longterm presence in my life and I could do without the mild embarrassment of his excessive enthusiasm.
‘Dear God, look over there!’ he exclaims. ‘Williams, Ithobal and Gil, chatting away like old mates.’
In front of the black marble tomb of some old nobleman from the days of the conquest, are the former liberal prime minister, the principal spokesman of the centrist wing of the Conservative Party and the tall and extremely handsome FRENALAT commander, a member of an old colonial family, who made a deal with the government and became leader of the radicals in the National Assembly. They’re laughing together at some shared joke.
I glance across. ‘Well, they were all Aunt Xenia’s students,’ I say, and in that moment, Gil, the former guerrilla, glances across and catches my eye, flinching very slightly as he recognizes me. I turn back to Dru.
‘When I came back after my captivity, Xenia kept trying to get me to agree to a meeting with
that guy. Apparently he wanted to explain to me in person how he had nothing to do with my kidnapping, and how furious he’d been about it.’
‘Wow! A meeting with Gil! Why didn’t you agree to it?’
‘I never really felt like it. I couldn’t help thinking that this was about him and her, and not really about me at all.’
We collect champagne from two fair-haired foreign women, waiting behind a forest of glasses. A second cousin of mine spots me there, so I introduce her. ‘I don’t think you’ve met my partner, Dru?’ As I feared, Dru starts off at once about all these big names from politics and TV who are all around us, and how overwhelming he’s finding it, but luckily my cousin comes from a relatively humble branch of the family, and seems okay with that, so I step back from the conversation and leave them to it.
It’s a while since I’ve been here in the chapter house. We used to come here as kids. Not that my parents were religious, obviously, but they appreciated architecture and they wanted us to learn to like it too. My brothers used to tease me about the gloomy statues with their missing noses, telling me that they were mummified victims of the plague and that I’d better make sure that I didn’t get left behind here because the doors were locked at night and the mummies came to life. I didn’t believe them even at the time, but I must have half-believed them because the whole place came to evoke slightly queasy feelings in me, and I was always keen to get to the tower, which, although itself somewhat creepy on the way up, led to an open and windy place far above the city that I found quite magical.
Glancing across again, Gil notices I’m on my own now and at once leaves his fellow politicians to come over and grasp my hand. ‘Your aunt was a wonderful woman, an absolutely wonderful woman. And she was so proud of you. She was always talking about you, and telling me we should meet. So glad that we finally have, though I wish it could have been in happier circumstances.’
He wants me to like him. He wants a conversation in which he can rehearse the reasons why his wing of FRENALAT had nothing to do with my kidnapping, and absolve himself of any guilt that I might attribute to him. But I point towards the small arched door into the main body of the cathedral as if I had some kind of urgent appointment there, tell him it’s nice to meet him and hurry away. The Great Cathedral itself is quiet and almost empty by comparison with the noisy and crowded chapter house, but there are a few people praying, some in the pews out in the nave, others at various shrines, and, of course, as always, a number of tourists are wandering about. They’re all being very quiet, but every little sound is amplified and made strange by the huge stone space, as if each small visible human body was accompanied by an invisible giant so tall as to have to stoop to fit in beneath the vaulted ceiling. They say this is the largest church in the world, at least by some measures, and while obviously that’s impressive, and makes me think with a certain satisfaction about what a big and important country we live in, the size of it actually takes away something of the mystery that was evoked by the not dissimilar columns and arches in the much smaller cathedral in the town up the river. This place is impressive as an exercise in the display of might, it seems to me, but not so interesting as a work of art.
But oh dear God, there’s that picture above the altar! That Last Supper! I’d quite forgotten it was here. The memories it sets off strike me with a force for which I hadn’t prepared myself at all. I remember the beautiful little fertile valley as it first appeared below me, more or less circular, with its lake, and the green of the rushes and trees, and the little fields of crops. I remember the neat little whitewashed houses, the church bell ringing, the strange spiky tower all by itself standing on its mound, in the barer ground at the far end of the lake.
Then a familiar voice calls my name. Of course! Why wouldn’t she be here? She became a good friend of Xenia’s during my captivity, and never understood my complicated reservations about my charming and brilliant great-aunt. I brace myself for a second, then turn to greet her.
‘Amanda. Hi.’
Amanda’s new partner – a fellow-teacher, as I’ve been told, who looks as warm and as kind as Amanda – is tactfully standing back by the door of the chapter house, from whence comes the busy hum of many loud and confident people all talking at once.
‘I saw you sneaking out here. For a bit of quiet time, I guess, away from your exhausting family and all their distinguished chums?’
‘Ha. You know me too well. Look at this picture! It’s really quite something, isn’t it?’
She picks up the menu. ‘Meat,’ she announces. ‘I need meat.’ We’re sitting at one of the outside tables of a rather smart restaurant that overlooks the sea and the island. The air is warm. Amanda is wearing a new red dress she’s bought specifically for this holiday. She never quite manages elegant, and she’s far too good-humoured to be able to carry off cool, but she looks and smells delightful. She knocks back half of her glass of cold white wine. To the left and south of the island, the sun is almost touching the sea.
‘Dear God, what a relief to have that bloody marking done,’ she says. ‘From now on, I’m officially on full-time holiday. Hmmm. Duck. I love duck. Could you bear me eating it?’
‘Yes of course, why not?’
‘Well, you got quite upset about those ducks in the—’
‘Oh, those ducks. Yes, that’s weird. Every time I think about them I feel ashamed.’
‘And yet you eat meat virtually every day.’
‘But I haven’t usually watched it settling down for the night with its family.’
‘Well, what choice did you have? You could have starved. You had much more reason to eat meat then than we do now.’
‘I know. But for some reason, whenever those ducks come to mind, they make me think about the . . . well . . . the limits of kindness, I suppose, the limits of our sense of responsibility towards others, and the lines we draw – the lines we have to draw – in order to . . .’
I give up attempting to explain something I don’t fully understand myself, and look down at my own menu. It’s very expensive – there are plenty of people in this country who earn less in a week than each of us will spend tonight – but it all looks delicious. ‘Go on, have the duck,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to eat a baby cow.’
The waiter comes with bread and oil to dip it in. He takes our orders and, as he walks away, Amanda rips off a large piece of bread and dunks it straight into the oil. It strikes me, not for the first time, that she understands something about life that I just don’t get. She gets on with playing the game while I’m still fretting over the rule book and worrying about the apparent contradictions. The result is that she’s much more generous than I am, both to other people and to herself. ‘Why am I so hungry?’ she exclaims happily with her mouth full. ‘I must have used up practically zero calories today. I’ve had no exercise at all. I’ve hardly even been outside, unless you count the hotel balcony. But I swear I could eat my way through the whole menu.’
She wipes her mouth. I tell her about the annoying message from my agent. She shrugs. ‘I think you probably did the right thing. Amilcar Zero became quite prominent while you were away, but he’s a divisive figure. A lot of people question his right to speak for indigenous folk when he’s only got one indigenous grandparent, and he does seem to be fairly interested in self-promotion.’
‘It’s making me feel weary even thinking about it. That whole bottomless pit of outrage and counter-outrage.’
‘Well, I never even look at social media. I had to when you were away, obviously, but I’m certainly not going to now.’
‘Tan is worried that negative publicity might reduce the chances of the film being made.’
‘Do you care?’
‘Not all that much. I wouldn’t mind the money, obviously, but I’m not so keen on the idea of being portrayed on the screen by some ridiculously good-looking actor.’
She laughs. ‘Are you kidding? You are ridiculously good-looking! I couldn’t believe it when you climbed out of th
e water that first time. Those dark curls, those beautiful eyes! I felt like I was in a movie myself.’
‘Well, thanks. But I’m not good-looking to myself.’ She’s about to protest, but I hold up my hand. ‘I don’t mean I think I’m ugly. I know I’m not. I just mean that from my own perspective, I don’t have a face at all. Isn’t it the same for you? I don’t have a face, or a gender, or a nationality, or any of those things. I’m just this thing that looks out at the world.’
We told each other it would be interesting, we agreed that when you’ve been together a while, it’s important to vary the formula a bit, and that we’d had plenty of trips to places that were warm and blue and sunny, but it was a mistake to come to this cold grey southern place. Sunny makes you feel sunny and grey makes you feel grey, and, more dangerous than that, it draws out whatever greyness has been lurking inside you. Sometimes in the evening, when we sit down for a meal in the hotel restaurant, we find it hard to think of anything to talk about.
‘I always knew I wouldn’t like the film,’ I finally say, as plates of fish are laid in front of us.
Her smile is a little strained. ‘I remember. You didn’t like the idea of a ridiculously good-looking actor playing you.’
‘It’s not really the looks, though. It’s the fact that it just wasn’t like that.’
‘In what way? I thought you said the details were pretty accurate?’
‘The details are very accurate, but that’s not the point. I was thinking about it today on the boat trip. The biggest problem with the film is that we’re always watching “me”.’ (I make air quotes.) ‘We’re always watching “me” fighting my way through the jungle, or breaking out of the cage, or finding the observatory. My facial expressions are sometimes determined and brave, and sometimes weary and hopeless, but we can always see them, while the thing we can’t see is my thoughts.’
Tomorrow Page 17