You say nothing.
I ask you. The anxiety is returning — I cannot connect your behaviour to anything. I am not anxious for the course of the war itself, nor for the sake of the money. I touch your flesh where it is very soft, above the elbow, and you jump slightly. I ask you what he has said.
You say, he says everything is OK … he heard on the radio that it is OK.
And Timoshenko? I ask you. The clerk looks up when he hears the words but resumes his work immediately. My finger plays with the fabric of your blouse where it clings to your arm. And Timoshenko?
You say, Timoshenko is OK … the operation was a success …
Did he say?
No, I read it this morning … in the newspaper … I meant to say. You look at your dusty sandalled foot and scratch the bare calf of your leg. I notice now how you scratch the bare calf of your leg like that. I wonder how such a habit starts. There are many small red scratch marks on your leg. You say, Timoshenko is OK.
I go to stand at the window and look across to our hotel. A number of small boys are fighting on the balcony of our room.
I return to the counter and lean against it as if it were a bar and I were in a western. I lean backwards with my elbows on the bar and watch you sideways. I say, ask him about the border, will they let us across?
He wouldn’t know.
I know, I say, it doesn’t matter.
Before
In Villa Franca you were in the Banco Nationale when I met you. You wore the same blouse and asked if I would mind you travelling with me. I said, I would be happy for you to. Your eyes were soft and grey, seeming wise and gentle. You had, so it seemed, lived less than a block from me in London. It was difficult to work out the chronology, you appeared to shift around so often.
You said, you don’t look as if you work in insurance. And I wasn’t sure what you meant.
Border
I prepare for Jorge as the bus groans around the mountain road towards the border. It is full of old women and stops constantly to let them off. There are also a few men who wear squat hats, heavy farmers’ boots, and black umbrellas. The heat is intense. You gaze out the window and say nothing. We have not discussed the border or any of its implications. I do not believe in the war or Timoshenko.
The border post is at a break in the mountains. There is a small wooden bridge and two buildings that look like filling stations. Soldiers stand around the bridge with machine-guns hung casually from their limp shoulders. One kicks a stone. There is a woman and a child sitting in the dust by the customs house steps. The woman waves flies away from her face with a newspaper. The child sits stock still and stares at the bus with dull interest.
There are now only six of us in the bus. Three men with squat hats and black umbrellas and an old woman who carries two chickens by the legs, one in each hand. The chickens appear to be asleep.
We have been here before. Last Sunday. We wait for Jorge and the continuation of his little joke. You sit beside me in the bus and huddle into the window, alone with your reflection in the dusty fly-marked glass. I say, it is OK. You say, yes it is OK. Your eyes hide behind dark glasses and I see only my own face staring at me questioningly.
In the customs shed we form a line. There is an argument about the chickens and one is confiscated. A soldier tethers its feet to the bottom of an old hat stand from which a machine-gun hangs heavily.
Jorge stands at the head of the line looking along it like a sergeant major. He waves to us and waddles down, a riding crop tucked under his fat folded arm. The riding crop betrays his heroes but looks ludicrous and somehow obscene. He has two broken teeth which appear to be in an advanced state of decay.
You talk to him and he continues to look across at me. Finally you turn to me and say, he says it is OK … the war was nothing … an incident … they often have them.
You do not appear happy. Your forehead is wrinkled with a frown that I yearn to smooth with my palm.
I shake Jorge’s hand. I am immediately sorry. The chicken is in danger of upsetting the hat stand. The soldier removes the machine-gun and places it on the counter.
After
The bus travels through the flat grey granite as dusk settles. Large rocks pierce the gloomy surface of the earth. There are no trees but a few sheep who prefer the road to the country on either side, possibly because it is softer. It is cooler here on the other side of the border, on this side of the mountains.
Rain begins to fall lightly on the windows, making soft patterns in the dust. I open the window to smell the rain. You are frowning again. I hold my hand out the window until it is wet and then place my palm on your forehead.
I say, why do you frown?
You say, because I love you.
I say, why do you smile?
Because I love you.
Postscript
In Candalido I ask you about the first time we crossed the border and why you crossed separately.
You say, it is because of the underwear, because they always do that … at the small border posts … take out the underwear.
I say, why should I mind?
You say, it was dirty.
Happy Story
1.
Marie was critical of his ideas about flying. “You’re really in a bad way about this.”
“I don’t think it’s a bad way,” he said.
“It’s an obsession,” she said, “all this talk about flying and birds. I think you’re simply unhappy and want to escape.”
He lay on his back on the beach and watched a seagull ride the wind, dropping, sliding, turning. “I think it’d be good,” he said, “look at that seagull.”
Marie closed her eyes. “I’ve seen them,” she said. “They’re white and have orange beaks.” She was silent a moment. “And orange legs,” she added. Later she broke the silence to say, “If you could fly you’d want to do something else, like swim.”
“Seagulls can swim,” he said.
“Not under water.”
“They can dive under water,” he said, “but they can’t stay under for long.”
“That’s what I mean,” she said, “they can’t stay under for long. They can’t swim under water, not like a fish.”
“No,” he said, “that’s true, they’re not like fish.”
“Doesn’t that make you unhappy?”
“No,” he said, “I’m more interested in the flying.”
She turned on the sand. “You’re exasperating,” she said. “I know you’ll never be happy.”
“I’d be happy if I could fly.”
“That doesn’t seem very likely.”
“It isn’t impossible either.”
“No,” she sighed, “I guess it’s not impossible.”
2.
“You’re crying,” she said.
“No, not really.”
“I know why you’re crying. You’re crying because of your wife.”
“No, I don’t think that’s true.”
“I’m sure it’s true.”
“It’s not, really.”
“Then it’s because you can’t fly.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I wasn’t crying.”
3.
After making love she was still restless. “What is it?” she asked him.
“What’s what?”
“You know.”
“No, really, I don’t. I feel good. Do you feel good?”
“Yes, I feel good, but what about you? What is it?”