Then she sat there with him in the dingy room for a bit, mightily pretending that she was in no hurry, that customers were treated with respect around here, that she wasn’t just interested in making that happen (who could be, really?), but also in what was on his mind. She tried making conversation, told him about herself, saying that she was one-hundred-percent American, born and bred (“Well good for you,” he thought), was raised with wholesome values (“I can see that”), graduated from a respectable community college (“about thirty years ago”), then got married (“to some fag”), but then she wound up here (“It could have been much worse”), and now she has to do this degrading work (“Well stop fucking whining and do it, then”), but she still believed that everything would work out (“I highly doubt that”) and she’d eventually go back to school and get a four-year degree (“Yeah, maybe if you buy one in Ukraine, Mem”).
“What are the women like where you come from?” she asked Bob.
“Our women have one odd trait; they can get pregnant without having sex.”
“Huh? How does that work?”
“They can… they are impregnated by the wind and rays of sunlight, just like flowers. They use bees and butterflies to conceive; in the spring, they expose themselves to the sun and moonlight and they bear their fruit gladly and easily, like knowledge imparted by an institution of higher learning.”
“Yeah, but what about sex?”
“They perceive sex as the highest demonstration of their love, as the finest line showing their deepest affection—a line so fearful to cross, but so hard to spurn. They grow up to love; they’re raised to prepare themselves for their glorious time of love and devotion, for that heart-wrenching dependence on waiting for and parting with loved ones. Our men know this, so they prepare themselves to take on women whose tenderness is inexhaustible and whose passion is unmanageable. There’s so much love where I live. The men see no point in leaving their women, because they’ll fall in love with them again sooner or later anyway, so why bother?”
“Are you sure you’re not on drugs?”
Somebody was already waiting for him outside, at the arch leading back to the brightly lit street. He was a large Surinamese or Ethiopian man—it was hard to tell because it was so dark and foreboding in the courtyard. Bob stepped out of the building, and the guy simply blocked his way.
“Well hello there, punk,” he said as Bob tried dodging him. “You knew I was coming for you. You’re not gonna get off that easy.” Bob stopped. The dark-skinned man was barely visible, so it seemed as though emptiness was meshing with emptiness and emptiness was speaking out of emptiness.
“All right, now empty your pockets,” he said to Bob. “I know you’re a boxer and all. You think I’m dumb or something, don’t you?” Bob didn’t think he was dumb at all. Bob couldn’t even see him—he could only hear him. But the man’s self-assured tone made him realize that he simply couldn’t back down. Also, he couldn’t count on anyone else in this part of the world, amid this darkness and emptiness. He realized that fate, that conniving witch, had thrown him so far away from home that there was nothing left beyond him—the universe was breaking off, coming to an end; a little distance away it was simply absent. The only way to go from here was back the way he came. But first he had to settle things with this Surinamese guy—Ethiopian guy, rather.
“I don’t have anything, you know that,” he said wearily.
“I don’t know what you’re talking ’bout. Empty your pockets, otherwise you’ll be stuck here.”
“All right, screw you. I’ve got something for you.” Bob produced a slightly tattered, yet rather fragrant parcel from some secret pocket in his shorts—clearly something precious, something carefully and skillfully wrapped in tabloid journalism, printed in some otherworldly language, a language from the other side of the planet that nobody here could use to communicate or profess their love.
“Death,” Bob wrote as he waited to board his flight, “often throws us for a loop. Sometimes we take its presence as a sign that it has come for us, but sometimes its appearance doesn’t have anything to do with us. Death is just as present in our lives as love, trust, or nostalgia. It comes up out of nowhere; it moves along its own route, so you shouldn’t even dream about being able to alter that route. All you can do is believe and hope. All you can do is love and accept life the way it is—as something unbearably incredible… or rather as something incredibly unbearable.”
LUKE
At the end of August, she called again.
“Did you hear about Luke? Throat cancer. But he doesn’t want to get any treatment.”
“Yeah, I sure did,” I answered. “Is that what you’re calling about?”
“Yep. His birthday is the day after tomorrow. He wants everybody to come to his place. I think he wants to say goodbye. Are you going?”
“Well, since he asked, I’m definitely going. What about you?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Let’s go together.”
“All right,” I agreed immediately. “You driving?”
“Wasn’t planning on it. I was gonna take the train. That’s why I’m asking you to come along.”
“Good thinking. Who drives to a birthday party? Ya can’t drink.”
“Come on, Matthew, you think I’m gonna be drinkin’? I’m three months pregnant,” she said indignantly.
She was waiting for me by the ticket office. Long hair pulled into a tight bun—reliable, safe, comfortable. Sneakers, denim overalls, warm sweater. Showing, but just barely. Serious face. It was sunny, but she’d dressed as though we were heading out on a long, nighttime hike through the mountains. Standing next to her in my threadbare T-shirt, I felt like a beachgoer hanging around in a hotel lobby. At first, she just extended her hand formally, but then she quickly dropped her air of restraint and wrapped her arms around my neck—not going far enough to give me the wrong idea, but expressing enough genuine emotion that I wouldn’t forget where we were going.
“Do we need to get him a gift or anything?” I asked, without letting go of her.
“A gift? Like what?” she answered, clearly surprised.
“Flowers or something like that.”
“You might as well buy him a wreath. We’ll pick up some wine at the store by the station,” she added in a conciliatory tone, pushing me back like she was propelling herself off the side of a pool.