He rarely mentioned people or memories of his own land, only the memories of searching the strange and alien ruins of the “Northern Hemisphere.” He never seemed to wonder whether someone was searching for him, or waiting for him, or mourning for him. She wondered whether he chose not to tell her of a wife or lover or friends, or whether there was truly no one he wanted to remember. For, at first, he had seldom spoken to her at all about things that didn’t directly concern her. Instead he would mumble to himself, answering himself, oblivious. She discovered gradually that it was not because he believed that, being a woman, she would have nothing to say; but rather because he lived, somehow, completely within himself—as though two men lived together in one, behind his eyes: Perhaps, she thought, there were two men; the old one, and the new.
But his solitary conversations aggravated her, as her own traditional behavior had aggravated him. She had learned not to be silent, and so she began to answer him, stubbornly, chipping at the shell of his isolation. And after a time, as though, like herself, he had had to learn that he could, he began to talk to her instead; became a companion for her lonely days, and not just a silent presence in her house.
Spring passed into summer, blistering summer moved again into fall. Amanda let herself be carried by the flow of unnumbered days, thoughtlessly, unquestioningly. At last one day she left the marketplace in the heat of noon, climbing slowly past the shuttered houses along the curving street. The sea breeze was strong, tangy with salt and the tartness of seaweed, sweeping her skirts ahead of her. She was poorer by one piece of cloth, richer by a basket of fruits and cheese, a razor and a new pair of leather sandals for Cristoval, a bangle of copper and colored stones: She looked down at her wrist, bare for so many years; touched the bracelet, feeling as light-footed as a girl with joy. Brightness danced along it like sunlight across the sea; she kept her eyes on it and forgot the hot, weary journey home to the cottage.
She looked up only once, stopping in the shadow of the date palms to gaze out at the field where Cristoval’s airship had lain. There was no sign now that it had ever existed; the freshly turned earth lay waiting for the winter crop. She smiled briefly and went on her way.
She opened the gate in the new-made fence, her eyes searching the yard for Cristoval…heard voices from behind the cottage, strangers’ voices. She walked quietly through the shadow beside the house, looked out again into brightness, shielding her eyes. She saw Cristoval sitting on the milking stool beside the spotted cow, listening to two men she had never seen before. Dog lay warily beside him.
“... report to the Brasilian government on the feasibility of mining the Los Angeles basin. But you never came back, and so we came looking ...”
Amanda dropped her basket. Her hand rose to her mouth; she bit her knuckles to keep from crying out.
“... the fossil-fuel situation is too critical, we can’t afford to clean out the canal now. The Venezuelan war’s reached a stalemate; we’ll have to stop all further plans for expansion of our mining operations, unless someone like you can discover an independent source of oil or coal—” The speaker looked at Cristoval hopefully.
Cristoval shrugged, his face polite and expressionless, his hand covering his scar. “How did you—find me, here?”
“The ‘miracle’ of your crash filtered down the coast. We didn’t know if we’d find you alive or dead, or not at all. But we had to come and see; you’re that important, Hoffmann.”
He laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t know why ...”
“Because you’re the best damned prospector in Brasil—”
“It doesn’t matter, for Christ’s sake,” the second man said. “You know you don’t belong here, Hoffmann. Let us get you out of this dirty, godforsaken hole. There are doctors in Brasil who can treat your problem; you’ll remember everything, in time. At least you’ll be back in civilization again, living like a human being, and not like a dog.” He glanced down, his disgust showing.
Cristoval stood up slowly.
Amanda shut her eyes; Cristoval’s face patterned on her eyelids. And in her mind she saw him clearly for the first time: her husband; the strange and gentle stranger who had come to her door, accursed, hopeless, and changed her own accursed, hopeless life forever. She pressed back against the warm wall, not breathing.
“No. I’m sorry.” Cristoval shook his head. “I’m not going with you.”
“Diablo!” the first man said. “Why not? Coelho didn’t risk coming six thousand kilometers on a sailing ship, dressed like a peon, for you to turn him down!”
“He didn’t come for me at all. He came for the ... government.”
“We need you, Hoffmann. We can force you to go with us—”
Dog growled where he lay, the hair on his back ridging.
“I don’t think so.” Cristoval smiled faintly. “I don’t know what you want of me; I don’t think I ever will. I don’t even know what oil looks like anymore. I might as well be dead, for all the good I’d be to you. I’m content here; let’s just leave it at that.”
“Hoffmann.” The second man looked at him with pity and dismay. “Can’t you feel what you’re giving up? If you could only know what your old life meant to you: Can’t you remember, don’t you know the discoveries you’ve made; the things you must have seen; the knowledge that’s still locked inside your mind…how important you were to your people?”
Cristoval kept his smile. “I only know how important I am, to someone, now—and someone is to me.”
The second man looked puzzled. He produced something from inside his sleeveless coat. “You’re right; you might as well be dead. Take this, then; in case you ever…remember, and want a way out. It’s a distress beacon; they’ll pick it up in El Paso. We’ll try to send someone to you.”
“All right.” Cristoval took the dark, hand-sized box.
“Sejafeliz, Hoffmann. Adeus.”
“Good-bye.”
The two men turned, started back across the yard toward her. Amanda picked up her basket, stood stiffly, with dignity, as they noticed her and, staring, passed on by.
“Hoffmann’s?” the first man said, incredulous.
“Sera possivel—!” the second man murmured, looking at her, shaking his head. “Deus dá ofrio conforme a roupa. ...”
When they were gone from the yard, she ran to Cristoval, clung to him, wordless. The strange box jabbed her back as he put his arms around her.
“Amanda! What’s the matter?”
“Oh, my husband.” She sighed, against his robe. “Who— who were those men?” She glanced up, watching his face.
“Nobody…nobody important.” He smiled; but the old sorrow showed in his eyes, like a colorless flame. He pried himself loose from her gently, looked down at the hard, almost featureless box still clutched in his hand. He threw it away over the fence. “Nobody who’ll ever hurt you now. My prospecting days are over. ...” He sighed, put his arm around her again, drew her close; he reached down to scratch Dog’s leathery ears. “But you know, Amanda, in time, if we ever have any money, we could take a ship along the coast, see the south. Maybe we’d even find those balloon airships of yours.” He laughed. “But we won’t take a ride in one! Would you like that?”