Afterward she observed, “It’s been a while.”
He rolled his eyes, leaned up to gnaw on her collarbone. “Years since a time like that,” he said happily. “Since I was about fifteen, I think.”
She laughed and squished him under her. “Flatterer. I take it your Hiroko doesn’t give you enough attention.”
He made a disgusted noise. “We’ll see how it goes in the outback.”
That made her sad. “I’m going to miss you,” she said. “Things won’t be the same around here with you gone.”
“I’ll miss you too,” he said intently, face nearly touching hers. “I love you, Maya. You’ve been a friend to me, a good friend when I didn’t have any. When I really needed one. I’ll never forget that. I’ll come back and visit you whenever I can. I’m a very tenacious friend. You’ll find out it’s true.”
“Good,” she said, feeling better. Her stowaway came and went, it had always been that way; no different even if he left Underhill. Or so she could hope.
3. Helping Her
So off the farm crew went, disappearing into the badlands of the backcountry. Good riddance, Maya thought, insulate smug mystics that they were—a cult, disfiguring the first town on Mars. In public she feigned surprise and indignation along with all the rest, her response unnoticed.
But she really was surprised, and indignant, to find that Michel had disappeared with them. Desmond had never mentioned him to her in any way that would indicate that Michel had been part of the farm’s cult, and it seemed so unlike him that Maya could hardly believe it. But Michel was gone too. And with him gone, she had lost two of her best friends in the colony—even if Michel, always present, had been as unsatisfactory as Desmond in his occasional visits had been helpful; nevertheless she had felt close to Michel, as two maladjusted people in a community of the ordinary. As the melancholy client of the melancholy therapist. She missed him too, and was angry at him for leaving without a good-bye; she couldn’t help but contrast that to Desmond. And as time passed she felt stronger than ever the afterglow of making love with a man who liked her but did not “love” her, i.e. want to possess her, in the way of Frank, or John.
So life went on, without friends. She broke up with Frank, then with John. Nadia despised her, which made Maya furious—to be dismissed by such a grub! And her sister at that. It was depressing. The whole damned situation was depressing; Tatiana killed by a fallen crane; everyone off in their own world.
And so no one welcomed the arrival of other colonists on Mars more than Maya. She was sick of the first hundred. Other settlements were established, and as soon as she could Maya left Underhill and struck out on her own, intending never to go back, any more than she would intentionally return to Russia. You can never go home, as the American saying had it. Which was true, though wrong as well.
She moved to Low Point, the deepest place on Mars, out near the middle of the Hellas Basin, which being the lowest would be the first place they would be able to breathe the new air generated by the terraforming effort. So they believed at the time, and believed themselves very forward-thinking for it! Fools that they were. And she fell in love with an engineer named Oleg, and they moved in together, in a set of rooms at the end of one of the long worm-tube modules. And years passed while she worked like a dog to build a city that would end up at the bottom of a sea.
And fell out of love to boot, even though Oleg was a good man, admirable in many ways, and he loved her like anything. It was her problem; but it was his heart that was going to get broken. So that for a long time she couldn’t do it, and that made her angry, and so she fought with him, until they were as miserable as two people could make each other.
And still he clung to her, even as over time she made him come to hate her. Hated her but loved her; in love, frightened, scared to death that she would leave him; and Maya more and more disgusted at his cowardice and reliance on her. That he could love such a monster as she had become filled her with contempt and pity, and she would walk the crowded tubes home, slowing with every step, dreading the horrible evening and night that lay before her every day.
Then one day, out in a rover on the great flat plains of western Hellas, a suited figure stepped from behind a boulder knot and waved her down. It was her Desmond. He got in her rover lock, vacuumed the outside of his suit free of dust, took off his helmet, came in the main compartment. “Hi!”
She almost crushed him with her hug. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to say hi, that’s all.”
They sat in her rover and talked through the afternoon, holding hands or at least touching each other always, watching the shadow of the boulder knot lengthen over the empty ocher expanse.
“Are you this Coyote they talk about?”
“Yes.” His crack-jawed grin. It was good to see him!
“I thought so, I was sure of it! So now you are a legend.”
“No, I’m Desmond. But Coyote is a damn good legend, yes. Very helpful.”
The lost colony was doing fine. Michel was prospering. They lived in shelters in the Aureum Chaos, for the most part, and made excursions in rovers disguised to look like boulders, completely insulated so that they had no heat signal. “The land is falling down so fast with this hydration, that a new boulder in a satellite photo is the most ordinary thing in the world. So I get around a lot now.”
“And Hiroko?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He stared out the window for a long time. “She’s Hiroko, that’s all. Making herself pregnant all the time, having kids. She’s crazy. But, you know. I like being with her. We still get along. I still love her.”
“And her?”
“Oh she loves everything.”
They laughed.
“What about you?”
“Oh,” Maya said, stomach falling. Then it was all pouring out, in a way she hadn’t been able to say to anyone else: Oleg, his pitiful clinging, his noble suffering, how much she hated it, how she somehow could not make herself leave.
Sunset stretched over the land and their silence.
“That sounds bad,” he said finally.
“Yes. I don’t know what to do.”
“Sounds to me like you do know what to do, but you aren’t doing it.”
“Well,” she said, reluctant to say it out loud.
“Look,” he said, “it’s love that matters. You have to go for love, whatever it takes. Pity is useless. A very corrosive thing.”
“False love.”
“No not false, but a kind of replacement for love. Or when it is . . . I mean, love and pity together, that’s compassion, I suppose. Something like Hiroko, and we need that. But pity without love, or instead of love, is a damn sorry thing. I been there and I know.”
When darkness fell and the stars blazed in the black sky, he gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek, intending only to leave, but she grabbed him, and then they fell into it and made love so passionately, out there alone together in a rover, that she could hardly believe it; it was like waking up after many years of sleep. Just to be off in their solitude; she laughed, she cried, she whooped, she moaned loudly when she came. Rhythmic shouts of freedom.
“Drop by whenever you like,” she joked when he was finally off. They laughed and then he was off into the night, not looking back.
She drove slowly back to Low Point, feeling warm. She had been visited by the Coyote, her stowaway, her friend.
That night, and for many nights after that, she sat in her little living room with Oleg, knowing she was going to leave him. They ate their dinner, and then she sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall, as she always did, while they watched the news on Mangalavid, drinking from little cups of ouzo or cognac. Huge cloudy feelings stuffed her chest—this was her life after all, these habitual evenings with Oleg, week after week the same, for year after year; and soon to end forever. Their relationship had gone bad but he was not a bad man, and after all, they had had their good times together—almost five years now, a whole life, all set in its shared ways. Soon to be smashed and gone. And she felt full of grief, for Oleg and for her too—for simply the passing of time, and the crash and dispersal of one life after another. Why, Underhill itself was gone forever! It was hard to believe. And sitting there in the little world she had made with Oleg, and was soon to unmake, she felt the stab of time like she never had before. Even if she didn’t leave him, it would still go smash eventually—so that there was no evening ever when one should not feel this same melancholy, a kind of nostalgia for the present itself, slipping away like water down the drain.