Adjacentland

by Rabindranath Maharaj

  On my way to the chapter house I decided to confront the old man and ask about the contents of the bag and if he knew of the enigmatic letter. As I approached the house, I saw a woman sitting on the front step and stroking a bobtail cat on her lap. Before I could issue a greeting, she told me, “I never believed the stories about murderers returning but here you are.”

  To be honest, that killed all my excitement about seeing another person.

  7 THE SHERIFF

  From a distance, she had appeared much younger but up close, I saw that she was in her mid or late forties and that she was gazing at the bag in my hand. “I didn’t expect to see anyone here,” I told her.

  “Yes, I can see that. I must have taken you by surprise.”

  “You showed up from nowhere. I just returned from one of my treks to see if there was anyone else so it’s strange seeing you here.” I didn’t mention that her vague familiarity, from a distance, had stoked my hope that, somehow, she was here because of me.

  “A trek?” Her lips turned up in a smile and her eyelids crinkled down at the same time. The expression added a few years to her age and also granted her more assurance, as if she was a woman of great experience. “You make it sound so adventurous. It’s just a forgotten place. Which is not surprising, with all these billboards complaining that Big Mouths Tell Big Lies, and Don’t Whisper Too Loudly, and Beware of Fake News.” She spoke with her fingers against her lips, regarding me carefully and I wondered how I had missed her during my explorations. “Who would want to be placed here? Well, Old Boy, apparently. And you.”

  I decided to not tell her of my faulty memory. “It’s quiet.”

  She laughed, something rustling and hoarse, and I saw how easily she had changed again, now to a world-weary, rugged woman. “If you believe that then you are missing everything.”

  “What do you mean by ‘placed here’?”

  “Well, did you come here all by yourself? Traipsing along in a merry caravan?”

  “I believe I may have had some injury and was left here by a...a friend, to recuperate.”

  “And where is this loyal friend now?”

  I had gone over that from the day I found myself in the chapter house. Perhaps an accident or some emergency had delayed you from showing up or maybe this period of isolation was a part of my therapy. Yet, I suspected that neither of these was true. One night – it may have been my third – I had awakened from a nightmare of being forced to drink massive decanters of liquid before a blue light that was so bright I could feel it searing my face. “I manage by myself,” I told her.

  “That’s not what I asked.” She seemed to be waiting for a response, but I said nothing. “By the way, my name is Soma.” She opened her legs a bit and allowed the cat to snuggle against her belly and I saw why I had, from a distance, mistaken her for a younger woman. She was lithe and athletic in her hiking boots, khaki skirt and her vest, the hood thrown back and partially exposing a sinuous tattoo running down her neck. Her casual disinterest seemed, up close, quite deliberate. “Are you finished gazing?”

  I surprised myself by saying, “I was trying to guess your age.” The cat rubbed against her belly and I saw its fur matched her own colour.

  “You have been alone much too long.” She said it as a joke, but her face was hard and remote. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  “I don’t know how long I have been here. I have lost track of time.”

  She glanced skeptically at me. “I always feel people are hiding something when they say things like that. ‘Lost track of time.’ As if they have secrets hidden away in all its folds and creases.”

  When your memory is as short as mine, everything is a secret. I almost mentioned this but instead I told her, “I have been trying to find other people in this town. But there’s just me and the man upstairs.”

  “The man upstairs is supposed to be eternal, taking all his different forms...in different eons...but our man has misbehaved...” She leaned back, regarding me. I couldn’t understand if she was joking but she seemed so seasoned and watchful, I felt this situation was not entirely new to her. “He’s still on the couch. Slumped forward like a heathen praying.”

  “The old man from upstairs?”

  She stroked the cat’s neck but looked up at the sky. “There’s just two of us in this place.” She pointed to herself and to me and leaned back. “The corpse is upstairs.”

  “He’s dead? He seemed very ill but I didn’t expect him to die so suddenly.” Not knowing what else to say, I told her, “I am sorry.”

  “What’s there to be sorry about? He was here and now he’s not. Happens all the time.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “How should I know? I just got here. Why don’t you tell me?”

  I decided to return some of her suspiciousness. “That’s quite a coincidence. Your presence at this time.”

  “As is yours. Sauntering by with your bag. What do you have in it?”

  “Nothing of interest.”

  “Why don’t you open it, then? Let’s examine the contents.”

  “There are some personal items.”

  “Maybe you have vials of poison. Or a strangle-cord.”

  “Or maybe my toothbrush and slippers.”

  “Were you thinking of leaving, then? Did your job and moving on?” She was looking at the bag rather than at me. Released, the cat sprung away. She glanced swiftly at the animal and added, “Or maybe you are a mortician with your implements packed away in your mortician bag. You look like one, too. So tight with frowns and disapproval.”

  “Well, it was nice meeting you. I’m sure you need some time alone.” I tried to steer some sympathy into my voice. To be honest, she was a real disappointment after all my searches in the town for another person.

  As I was climbing the two front steps, she told me, “Hold on. How did you know him?” She lit a long cigarette and watched me through the smoke.

  “He lived upstairs. It took a while before I discovered his presence. I have no idea how he cooked or took care of himself.”

  She reached into her blouse and brought up a beaded necklace. She fingered the beads in a studiously idle manner before she tried to get it around her neck. From my position, I spotted a scatter of moles on her shoulders. “Was he lonely? What did he do all day?”

  “I don’t know. He was in his room all the time. Surrounded by all his mementoes. Grips and bags and suitcases. He never said anything to me. Maybe all old people are like that...counting their words carefully, I mean.”

  “What did the grips and bags contain?”

  “They are all in my room.” Even before I finished the sentence I knew she had already been through those; her focus remained on the bag in my hand.

  Suddenly she relaxed and asked, “Are you like that, too? Counting your words?” I had no clear idea of my age, but she seemed to be slotting me into a category older than I had imagined.

  “I count the days. Looking for familiar things. When I first saw you from a distance it seemed as if I had seen you before.”

  My statement must have surprised her because she fumbled with her necklace and when the clasp disengaged, she sat with her chin cupped, staring morosely at the beads rolling down the steps. She glanced up with a hint of accusation in her eyes, as if I were responsible for her mishap. Eventually I stooped and collected a couple of what looked like dried berries. “Jumbie seeds,” she mumbled to herself. “Protects me from the spirits.” When I dropped the dried seeds into her open palm, she said in the same quiet manner, “Will make something new from it. That’s how life is, you know. We are always recasting the remaining bits so that we can forever remain the same little girl in the same yellow rocking chair. Straightening out the bent edges and repainting the furniture. Rearranging the beads. The games are the same, as we grow older. Only the skin changes.”

  I didn’t understand what she was talking about. It seemed as if she was putting up an insincere defence against my remark
about her familiarity. She seemed to be waiting for some response so I asked her, “How did you know the old man?”

  “I can’t recall saying that I did.”

  I persisted. “Was he your father? Or an uncle? Some relative?”

  “He may have been one or the other at different times.”

  With her evasiveness, I was beginning to disbelieve her more with each passing moment. “I am not sure I understand. When did you last see him?”

  “A few minutes ago. He’s still on the couch. I came out here for a smoke and this cat just came up to me and claimed me as if it knew me all its life.” She snapped her fingers a couple times and the animal returned with a tiny mouse in its mouth. “Oh, Tonkie,” she said. “There’s no need. I understand.” The cat deposited the mouse by her feet and she flicked the rodent over with her finger and in an abruptly playful voice said, “See what you have done, you crazy cat? Did you consider that the taste will remain in your mouth for months? Who will cuddle you then?”

  “Are you not disgusted by the mouse?” The cat had chewed off a leg and an ear.

  “Why should I be disgusted? Tonkie didn’t know what he was doing. He knows it’s what cats are supposed to do.” She held up its tail and flicked it expertly into the mulberry. The cat ran after it and she got up and dusted her thighs. “Would you care to accompany me?”

  “Perhaps you need some time alone with your father or your uncle or whoever –”

  “I can see you do not believe me and I must tell you that I can match and raise your skepticism. So we are equals.” I was about to say we were not, when she added, “Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there were two men living alone in a town. Half died and the other half pretended ignorance. Soon a sheriff came upon the scene. What do you think she would deduce?”

  “Are you the sheriff?”

  “Are you the other half?” She dipped into her shirt, feeling and fondling. Eventually she brought out an old star-shaped medallion caught on a necklace. She seemed to be awaiting an answer, but I walked away. I had had enough of her. Maybe she really needed time alone; perhaps all mourners were infected with suspiciousness. At the lamppost I decided to walk to the gate where I had seen the two jokers and behind them, a beastly looking man skulking around. On my way there I saw someone trying to dislodge, with a pole, the hat I had earlier spotted on the shrubbery. As I got closer I saw it was a man with an impressive nose that made his tiny, close-set eyes and his nip of a chin almost irrelevant. For days, I had not seen anyone else in the town and now, within a few hours, I had come across two. “Hello,” I said.

  Immediately he said, “My hat just flew off and I can’t get to it. Can you help me?”

  “It’s been there for a few days at least,” I told him as I took the stick he was flicking at the branch.

  “That’s not possible,” he said, drawing close and looking me up and down. “Can you climb? My feet are not equipped for agility.” He glanced down and I noticed one of his feet was turned to the side.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Did you just arrive?” I wondered if he had come with the woman.

  “I heard there was going to be a death. I am the Mortician. Do you want a death certificate? An obituary?” He picked up a battered briefcase and pretended to be fiddling within. “A floral arrangement? I can get you an impeccable wreath.”

  “I am still alive so why would I –”

  “Yes, you seem alive. I will grant you that. Can I then interest you in my embalming expertise? I can recreate the man you were thirty years ago. I can also make you look thirty years older if you so choose. Anything you can...can imagine.” He hesitated and added, “I have the gift.”

  “I am not interested, but there is someone who might be. A woman who just arrived in the town was asking about a mortician.”

  “A woman? Then I must be off.” He snapped shut his briefcase and limped away as fast as his deformed foot would allow.

  “You are going in the wrong direction,” I told him. “What about your hat?”

  “Keep it!” he shouted.

  I decided to return to the house to inform the woman I had seen a mortician. When I entered the room, I saw her sitting next to the old man. I almost apologized for intruding into what appeared a quiet little domestic scene. “Is anything different?” she asked. “Is this how you last saw him?”

  I recalled him uttering his strangled animal sound and wondered if I had mistaken suffocation for anger. “He was still breathing.”

  In a matter-of-fact voice she said, “That’s because it’s difficult to kill someone who has been forever staring at death. You never know whether they are gone or not.”

  “Perhaps you finished him off,” I told her stiffly.

  “Perhaps. A perfect pair now.” She leaned across the body and patted the couch. “Would you like to sit?” She noted my discomfort and added, “When last have you been with a woman?” She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her palm, her eyes twinkled, and I wondered at this shift in her mood. “I can tell everything about a man from the way he responds to that single question. Does it surprise you?” She smiled a little and turned to the corpse. “Or perhaps you are nervous about the body. It’s just an empty vessel now, you know. Look at this.” She shook the body and it fell directly onto her. I quickly walked over, straightened the old man and pulled him to the end of the couch, away from her. When I was finished, I saw not gratitude but suspicion on her face as I stepped back by the doorway.

  “You shouldn’t play with the dead like that,” I told her.

  “Unless you plan to reanimate the body it’s just a piece of junk now. Is that your intention?” She must have noticed the confusion or shock on my face because she began to laugh in quick exhalations, the nasal sound seeming judgmental and harsh rather than jovial. “What do you think we should do with the body? We could leave him in one of the empty houses. Or bury him in the back garden.”

  “We?”

  “Well, we could always leave him here. Preserve him with some embalming fluid and grant you a perfect companion. Like a sturdy piece of furniture. Decorative and useless. The things you could talk about!” I almost told her about the mortician, but my trust was fading with each minute. “Or we can always return him to the Compound.”

  “The place with the albatross wings?”

  “You should stop pretending, you know. It gets predictable after a while.”

  “I am glad you mentioned predictability because I have been wondering how you knew the old man was dead?”

  “He’s been dead a long time. In a manner of speaking we all are when the spark is gone. He was waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For you, for me, for us both...who knows?” She leaned across and pulled the dead man’s lips into a smile. “I wish he were this pliant when he was alive. Someone told me that whenever we identify too closely with a dead body we trap some of its loosened memories. But we never know because we assume its empathy or something. What do you think?”

  “I am not an expert on memories,” I told her. Far from it, I almost added.

  “I have met people like that. Once, an impossibly savage man told me that he knew when he was about to forget something significant because he could actually feel the cauterization. He didn’t actually use that word because he had been reduced to a simpleton when I met him. But he described the smell of something burning, the heat in his head, the dullness of his eyes, the coldness in his heart. Soon after, a woman mentioned that the gaps in her memories were filled with elegant deformities. She claimed that what she lost had been compensated with twilight vision. Crazy, you say?” I was about to agree when she added, “The savage had killed his father and the woman her child. Everyone I meet seems to be a criminal or an accessory.” She turned to the corpse. “What crime do you think Old Boy here committed?”

  “I thought you knew him.”

  “Not as well as you. I didn’t share his house. And he didn’t give me the
gifts he threw your way.” She glanced at the Gladstone bag I had placed at the doorway.

  “If you are so interested in the bag you can always get a warrant. If you are really a sheriff.”

  I said that with the hope it would compel her into an admission but she told me, “I don’t need a warrant. It’s already mine.” She spoke grimly as if there was no doubt in her mind. Then suddenly her expression softened and she said, “I feel as if I have been circling this town for years. Can I tell you something? Would you believe me if I say that sometimes, if you are a wanderer, during your wanderings you unexpectedly come face to face with a house that you know will see you through to the end? You can see yourself coughing out your last miserable drop of life there.”

  She looked toward the body, ruffling her hair away from her face and her profile, her thin lips and high cheekbones, reminded me of someone I may have known. For a second, I had this image of her watching from a canoe and behind her, a panorama of clouds that seemed attached to the boulders beneath. Someone was seated beside her, a child, and she seemed to know that before they touched land, one would be dead. “Where have you been during your travels?” I asked her.

  “Why would that interest you?”

  “When you are stuck in one place for a long time everything looks the same.”