Or I sit in my room at the Buena Vista Hotel where the broadband is amazing, and I see every episode of Mad Folk and Game of Thrones. Evie never answers my calls on Skype. Sometimes I crunch along the beach after even the Precinct has gone to bed except for the odd drunken tourist, sometimes men looking shaken, miserable, fists bunched. They teach me, those men, the cost of desire.
Last night I had a dream: I was hiking again with Dad. He used to take me up into the mountains—a two-day trek to Pico Duarte where it’s cold and frost dances in the air and breaks the sunlight up into rainbows.
Only this time we were walking in Colinas Bravas, and I was overjoyed they’d let him in; and then I realized that this was actually the Cibao, but a different Cibao, a Cibao that they ruled. As if somehow world history had been reversed and the Taíno still ruled Española and Europe had been settled by them. Dad and I sat on top of a cliff and let the wind blow over us.
I didn’t get along with my mother. She hated how I turned out, but so often we become like our parents, don’t we? She was a good Catholic who believed in original sin. Have I made up that she once said those women of Colinas must be a different species because they don’t know original sin?
If she did, then I think my mother was right.
Original sin is having two sexes, one of whom doesn’t carry the child, who needs to know the child is his and in so doing needs to know the woman is his, and in time, since it’s a deal, he has to be hers as well. If you absolutely must own the person you love most, then how important is owning everything else you love or like? Your book, your designer evening gown, your phone, your knife, and fork (even just for the duration of the meal!), your piece of bacon, your slice of orange, your car, your home, your room, your bed, your individual sock with the green toes, let alone your own child. Owning becomes the culture, possession nine points of the law.
Except in Colinas Bravas.
They love the name Colinas Bravas, it chimes with how they see their country and perhaps themselves: the brave hills. But their own name for the place is the third person of their verb to be—“Ser” in Spanish. Transcription: Xix. The land just is. Not even the land is theirs. It’s not England or even Herland.
The opposite of original sin is faith, and here’s mine.
I am, despite everything, a good person, and soon they will see that. I’ve become a visibly better person living here. I don’t need to own Evie, I don’t need to own anything. I love this place and will do all I can to help it, out of love.
I write to La Señora Luminosa with ideas—your people love telling stories, I say. Why don’t you let me record them, write them down, publish them in English, in Spanish? You tell them on your radio station. Let me put a satellite radio in the cover of the book, so that people can listen and read at the same time? A tablet in the cover, so that they can see more about you? Why don’t you run your own TV station, so that you can finally watch things on it that are made for you? Let me do a website for you. Let me help sell your windmills all over the Americas in Spanish and in English.
I work to become like them.
I lie awake and listen to pebbles hiss on that beach, and I try to cast off owning. I have only my rucksack and khaki and my hotel slacks and shirt. Over and over I visualize my womb, my ovum, imagine a jink in my belly and that a snake unfolds inside me, and I see myself marching to Luminosa chaste but pregnant and saying “Behold.” I establish a sixth matrilineal line. I imagine this, and as I drift off to sleep, I hear that sound, the waves of laughter.
One day, they will let me back in.
There Is Nothing to Bind Our Hearts Together
Sabrina Huang
translated by Jeremy Tiang
Their dreams were growing shorter and shorter.
Some mysterious force had caused their dream worlds to collide one twilit evening. They dreamed themselves a white house with a blue-tiled roof washed over with dappled light and gusting winds in the middle of a plain set ablaze by the setting sun.
In the dream they were young, clear-featured, and slender. Because they retained memories of the real world, this pair of lovebirds seemed even more adorable and precious. They went fishing by a stream, sat shoulder to shoulder beneath one of the many towering, nameless trees. She tied her hair up with her handkerchief, he captured golden May bugs and kept them on the windowsill.
Tired out from frolicking, they’d sprawl on the grass, bodies pressed against each other, looking up at the stars, hand in hand, no need for words, falling gently asleep. When they woke again, they were back in the dust-filled real world.
Then they’d gradually feel themselves fill with sorrow. This oppressive reality, squatting on top of their dream.
In the dream, he often raised his eyes to the sky, knowing that beyond these clouds, he was a weary, depressed middle-aged man. His wife—they now slept in separate beds—nagged him all day long about not earning enough money to cover the household expenses. His son and daughter, entering their rebellious years, treated him like the enemy.
If only it were possible, he’d be willing to die in exchange for an eternity of that dream. Nowhere else in his life could he recall such clear moments of joy. Taking her delicate, childlike hand, he knew her heart held the same anxiety, the same determination.
They had such a strong connection. Each knew the other wasn’t just a figment of their dream but that the dream had somehow brought together two people with a real existence. They never revealed their true selves, afraid that mentioning even one word from the other place would destroy the magic of the dream.
Yet their dreams were growing shorter and shorter. In the end there wasn’t even time to catch a single fish.
That night, they both had a premonition that this would be the last time. Sitting beneath a sky full of stars, each clasped the other’s moist hands, foreheads touching, eyes shut, resisting the moment when daybreak would invade their bodies. When they knew the very last moment had come, they couldn’t resist loudly calling out who they were, where they lived, what their jobs were.
The magic of the dream was completely shattered. After waking, no matter how hard they tried, neither could recall the other’s name. And so she stood before the bathroom mirror, weeping for a very long time. Her husband—they now slept in separate beds—was a weary, depressed middle-aged man, and all day long her brain throbbed as she tried to stretch the household budget. Her son and daughter, entering their rebellious years, treated her like a stranger.
A little later, the two individuals who shared a dream from separate beds met at the breakfast table. In an awful mood from losing the dream, they got into a vicious argument and ended up deciding to divorce. By noon, they were standing in front of a registrar’s counter, each thinking the same thing: “When I finally have my freedom back, no matter what happens, I have to track down that person from my dreams.”
Douen Calling
Brandon Mc Ivor
I gave you my own name, and we shared it for fourteen days.
They say that you shouldn’t speak your name in the forest because the douens listen. And if they know your name, they’ll call you from deep in the woods, and like sirens, they’ll lure you in.
And after that—who knows?
I’m not superstitious, but on the day you would have been baptised, I sat on the stump before the woods, and I must have said our name a thousand times.
And nothing.
It was just like before. Saying, “Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia, Mia,” but you were only still, like our mango tree on a windless night.
Spectral Evidence
Victor LaValle
“They think I’m a fraud.”
“They think I’m a fraud.”
I like to repeat this to myself in the mirror before I go out and do my job. It might seem weird to say something cruel right before I perform, but I thrive on the self-doubt. If I go out there feeling too confident, then I don’t work as hard. It’s easy to get lazy in this trade, but I take the j
ob seriously. For instance, the word “psychic” does not appear anywhere in the window of my storefront. I never say it to my visitors. I call what I do “communication.”
The other value in staying behind the curtain for a minute is that it gives the guests a chance to sniff around the parlor. They want to peruse the décor. They yearn to leaf through the handful of books I keep on the low shelf by the chairs. They’re here for a performance, too. If I stepped out too soon, they wouldn’t have the chance to reconnoiter, and then while I’m talking, they’re casting their eyes around the room and I have to repeat myself. Or even worse, we just never make a connection. I’m not here for the ten dollars I charge during the initial visit. That money doesn’t even cover the cost of all the coffee I drink in a day. Of course, I’m in this for the money, everyone’s got to make a living; but even that isn’t the real goal. As I said, I am a communicator, and when a session works right, all of us in the room play a part in the transmission. And at the end I get paid, so what’s wrong with that?
I like to start work in the morning. Not many others do. Most folks who do this kind of work don’t even open their eyes until mid-afternoon. Their days start in the early evening and run through the dawn. But that’s not my way. For one, there’s too much competition, and I’m not part of a family or a crew. For instance, the Chinese work in small groups and cater only to their own. I tried to learn Cantonese for about fifteen minutes, but one of them took a liking to me and explained that no Chinese person would ever go to an American woman for help, so what was the point? I didn’t take offense to it. She communicated something important to me. The only thing I can still say in Cantonese is, Can I have your address? At least I think that’s what it means.
The other reason I like mornings is because it means I mostly get old people coming through the door. You know why they’re here? Most of them just want to talk, and it turns out I do, too. The cards I turn over at my table are secondary. Their loneliness is what blew them into my store. Isolation is as powerful as a gale force wind. There are times when we’ve been going at it for an hour or three, and before they leave, they actually force a little more money on me like I’m a niece who should buy herself a new dress or something.
Which is why, I admit, I’m baffled by the three folks who are in the parlor right now. Can’t be more than nineteen or twenty. Girls. They might be drunk. People who are drunk at eleven in the morning are scary, no matter what. They’re so far gone they can’t even talk quietly. Even when they shush themselves they only come down to about a nine on the dial. Immediately, I figure they were passing by and decided to stumble in for a laugh. The best I can hope for is to get them in and out quick, collect a few dollars, then greet my usual morning crowd. I’m already looking forward to hearing about someone’s endless concerns for a grandchild compared to corralling three drunks for half an hour. But work is work. They came in, and I called out that I’d be there in a minute. Then I gave them five minutes to poke around. I tend to wait until they get to the books. The shelf is low and right by the chairs, so if they’re reading the titles, it means they’re probably sitting down.
“Wonders of the Invisible World,” one reads aloud. She moves on to the next. “The Roots of Coincidence.”
“Just sit down, Abby.”
“Where is this lady?”
“It’s too dark in here.”
They’re getting impatient. I give myself one more look in the mirror. I’ve been trying out this new look, a scarf wrapped round my head, one that drapes down around my neck as well. It makes me look like I’m from the silent movie era, think of Theda Bara in Cleopatra. But last week when I came out wearing it, the guy in the chair asked me if I was a Muslim and things only got tense after that. But these are three women, and I tell myself they’ll appreciate the flourish. More than that, I like the look.
I give the scarf one last touch and whisper the five words to myself.
“They think I’m a fraud.”
Then it’s time for the show.
Two of them want to leave after ten minutes, but it’s the third who won’t get out of her chair. Abby is her name. Her head is down for most of my reading, hair hanging over her eyes. Her friends find her exhausting, but I try not to be hard on them. After all, they haven’t left her side. Abby is the only one who doesn’t ask silly questions. I know how that might sound to some. Any serious question at a storefront psychic’s must be, by definition, “silly.” I get it. There’s hardly room for all three of them on the other side of my table, it’s a little wooden countertop that’s really only made for two. But it doesn’t really matter, only one of them wants to be sitting across from me.
Abby’s mother died six years ago, that’s what brought Abby here. As soon as she says this, I find a part of my heart warming to her. Suddenly, she doesn’t look all that different than my Sonia. What would she have been like if I’d died when she was twelve or thirteen? Would she have ended up in a place like this with someone like me or much worse than me? I find myself feeling even more grateful for her friends, no matter how impatient they’re becoming. They will not abandon her, at least not today. I wish I could remember either of their names.
“I just want to know if …” Abby whispers. Even though she seems tortured, I don’t think she’s going to cry. She sounds resigned. “Is there something … after all this?”
I have a few things I usually say when people skirt close to this subject, the whole point of being here. But I can’t think of them because I’ve never had someone ask the question so directly before.
“Okay,” one of the friends says, rising to her feet. She’s the smallest of the three but the most potent. This one is the sergeant-at-arms when they go out to the bar. She looks at me. “We’re going to miss our train back if we don’t leave now.”
The other friend is in worse shape, she sort of oozes off her chair. For a moment it’s not clear if she’ll fall flat or stand up. She stands, puts a hand on Abby’s shoulder, but it doesn’t look like comfort, only a way to keep her balance. It looks, for a moment, like she’s crushing the poor kid.
Abby nods and finally rises as well. Is it strange that I’m thinking less of Abby and more of her mother? Trying to guess what I’d want some stranger to have said to Sonia if she’d come to them pleading for answers, or at least comfort. I guess the obvious choice is to say something simple and uplifting, but I can’t do that about something so serious. Anyway, I can tell that’s not what she really wants to hear.
While I’m struggling, Abby opens her bag and finds three ten-dollar bills. She hands them across the table to me, and of course, I do take them. We’ve been together for a half-hour, exactly like I’d expected. I hold Abby’s wrist. What should I say? What should I say? All my talk about putting on a show, and I’ve got no pre-planned act that will work for this.
“Yes,” I say and squeeze her hand. It’s the best I can do. The friends are already at the door, opening it and letting in cold air and sunlight. “There is more.”
Abby looks at me directly; chin up. It’s the first time I get to see her eyes. They’re red from lack of sleep. She cocks her head to the left, seems surprised to hear me being so definitive. Then she pulls her hand free and follows her friends out of my life.
My daughter died a year ago this July. Sonia went to the Turning Stone Casino in Verona and jumped from the 21st floor. We hadn’t spoken to each other in almost four years by that point. I hadn’t even known she was living upstate. The coroner’s office sent me an envelope with her last effects. Inside, I found loose change and receipts from the ATM in the casino lobby, a flip phone that had somehow survived the fall, and a broken watch. It had been the watch that tore me open. I’d given it to her when she graduated high school. I didn’t know she’d kept it all that time. It’s not like it had stopped at the moment of impact or anything, the hands weren’t even still attached. In a way that seemed more accurate. For her and for me time didn’t stop, it shattered.
It’s nea
rly eight by the time I get home. I’ve been in this apartment for three decades, raised Sonia here. After Abby and her friends left, I welcomed my stream of regulars, but I thought about Abby the whole time. Most of my days are as long as this one. I leave early for work and don’t come home until dinner. All I do is sleep in this place now. I avoid it. I should admit that to myself.
I come through the front door with my late night pick-up of Thai food, and in the kitchen I make a plate. For a little while—all of last year—I would eat the food right out of the container. There were times when I didn’t even take the container out of the bag. It got to be too sad. So now I pull down a plate and utensils. I find the white wine in the fridge and pour myself a glass. I even sit in the same spot I’ve been using since my daughter was old enough to sit up in a chair by herself. She made such a mess when she first learned how to eat on her own, and I never acted too patiently about it. Even before she died, I found myself fussing at details like that, trying to trace a line from how she fell apart to something I’d done when she was still a child. Somebody is always to blame and most of the world tends to agree it was the mother.
Sunspot Jungle Page 30
