Heaven's Edge

by Romesh Gunesekera

  ‘But who has kept it like this?’

  ‘Whoever it was, they are not here any more. No one can come here except on the road we drove along. This is where it ends. I’ll rig up an alarm system.’

  Kris was right; we needed some time to figure out what to do. I had expected the road to take us all the way, not to come to a dead end. I quickly finished my bowl. ‘I’m going to have a look around,’ I announced and wandered out. I was glad of his confidence about the safety of the place, even though its immaculate emptiness made me a little uncomfortable.

  My first surprise was the room on the floor above.

  As I entered I saw, on the wall, a large engraving I recognised from the frontispiece of one of Eldon’s books: a portrait of a plump man in a shoulder-first pose with a flag depicting a flattened island unfurled below him. As a boy I had often studied this man’s picture while Eldon recounted the adventures in the book. As I examined it once again I heard Eldon’s exasperated voice. ‘This fellow from England spent twenty years on our island and wrote a whole bloody book about it; I’ve spent sixty years on his and haven’t even written a damn letter.’ His old friend Anton who was with him sniffed ungraciously. ‘That’s that book that inspired Robinson Crusoe, no? Our fellows didn’t know what they started when they held that bugger prisoner.’

  I went over to the glass case in the centre of the room. It was filled with fishing reels and gaudy, feathered flies. In one corner there was a pocket-sized pamphlet: Trout Fishing on Top of the World. It had a photograph on the cover of a family gathered by the banks of a stream. I imagined Eldon as one of the party; the youngest boy: scowling at a fishing rod, already concocting some wild exploit to relate in his later years.

  The light outside changed. A soft hill rain misted the windows forming small elongated drops. Lower down the glass they converged into a more crowded map of minute coalescing lakes distorting the view of the black tarns below – the trout ponds, I reckoned. The rain drifted down the hillsides. The sealed room was quiet but, watching the mist and the moisture, I felt that even in the open there would be no sound to this rain.

  * * *

  In our new abode, Kris seemed to come into his own. He identified the keys to every lock, and allocated each of us a bedroom as though he was the proprietor of a country inn.

  Mine was on the corner of the second floor. After being reacquainted with the old engraving and having imagined Eldon outside as a boy, I felt more at ease. I was content to walk alone. As Uva would put it, our independence and our interdependence were locked into one embrace. An embrace, I now long for.

  Cold, thin cloud entered the open airy corridors of the building in drifts, blowing a welcome dampness that clung to every surface even my clothes, my skin, my hair. Down in the inner rose garden a small bird was pecking furtively about the statue in the centre. It had a striking cerulean breast, and a head crested with busy yellow streaks. For some reason I was glad not to be able to identify it. I listened hard, leaning over the parapet, hoping to catch the notes of its song, but there was only windrush, the hush of mist turning into moisture, a beak rapping. Then a trickle of water came out of the mouth of the statue. It had to be Kris at work, I reckoned, turning yet another system on: it was as though he wanted to settle in Farindola for ever.

  On the landing, at the top of the stairs, I found the door bearing the number he had given me. It opened to a large room with a bed, a desk and chair, a bookshelf and a wardrobe. Another door within led to the bathroom. I turned and was startled; it took me a while to recognise the dishevelled figure in the mirror. My face had got quite brown and was caked with dust; my hair was matted. I needed a wash. Kris had said that everything was solar-powered, even the hot water. I turned on the tap over the bathtub. The chrome pipes, peppered with age, spluttered and hissed at first but within seconds settled to a fast-flowing stream of warm, slightly yellow water. Even the sound of it was a comfort: the gurgle of water on water amplified by a cast-iron drum. The whole room turned humid as the bath filled. I tested the temperature with my fingers and added a bit of cold. Then, stripping off each grimy garment in logical succession, I sat on the luxurious commode until steam entered every pore. Afterwards I lay full length in the hot frothy water with only my face and my knees protruding. I turned the taps off with my toes and let my feet sink to the bottom. A thin skim of thoughts swirled like rainbow-spills on a wet road. A warm current wafted up the insides of my legs, as she might slide to sheathe me.

  I rubbed coconut oil down her arms and legs: a muscle leapt beneath my fingers. Her skin was sometimes as tight as a drum, as if she was all bunched up and ready to fly, and at other times it seemed as capacious as the surface of an ocean.

  In that bath, that evening in Farindola, the memory of her seemed somehow to revolve within every other thought that came to me, and yet I was unable to hold on to her. Each time I tried, the sense of her, the essence of her, seemed to slip away; disappear, just as each time my fingers moved towards a patch of coloured bubbly water, it floated further out of reach. The time we had had together was like a dream, eroding, conforming as all our memories do to the shape of our immediate needs. Up in Farindola, although something of her straddled my innermost nerve, I simply could not clasp her, cherish her, as I wanted to. When I closed my eyes I saw Jaz instead, submerged in his own bath, with a wet flannel on his face and his swollen shiny glans breaking the spumy water.

  * * *

  When I came out, later, the sun streaked briefly again across the western sky. I heard Jaz chatting to Kris in the rose garden and went down to join them.

  He was immaculate in a crisp maroon sarong and a narrow indigo tunic. His hair was gelled back, his freshly depilated chin and cheeks glowed in the sunset. His eyes were larger than ever; the lids freshly painted with azurlite and a frit of silver.

  ‘Nice costume,’ I smiled, conscious that the clothes I had put on after my bath had yet to be cleaned, but wanting his pleasure at least to last.

  Jaz pranced around delightedly. ‘You like it? I found these fabulous clothes in my room. Feel the sarong. The threads are so exquisite. I love it. And the tunic is divine. It fits perfectly, like it was tailor-made for me. And there was a gorgeous kit of make-up. Did you try the jojoba shaving stick?’

  I chuckled and teased him about how someone must have known he was coming.

  ‘What? You think they know?’ He ducked down and spread out his hands, his fingers wide apart and curving up at the tips. ‘You think they might be watching us?’

  ‘I was just joking. Don’t worry.’

  ‘But they might be out there. My God, maybe it’s a trap.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Kris mumbled behind him.

  ‘But you don’t know.’ Jaz kept his shoulders pulled in, compressed. ‘I like this place, you know. I really like it here. I don’t want any bang-bangs.’

  The sun disappeared. Swiftly, in the afterglow, shadows seemed to grow. Jaz grabbed my hand. ‘Why is it so dark?’ He called out to Kris. ‘Can’t you do something? What’s happened to the lights? I thought you’d fixed them?’ But even as he spoke the flowlux began to glow along the corridors. They were slow to brighten, but the faint rims of light were enough to pacify Jaz. Even the rose beds had lights peeping through. Kris led us up the stairs. From the balcony we could see the walkway light up, and another string of pearly lights marking out the edge of the garden. Jaz clapped his hands happily. ‘A magician, darling. I told you. A real magician, this man. Look at it: a lovely beacon, don’t you think, for dear Uva?’

  Kris stiffened, his face set hard as it did whenever Uva was mentioned.

  ‘You don’t think it will attract the wrong people, do you?’ Jaz added, after a slight hesitation.

  ‘We won’t be disturbed,’ Kris assured him gruffly and turned away.

  Jaz took my arm, relieved. ‘In that case, I think it’s time for me to make us our first dinner. You boys can open the gin. There’s a huge bottle in the lounge.’


  I prised myself away. I wasn’t ready. ‘You go ahead. I’ll be along in a while.’ Although Kris seemed to have allayed Jaz’s fears, in the dark I felt my own disquiet, for no apparent reason, return.

  I decided to explore the inner lip of the garden; to follow the walkway around the building before going to the dining room. Along the way I noted evidence of a devout gardener: freshly painted trellises, young cuttings recently planted, protected old trees.

  Farindola seemed to have been created with real concern: the natural viewpoints, the curvature of the land, all enhanced rather than diminished, and everywhere a desire to accept the past expressed in terms of circles and spirals, care and conservation.

  Beyond the gingko tree lower down, I reached a clump of rhododendrons: sprays of purple buds lifted upwards as if in perpetual offering to the gods of the mountains. One of Kris’s lamps, threaded through the bushes, blinked in distress. A loose connection, I guessed. This, I told myself, might be something I for once could fix. A nice turn of practical success – a bit of handiwork – to relate to the others. I located the cable and followed it into the thicket. The bushes, disturbed, gave off a rich, nauseous smell: night breath, our life blood, earth’s own profanity exhumed. I tugged the cable and the branches juddered. I pulled aside a clutch of leaves to free it. I thought I knew what to do; how to use my instincts, shake, fiddle, fix. Strip a lead, splice a tape, that had been my forte. I broke a stem to make an opening I could crawl through, and got down on my hands and knees. Then, in the flickering light, I saw a claw. At first I assumed a clump of twisted twigs had tricked me, but then I realised it was a hand. For several seconds I couldn’t even breathe. The bony hand with its gnarled fingers, its dry crinkled skin, looked petrified. Tentatively I moved another clump of leaves and exposed the rest of the body: that of a hunched woman with a knot of hair steeped in blood. The blood had just about congealed along the slit cut into her neck. My hand must have shifted the cable into position; the bulb next to me buzzed, as if about to short, but stayed on. I could see black globules stuck to the pasty flesh. The seam of her cardigan was thick with coagulated bits snagged by the coarse brown stitches. The earth reeked as I knelt before her. I tried to haul the body out but I couldn’t shift her limbs to get a proper grip even though the rest of her body had not yet completely stiffened. The arms were cold; iced inside. Her head was at an odd angle. Something snapped, muffled by the dead flesh. My stomach turned. Sick surged up the back of my mouth. I had to pull up my shirt over my mouth and nose to stop from vomiting. It was worse than seeing the red puddle swell on Kris’s workshop floor. This corpse was in my arms. I forced myself to look at her face. Her ruined mouth gaped open revealing a few misshapen, badly stained teeth; her eyes were squeezed dry by her collapsed wrinkles. My grandmother Cleo was probably older when she died, but in death she had lost all the markings of a close-held life. In her coffin she had become younger than I had ever known her, her skin stretched and smoothened beyond recognition by the undertakers. But here death had robbed this old woman of something more in its violence. I looked up: the whole place was much darker than before. Further along the walkway several of the lamps had gone out.

  It wasn’t long before I detected the second body, that of a parched elderly man who must have been her husband shoved into a bed of orange azaleas. His fate had been as brutal and as disconcertingly recent.

  When I stepped inside the dining room, my hands were shaking.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Jaz offered me a glass of gin. ‘Here, have a drink, while I finish up. The kitchen is my domain, OK?’

  I grabbed the glass gratefully, and took a quick swig. Jaz bustled about, whistling and warbling as he set dishes on the table, arranged flowers, lit oil wicks. I drained the rest of the drink and went to wash my hands.

  I went over everything that had happened since we had arrived: how Kris had darted ahead up through the grounds, his assurances, the pristine state of the building, the lack of any sign of danger. It was clear to me that Kris must have murdered the old couple, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to Jaz just yet. Not only because the killing would upset him, but because it would defile for ever the evening Jaz had been so looking forward to. I wanted to protect the moment, even though I could do nothing for the dead. There was no need for their deaths, surely? The old woman and the even older man could not have been much of a threat.

  I dried my hands on a towel which I then chucked to one side. I poured myself another drink – half a tumbler of gin – and went out on to the balcony. The sky was scored with falling stars. I wondered where Kris was. Whether perhaps I should tell Jaz now, after all, before it was too late. But what had been done could not be undone. What good could it serve?

  Jaz called out, ‘Come and sit down. Sit, sit.’ He steered me to a table set with maroon place mats, elegant decorated china and stainless steel cutlery. Kris appeared with three sparkling goblets in his hands. ‘Perfect. Perfect. You found even wine,’ Jaz cooed. ‘Then we are ready,’ he proudly announced. His face was shining and he looked almost as ebullient as he had been in the Juice Bar when I had first set eyes on him. ‘We could live here for ever,’ Jaz crooned. ‘There’s loads of stuff. Everything you can imagine.’

  I forced a smile.

  Kris used a mechanical corkscrew to open the wine. I watched his fingers – stained with engine oil – close around the neck of the bottle. The grapey air of a previous decade escaped without a sound as the cork was released; I felt a tremor of revulsion as Kris filled each goblet with blood. Nodding politely he passed one to Jaz, and another to me.

  ‘So, who do you think stayed here?’ Jaz asked me, warming to the occasion. ‘You find any clues?’

  I tried to suppress the image of the murdered woman’s face. I looked at Kris, but could not catch his eye.

  ‘Kris says whoever was here has gone for ever, but I don’t understand how. There’s fresh food, you know. I found garlic. And even some really sweet, tiny strawberries in a dinky little punnet.’ He giggled.

  I said nothing. I picked up the goblet and, with a grimace, drained it. The wine was musty and smelled like farmyard shit, but I wanted it.

  ‘Hey, not so fast, mister. You need some food inside you.’ Jaz quickly served out his dish of semolina and chick-peas. ‘Here, you really must have this, Marc, before you guzzle any more of that stuff.’

  I ate furiously, incensed by the clatter of cutlery around me. I poured myself more wine. The food was going fast. Only after downing a third glass did I slow down enough to speak. ‘I think Kris is right. This must have been a retreat once, before the base shifted. There would have been just an old caretaker couple left here to look after it …’ I paused, but there was no reaction from Kris. ‘Originally it must have been a place of peace. Tranquillity.’ I pressed on, determined to force a reaction. A confession, I suppose. ‘This must be the only place where real regeneration is still possible.’ I wanted to be effusive. If she were with us, I told Jaz, Uva would be thrilled to find this historic architecture, the self-sustaining technology, the balanced gardens and the wilderness so dutifully nurtured even if only for the benefit of a few. I got carried away, briefly, imagining her walking outside.

  ‘So where are they, then, these lucky folk? Do you think they’ll ever come back?’

  I was nonplussed. It was difficult to focus on what I should say next. ‘Depends on what really happened here.’ I tried again to draw Kris’s attention.

  Jaz laughed out loud. ‘Not that past business again, Marc? Please.’

  ‘There’s no tomorrow without yesterday,’ I said quietly. Everything was turning murky. ‘The future is inside us. The tree is in the acorn.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know all about that.’ Jaz shuddered with a deep throaty laugh. ‘And the acorn in the big-big tree, but what has that got to do with this place?’

  Kris finished his food and began to clear up. ‘He knows how everything works here,’ Jaz explained admiringly as Kris disappeared with the p
lates. ‘He’s even fixed the old dishwasher in the kitchen.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go give him a hand. You just take it easy here.’ I decided to confront Kris alone. I tried to smile at Jaz. ‘It was a wonderful meal.’

  ‘Kris is the one who found the place.’ Jaz snuggled down in his chair. ‘He really is a darling little fixer, you know.’

  I took my wine with me into the kitchen. When Kris looked up I raised my glass, unsteady but resolute. ‘Cheers.’

  He made a slight sign of acknowledgment while cleaning his plate into the bin. The others were already stacked, methodically, in the dishwasher.

  ‘We are stuck here for a bit, I guess. It’ll take a few days, huh, to strip that engine right down? Do you think you’ll be able to fix it?’

  He pressed the door of the old appliance and checked that it was shut properly. ‘Gas might be a problem.’

  ‘Anyway, this is a great place you brought us to.’ I couldn’t stop my face from sliding into a sneer. ‘At least we can get some rest, have some comfort until we work things out.’

  He clicked the knob on the front panel to select a programme.

  ‘You think Jaz is right to worry?’ I was trying hard to control myself. ‘You think anyone will come back here?’

  Kris’s head moved slightly to one side as if to catch the sound of a hidden lever.

  ‘What about the caretakers?’

  Only then did he finally look up. But still he said nothing.

  My chest was puffed-up. I was hot and thirsty. I swilled back the rest of my wine. There was another open bottle on the worktop; I sloshed more into my glass and drank it faster than I had intended, trying to swallow the words I knew even then shouldn’t be spoken. But I couldn’t stop them from bubbling up, like froth out of my mouth. A drum was beating in me.

  ‘I saw them, Kris, I saw them. A tiny old woman and an old, old man. I saw their throats. Why? They’d have just done whatever we wanted, wouldn’t they?’ The complicity I felt made me bluster. ‘Why did you have to do that, man, why?’