A Thousand Miles from Nowhere

by John Gregory Brown

  “No,” Henry said. “There’s no one—” He tried again to think of a way to explain his circumstances. Once again he pictured Amy living in the Lucky Caverns, the limestone floor covered with ornate Persian rugs, a long table spread with a starched white tablecloth, with steaming dishes and wine bottles and candles, Amy’s hair unwound from its knot, long curls resting against her bare shoulders. He imagined her wearing an elegant black dress, the one he had told his mother Mrs. Broussard was wearing. “My wife,” he said, resting his hands on the table. “We’re separated. She’s here.” Latangi looked at him, seemed to be studying his expression. She waited, but he could not explain. “In Virginia,” he said.

  “And you will see her?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I—”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Henry.” Latangi stepped toward him as though she meant to embrace him. “I do not mean to be too inquisitive.” She stopped, then she began to clear away the remaining dishes from the table. When Henry attempted to help her, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sit, Mr. Henry,” she said. “I did not envision, of course, an occurrence such as today’s when I suggested I wished to speak with you, to request your help. We can speak about this tomorrow if you like. There is no hurry.”

  “No,” Henry said. “You’ve been very kind. Is there something I can do?”

  Latangi put the last of the dishes on the counter and sat down at the table. “Perhaps you would like more tea?”

  “No,” Henry said. “I’m fine.”

  “Then I will ask your help,” Latangi said. “It is an unusual request, I know. Perhaps it is nothing, a woman’s sentiments, that is all.” She looked down at her hands, and Henry thought he could see the traces of designs there, as though her hands had not long ago been painted with henna—for her husband’s funeral, he imagined. But Henry knew from Amy—everything he knew seemed to have come from Amy—that henna was used not for funerals but for weddings, for the bride and her family. Amy’s book of Indian recipes had included a photograph of a bride’s elaborately hennaed hands next to a recipe for making an aromatic henna paste with lemon juice and cloves. He wondered if perhaps Latangi had a daughter who had recently gotten married.

  Henry waited for Latangi to speak. He figured that she would ask him to help with some manual labor that she couldn’t manage, hauling away musty old mattresses or pulling up a particularly worn carpet in one of the rooms. But what did that have to do with sentiment? A woman’s sentiments, she had said.

  “You are a teacher of English, yes, Mr. Henry?” Latangi said hesitantly, and Henry looked at her. “At Benjamin Franklin High School?” she said. “This is you?”

  He did not understand how she could know this about him. He had not told her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but how did you—”

  “Aha!” Latangi said, smiling, clapping her hands. “Am I not clever?”

  Henry still did not understand. Perhaps he had been right and Latangi did indeed possess some kind of clairvoyance—though it was an imperfect clairvoyance, since she did not seem to know that he was no longer a teacher, that he had quit his job more than a year ago. Then it occurred to him that maybe somehow, by sheer coincidence, she happened to know Amy, that they had met and talked about him, that she might have called Amy and warned her that he was here, that he might be looking for her.

  Latangi seemed to be enjoying Henry’s bewilderment. Then she clapped her hands again and said, “The Internet, Mr. Henry. Yahoo. I searched your name. Henry Garrett. New Orleans.” She wiggled her fingers as though she were typing. “So large a city and thus there are many Henry Garretts. But I knew this one, teacher of English at Benjamin Franklin High School, was you. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Henry said, “that’s me,” and Latangi’s delight with her discovery was so clear that Henry couldn’t help but smile. “You are indeed clever, Latangi,” he said, and she laughed. “But I don’t teach there anymore.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “This hurricane of Katrina—”

  “Not the hurricane,” he said. “I quit long before the hurricane.”

  “Why did you quit your teaching, Mr. Henry?” she said.

  Why had he quit? What could he possibly say to this woman without sounding like an idiot, a complete and utter fool? He thought of how Tomas’s story of Bernardo’s life had ended—with Bernardo falling to his death in a silo of shimmering grain, Tomas claiming that Bernardo had been captivated by its beauty. Could he say to Latangi, I was searching for beauty; that is why I quit my job? Was there any truth at all in such a claim? No, there was no truth. There was a difference between searching for something and being lost. They were not the same. He had not been searching for beauty; he had attempted to escape it, the sorrows of childhood, of losing so much: a father, a baby, his own fragile mind. And he had not quit merely his job; he had quit his life—or he had tried to quit it and had failed. He had failed because he could not clear his head, could not remove all the detritus there, the clatter—the memories and voices and desire, Amy and her cooking and their sex and the baby they lost and this girl Clarissa Nash whom he couldn’t even properly remember. Where had she come from? He didn’t know what would be worse, if he had made her up or if she was real.

  “I just quit,” he said, looking at Latangi, at the expectation in her eyes.

  “Why, Mr. Henry?” she said.

  “Well, that’s one of those things I don’t have words for.”

  She continued to look at Henry as if certain he would resume, offer some explanation, but then she bowed her head. “Yes, I understand,” she said. “I will not inquire.” She pursed her lips and raised a finger to them. Was this a universal gesture for silence, for acknowledging secrets that must not be spoken aloud?

  “But you did want to ask me something?” Henry said.

  “Yes,” Latangi said, looking up again. “It is an unusual request, but it is a task for which I am not equipped. You are an English teacher, Mr. Henry. You could perhaps do what I cannot.” She leaned forward now, her elbows on the table. “It is late, I know, but I must tell you a brief story. When Mohit and I were married, I was very young—sixteen years old. Mohit was five years older. Twenty-one. Our marriage was arranged by our families, but no matter. We were already in love. I could show you a picture of Mohit in his sherwani. So handsome. I was a good student, a smart girl, but this was to be the end of my education. We were to leave our home, our families, for Calcutta, where Mohit was to continue his education to become a doctor. I was, of course, to be a wife and mother. All this was determined, you understand.”

  Latangi paused and looked down at her hands, and Henry guessed what would come next—that their lives had not gone as planned, that Mohit had failed in his studies, that there had been no children or there had been a child but the child had become sick and had died. Every story, in the end, was a sad one.

  He heard the office door open, the bells above the door chiming, and Latangi stood up. “Just a moment, Mr. Henry,” she said.

  When she stepped into the office, Henry got up and walked around the apartment. On the living-room walls were framed pictures of the sort he’d seen before at Indian restaurants, cartoonishly colorful depictions of what he assumed were Hindu deities: a man or woman—he couldn’t tell which—in a skull-covered cape and riding a bull; a four-headed, four-armed bearded man standing on a lotus flower; the elephant-headed Ganesh wearing a crown and perched on a throne, two young women at his side; a figure with three eyes soaring through the sky, a woman’s body draped over his shoulder. The pictures were webbed with cracks, as though they had been painted on cheap wood or cardboard. Each had a price tag affixed to its frame.

  Henry heard the front door open again, and a few moments later Latangi stepped back into the apartment. “So sorry, Mr. Henry,” she said. “A guest was in search of a man he has met too many times.” She pretended to raise a drink to her mouth. “Mr. Jack Daniel’s.”

  Henry laughed. “Yes,” he said.


  “Though some prefer the Wild Duck,” she said.

  “You mean Wild Turkey,” Henry said.

  “Yes, the Wild Turkey,” Latangi said, and she sat down in a wicker chair and motioned for Henry to sit down as well. “I must let you sleep,” she said, “so I will finish my story. We went as planned to Calcutta, but Mohit did not begin his medical studies. He had never had any intention of becoming a doctor, but he had been too afraid to tell his parents. He was, as I said previously, a poet. That was his only interest. He worshipped Rabindranath. You know of Rabindranath Tagore, Mr. Henry?”

  “I’ve heard of him, I think,” Henry said. “I’m afraid I haven’t read any of his poems.”

  Latangi leaned forward and whispered, “Nor had I, Mr. Henry.” She laughed. “Ah, but Mohit demanded I read the great Rabindranath. He was a forward-thinker, Mohit, and believed I must continue to learn even without a university education. How else was I to fill his life with words? he asked. He had written his poetry in Bengali, but already he was writing over again in English, as Rabindranath had done. Now, Mohit insisted that my English was far better than his own, but this was not true, Mr. Henry. This was Mohit’s kindness speaking. He said I would assist him in the translation of this poetry, and the world would one day recognize the two of us together. ‘You have the gift of words, Latangi,’ he declared. But I had no such gift, Mr. Henry.”

  She adjusted her sari and then leaned back and folded her hands in her lap. “I did try, however. Every verse of his poetry that he wrote in Bengali, I wrote again in English. I wrote every line again and then again until Mohit agreed I had revealed the meaning of his words. Forty-five years of this writing, Mr. Henry. Forty-five years in Calcutta and Allahabad and then London and then here, for the end, in Virginia. He worked very hard, Mohit, to succeed, but he had no more luck with this poetry than he did with this”—and she raised her hand to indicate the crowded room.

  “I’m sorry,” Henry said. “It must have been difficult.”

  “Difficult? No, no,” Latangi said. “I have not been clear, I’m afraid. There is no regret. Mohit was a great man. By what other means than love is greatness determined? Those are Rabindranath’s words, Mr. Henry. Or perhaps they are Mohit’s. I cannot remember.” She smiled. “You see, I was not so fine a student as Mohit believed. Now, though, I would like to see if perhaps I might return his love more perfectly. I do not care if the world sees this poetry, Mr. Henry. I am old enough myself not to care for such things. All the joy for me was remaining at Mohit’s side, sharing in his endeavor.”

  She leaned forward in the chair, and Henry saw the expectation in her eyes.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Henry said.

  “I would like these verses to be read,” Latangi said. “Not by the world. By one reader.”

  Henry looked at Latangi. Her face was flushed, as though she were holding her breath. “By one who can truly hear the words, Mr. Henry,” she said. “That is my request. I would like you to read Mohit’s words.”

  Henry began to answer, but Latangi raised her hands to him. “I will prepare your meals, Mr. Henry. I will keep your room in order. You will stay as long as you would like to stay. There is nothing else of this to discuss.”

  “Then, yes,” Henry said. “Of course. Of course I will read Mohit’s poems.”

  Latangi leaped from her seat and embraced him.

  “I knew,” she said, crying now. “I do not know how I knew but I did. You may not believe in such notions, Mr. Henry, but I am certain.”

  “What?” Henry said. “What are you certain about?”

  She walked over to a small glass-topped table, opened a wooden box, and removed a key from it. She placed the key in Henry’s hand. “This is the first room, room one, all the way at the other end from your room. It is the room Mohit used as his study. All his poetry is there. Now, though, you must sleep. Tomorrow, when you return from the courthouse, I will show you, or you can go in on your own. Mohit was very organized, you will see. With everything else, it was all mumble-jumble, Mr. Henry, but not with his poetry.”

  She led Henry out to the office and through the front door. The bells on the door chimed, but otherwise everything was silent. No cars passed on the highway, and even the fluorescent lights in the parking lot seemed to have dimmed, casting only a faint pink light onto the motel’s gray-brick walls. “I will sleep very well tonight, Mr. Henry. Thank you for your kindness. You will sleep well too. I know this.” She raised one hand, as if she were offering him, in the quiet of night, a final blessing, and Henry thought of Tomas Otxoa’s description of the idiot Bernardo raising his hand like a priest making the sign of the cross before falling into the silo. How would Tomas have known such a thing?

  Henry looked down the row of rooms to the one that Latangi’s husband had used as his study. He had no idea what he might do for Latangi, why his reading her husband’s poems seemed to mean so much to her. He thought about his mother and Mrs. Broussard, about how his mother had wanted Mrs. Broussard to be beautiful, as beautiful as a princess. “What were you certain about, Latangi?” he asked again, slipping the key to Mohit’s study into his pocket and removing his own key.

  He waited as Latangi once again adjusted her sari. “I am certain, Mr. Henry, that they were waiting for you,” she said. “Perhaps you do not believe in such things, but there it is. I am certain that Mohit’s words have been waiting for you.”

  Six

  HE DID not sleep well, despite Latangi’s assurances, her benediction. He woke up again and again covered in sweat. The room’s air conditioner seemed to have quit working, so he kicked away the covers and peeled off his soaked T-shirt. He lay there on his back, awake, restless, sore, his legs twitching. Even in the dark he could see the pattern of thick swirls on the ceiling, the same design as the one inside the old theater on Prytania Street where he and Amy had sometimes gone on Monday nights to watch double features of French melodramas or Scandinavian epics or corny Gene Kelly musicals.

  Amy loved movies, though she’d told Henry when they’d first met that she didn’t like severed limbs or bloody axes or skeletons, and she didn’t like guns or car chases or abducted children or stories about sports, except the ones, she’d explained, where some athlete or team overcomes incredible odds. Documentaries were fine as long as they weren’t about serial killers or sex-change operations or political assassinations or animal cruelty.

  “I like wholesome movies, I guess,” she’d said, and Henry couldn’t help but think about the sex they’d been having, the spectacularly unwholesome things they’d been up to.

  “I’ve got it,” he’d said. “You sure that’s the whole list?”

  “And clowns,” Amy said. “I don’t particularly care for clowns.”

  He and Amy were often almost the only patrons at the Prytania, and Henry had felt the same restlessness there as he felt now, the same twitching in his legs. Amy had loved it, though. She had loved the theater’s baroque gold doors and sticky concrete floor and dusty red-velvet curtains. She’d sworn that if she ever got rich she would buy an antique organ for the theater so they could play it during intermissions and on Tuesday nights when they showed silent movies, which Amy also loved.

  Henry, of course, couldn’t stand them. He could never follow their plots; he grew impatient with the black dialogue cards, or whatever they were called, that interrupted every scene; he was repulsed by the characters’ jerky, exaggerated gestures and by their ghastly makeup, by the rake’s shiny, twirling mustache and oily hair, by the virginal heroine’s sparkling eyes ringed with dark mascara. They all looked like ghouls, he told Amy. Everything about these movies, in fact, made him feel tense, as if at any moment—and he hadn’t meant the pun, though Amy had groaned and then laughed—something unspeakable might happen.

  Eventually Henry stopped going to these Silent Tuesdays, as the theater called them, and Amy went alone or dragged along one of her friends, usually Renée Bergeron, a high-school buddy of Amy’s who eve
ntually married a much younger man, an Argentine tennis player she’d met when she was handling publicity for a tournament in New Orleans. Henry could never remember the player’s name and so always called him Sancho Panza, which made Amy roll her eyes. “Pablo Sanchez, then?” Henry would say. “Pancho Stanza?”

  “Paulo Suarez,” Amy would say, laughing. “You’re such a jerk.”

  Suarez was ranked something like one hundred fifty-second in the world, but Henry had actually seen one of his matches on ESPN. He’d called Amy over, pointed him out, but she hadn’t seemed impressed. “Look at that,” she’d said. “Is he winning?” But she didn’t say anything when Henry told her that he was up a service break in the third set, probably because his answer was inscrutable to her. She wandered away, left him to fight off the perverse impulse to cheer for the guy’s opponent.

  Amy didn’t watch anything on television except for the same old movies they’d seen at the Prytania. Once, watching Anna Karenina, she’d begun crying as soon as Greta Garbo stepped off the train and her face emerged through the cloud of steam, and she cried practically the whole way through the rest of the movie. He couldn’t bear to sit with Amy all the way to the end, when Anna threw herself beneath the train.

  “It’s just too awful,” he’d said, and Amy had nodded and whispered, “It is, it is,” sniffling and blowing her nose, but he’d meant watching Amy cry, seeing her splotched face, her tear-streaked cheeks, not Anna’s fate. He’d never read Anna Karenina, of course, though he had read the Classics Illustrated comic-book version when he was a kid, Vronsky drawn to look just like Clark Gable, Anna like Lois Lane in a Victorian corset.

  The only other thing Amy watched on TV was the Weather Channel, an inexplicable obsession to Henry but one that made Amy practically giddy, especially when the meteorologists were dispatched to dangerous locations, hoods pulled over their heads as they stood near crashing waves on North Carolina’s Outer Banks or on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, a trailer park’s tornado-strewn ruins in Ohio or Kansas, a giant snowdrift in Albany or Boston.