The Unmapped Country

by Ann Quin

  It was precisely this movement that often startled her. The way he had of carrying the weight of the past. In himself. To himself. In moments she accepted. But resented the way he tossed his head, stomped off, without a word, into his studio. She had the feeling he dived in there as he had into the huge waves. Waves she was for the first time in her life frightened of. So she would remain, alone, on the beach, under the shaded thatched covering, waiting. Watching. And he’d emerge, flushed, triumphant. Not like now when that transparent quality of skin from water had somehow given way to a paleness, as if pressed down under many stones. Or covered by sand. But his eyes, mouth had been left uncovered in the burial. And when he had heaped the sand over her, patted it down around her neck, he left her head, face uncovered. The trance then had been quick in coming. She had nearly reached some point in space. A space in herself, yet outside her body, when she felt his mouth, warm, salty from sweat, sea, on her eyes. She was jerked out of an area into a place she did not recognize, and then she saw the arrows. Breaking out from these she ran.

  Screaming silently

  in a space she had so nearly found, but then filled in by the arrow points. She threw her body, no longer her own body it seemed, but just a body hurled out of the ground, into the mountains of water, she bent her head under, rose up, bent again, and struggled out. Further out to higher and higher mountains. Away from the beach, where she knew he waited, watching, not quite knowing. Unsure again.

  And if she returned?

  If she chose not to, but moved on out into the ocean until perhaps the area she had so nearly reached could be touched upon.

  Later when they touched, it was as if someone else touched her. She gave herself up to this. From out of the past, with lovers she would not see again, be committed to. It was new. The lovemaking. Slower. Sensual. Longer. Backwards. Forwards. Sideways. She no longer placed herself over cliff edges. Under water. In space. In every room of wherever they might be. On the floor. Ceiling. Walls. There was at least no longer that need then. Everything was there. In many ways strange. Liking it. But questioning it later. Wanting something else. So when he made movements for her tongue to move in the way he wanted. Knew. The way that gave him pleasure. She still held on to him in stillness.

  A resting place.

  This way of holding him, as if she would never let go, perhaps swallow him whole, made him question. Made for movements that did not measure her own. Made her draw away. He grew small. Limp. She stiffened, layers of skin beneath froze, then started shaking. He got up. A dark shape against the window. She knew he could see the palm trees circling the square. Leaves quivering, fan like. The bells started ringing. Soon the music came. Loud. Sounding like a funeral march. Something like Elgar. And even before the sun was up she heard the voices of the Totanacs setting up their stalls under the kite-like awnings.

  After breakfast, exhausted, they went down into the market. Wandered past those who had perhaps walked from villages many miles away, taking two or three days, laden with wares they hoped to bargain over. Sashes. Shawls. Vegetables. Fruit. Pyramids of oranges. They pushed through the crowds, down the white stone steps, to where a large circle gathered round a ‘rainmaker’. In front of him were bottles of liquid, in which appeared to be floating various kinds of twigs, or pieces of bark. Also spread out were large coloured pictures of diseased bodies. One in black and white of a nude woman clutched by a skeleton death figure, behind her, with arms outstretched as if ready to devour her also, a masked surgeon. Meanwhile the ‘rainmaker’ thumped his chest, shouting to the silent, watchful Indians, that his ‘medicine’ could cure cancer, bellyache, headaches and alcoholism. He had a small machete, which he used with dramatic gestures, pointing at the pictures, the various diseased parts, then bringing the machete up, making a slicing gesture a few inches from his naked sweating chest, while his eyes rolled white. The performance must have lasted an hour. She watched the Indians, who intently watched, listened. Finally when the ‘rainmaker’ stopped shouting, held the bottles up, many of the Indians passed their five pesos over for the ‘medicine’. She wondered if he sold ‘love’ potions.

  They walked on through the crowded streets, past stalls with many coloured ribbons, material. They were stared at. Surrounded when they decided to have their feet measured for sandals. The leather felt good, strong, yet light on her feet. But she was aware the women giggled as she walked by. Back in the hotel she took the sandals off. Soon she heard the priest’s voice, as if through a microphone, sounding similar to the ‘rainmaker’s’.

  He had gone across to his studio, opposite the hotel. A large empty loft place he had rented with much haggling from a man whose face was covered in carbuncles. Who was always sat outside the doorway. Was his body covered in carbuncles? She shivered. Yet it was hot. Unbearably so. She found a shaded part on the balcony to read. Even reading proved difficult. She found herself looking down at those who came and went, or just squatted outside stores. Beggars who stood silently outside the hotel entrance, and waited until someone from the kitchen brought them something, a tortilla, something perhaps they themselves had left at lunchtime. Beggars that were very different from those in the cities. Their eyes alone asking, without demanding.

  She looked across to where he sat, she could just see his hands moving forward, backwards over paper. If only. If he would lean more forward. Look up. Out of the window. Come to her now. She looked further down and watched the carpenter opposite, always at work. Painting bright blue coffins with white intricate designs. Small coffins. Sometimes larger. Often he carried one down the street, on his back, supported by the strap around his forehead. At that moment he was carefully painting black shiny crosses, very large, like bedposts. Suddenly she was aware of someone standing behind her. She knew it could not be… she would have recognized his steps. It was the boy who cleaned their room. She smiled, then turned away. He came nearer, leaned on the table. She quickly picked up the book and pretended to read. She knew he watched her, watched without focusing his eyes on her. As if in some trance. He was so close now she could smell his sweat. What did he want? She did not know the Spanish even to say please go, please leave me alone. Did she want to be alone? She was alone. And the boy who cleaned their room, in silence, every day, who slept in a dark alcove downstairs, she felt his loneliness. He leaned nearer. Breathing heavily. She stood up, called out to him across the street. He came to the studio window, she gestured frantically. He shouted to the boy to leave. The boy left muttering ‘Gringos Gringos’.

  She went into the room. Lay down. Music. Bells. The priest’s voice, or was it the ‘rainmaker’s’ again? Continual hammering of the carpenter. She went out to the balcony and looked over the railings at the huge wooden Quetzal birds. Dozens of them, with white painted eyes. Beaks ready to erect. She walked along to the small chapel, she had not somehow dared to enter before. Confronted again by the Quetzal birds, a dozen at least here faced the altar. Next to the altar a wash basin. She left quickly. And went for a walk. Men stared, whistled, shouted out. Ah, how different when walking with him. She climbed over some rocks, through the maize and crouched in an alcove of orange trees. Remaining there until the sun went down behind the purple, blue mountains, outlined against the sky. Frozen waves. If only it would rain tonight. She walked back, eyes lowered. As the Indian women, the older ones, lowered theirs. And the men leaned against white walls, seeming to laugh. At her. At death, somehow depriving it of any power to wound. A detachment from life. From death.

  She remembered one of the many legends about the volcanoes:

  Ixtaccihuatl was a lovely princess wooed by Popocatepetl. When he failed to win her, he turned her to stone, and then himself too, so that he might contemplate her forever.

  Ixtaccihuatl, the sleeping princess.

  As she walked down towards the hotel she heard distant thunder. Wind out of the dust from the high plateau. Through the maize stalks. Perhaps it would rain at last. At last

  Rain.

  The wat
er-carrier passed her. She could never quite decide whether or not he was a half-wit, or just very drunk on pulque. He paused, tossed his head, laughing, and came towards her. The buckets tilted on the pole, water spilling out. She nodded, and walked quickly on. She hoped he would be back in their room, wondering where she had gone. Worried perhaps. At times in the heat of the afternoon she felt almost an urge to go out alone, walk into some part of the jungle, amongst the palm trees, bananas, maize. Give herself to some Indian. Without words. Be ravished. Even raped. Then killed. A quick death from a machete. The violence of that afternoon sun. At least now there was the wind sweeping across from the mountains, through the valleys. Stronger. And the thunder nearer. She had a headache. Felt a cat-like restlessness.

  He was in the room. Brushing his hair. He did not say anything. But continued brushing, brushing, brushing his hair. She longed for a touch. A word. Something. Later as they lay in bed, she leaned over him. The rain started. Soon heavy rain like tidal waves on the roofs. She took him in her mouth. He moved gently, then faster.

  Rain above. Below.

  Soon rushing down her throat. Filling her. Filling the area she had so nearly reached.

  So it was in moments.

  The next day again began with loud music. Bells. The carpenter hammering. Road menders just outside the hotel. The breaking of stones. Two men sifted limestone. Stones laid in a mosaic pattern. They all stopped working as a pig got loose again, was lassoed, led down the street, squealing, struggling back from the rope.

  Soon they would leave this town. They had decided. She had decided. He accepted. She would go on ahead. Alone. To New Mexico. He would perhaps join her later. A temporary break. A rest. From the pain that still lingered. The prong of a harpoon catching under the skin. And what would happen, or not happen, she accepted.

  She would wait.

  But not a waiting between life and death. Arrows and stones. Rather a sitting still on some high rock facing the mesas. So still she would seem a statue. And the lock would be part of her weight. A part of his. A place where they could contemplate each other. From a distance. An area they could meet in. Separate.

  Touch in silence.

  ‌

  ‌Ghostworm

  I’ll take the ashes to his wife tomorrow. Idiot. No not again—go away. Never. Get off my back. You’re obsessed. I’m not you were. I am. She saw eyes between skin shadows on glass. The full moon that’s what it is, nothing else. Move on. Out. Into. Back. Forward. Why can’t you just be a memory with the rest. Bottled. Hooded. Closed sequence. I’m still young. You’re old, a hag, bitch, spiderwoman. Mean damn you Irish bastard let go.

  She fell sideways through trees, rocks, arches, a half open door, between columns. The sea he tossed on. Towards her, white faced, in a wave. Sound of waves breaking up the middle of her head. You killed me finally. Look I’m not responsible, anyway I’m free now. Why do you sit with your legs crossed, wearing the same clothes day in, night out? I’ll throw your ashes into the sea would you like that? She saw him rising out. Above her. Above. Below the railway crossing. You were so cold. Still am. You looked like Christ. Ah not the Buddha then? No—Christ. She laughed. What an image. The wigged, satin-robed statue she flew from. The penitents sitting silently, wearing crowns of thorns, scene from The Last Supper, the large, long wooden table. A high wall she looked over, some nuns singing in the distance. Were you looking for Christ then? Ah God no. A father? No—a brother. No a mother. A lover. It’s no use I’m taking you to your wife do you hear and your children tomorrow. Tomorrow how can you presume… in this your darkest hour know that I am with you… her mother’s voice with the bagpipes. Oi oi oi.

  Her eyes fell back into her head, slits of white, insect flickering. She saw him on the floor under his wife. In music they rose. Fell. In the car with some other woman. Go go go. Get out of this country. Deliver the ashes. Move on. Wings moved from the Kachina doll. Her eyes stopped in mid-flight. She reached for the tranquillisers. Quitter. I must sleep. Must live. Find a life. You’ve found death. Death on tracks, weeds, flowers between elbows. How many times did I fall asleep while you went on and onononononon. Through others, past those who finally didn’t care, couldn’t take it. Take you. Take me with you take me out of this country where I no longer belong. What country belongs now to anyone? Revolution. A new religion. Prophet of the Aquarian Age will you please… You persist in going through words damn you when

  Enclosed form. The shell moved in circles. Movement of candle flame against white walls. Her head rested against sand, a jet seat, grass, water. One tree. A wood with orange mushrooms. She had wanted to understand the language of birds. They spoke now get out getoutgetoutget. She moved to a corner of the room and waited until he finished making love. Listened to their breathing. Moans. What cries then. I did outside. A marriage. Waiting. You never waited for anything. Oh God shutup. Never. You tried being God wanting things to happen. They happened. Hand raised she watched the candle go out. That’s it. But without you? I’m here. Go away. Her shadow tossed over curtains. As simple as that. Who cares?

  No one. None of the others. Victims. Am I a victim too? That’s up to you. You’re dead do you hear absolutely totally annihilated. What do you want to prove? I should have taken out your heart. And held it to the sun? She leaned over the shell, breathed in the sea dust. Long fibres. Hair, skin, ears to hold. Holding her body between elbows. Crouching. Listen. I can’t. Won’t. Wouldn’t. I hear too much. No more. Silence. There is no silence hear the blood humming. Brainwires. Fire. No silence in the beginning. Remember the numbness. I didn’t hear I saw. Illusion. Thought forms. All in the mind. I saw only what you saw. I see now through your eyes, ears, bones, mouth. The taste of some afternoon woman. The ones we shared. How many of those? Does that matter? How many do you remember? The third. I was always that. Outside. A voyeur never—you enjoyed it as much as… stop. Her hands came up. She looked at the bone structure, veins, a Chinese watercolour she wanted to wipe out.

  Begin again. Move on. Move back. Move into gestures familiar. Her mother sewing. Gathering sweetpeas. No man about the house. Walls of old ladies. Dutch oil paintings. Mousetraps, mothballs, lavender letters. Candlewax. Icicles. Crash of chamberpots. Voices picked up. Listen. I hear nothing they’ve all pushed up the daisies. They are here. Here today there tomorrow. Listen

  Thud of small bodies on glass. Window held the room. Rooms she followed him in. Left no part of himself. Left her to clear up the remains. Ash. Red candlewax dripped on to layers of skin peeled off. Coldness of a gun. Warmth of rocks in the dark. Where he had slept. Passed out the night before. Killing the day. A country he left but bringing it in his eyes. Blue Irish. I’ve seen the devil and he’s not a leprechaun. Yes you said that lying in a cave. I wasn’t lying.

  The cave she wanted to enter. With him. Move with him. Wherever. Whatever. Always a step ahead. Faster than the sounds she picked up. Faster than the things she threw at him. Words, moods, silences, doors he closed behind her. Opened. Left her to open. Close. Knock down. Pull apart. Areas run through she lingered in. Places paused in now thrust aside.

  A place. No placing. No placement. Objects picked up. Dropped. A pen, letters, books, photos of his mother, dad, brothers, sisters, wives, loves, friends. Faces looked up at her. Family groupings with the taste of porridge on their smiling mouths. Still lives wondering about him. His wanderings. Scribbled notes pleading money for his kids. Asking for the ashes. All of them. Not one piece must I keep. No don’t tear her up. Yes. You bitch. You never loved that one. I loved them all for their love at the time. You don’t know what love is. Illusion. Shit. When the Saints Come Marching In. When Irish Eyes are smiling… Stop.

  She lit a cigarette. Flame caught a strand of hair. She scratched the dry bits away. Pieces of faces. Out of the wood. No you’re not out of it. Not yet I know that. Spaces he made for her to fill in. A space between walls, clouds, stars, mountains. Feet placed at angles to form the earth as she held on. Nothing to hold on to. No on
e. That’s it indulge in self-pity. Go on. Go where? I am here. There. Where are you? She lit a candle. Now will you stop? I never stop. She hissed. Closed her eyes. If only he would stop. Never. What do you want what is it wanted now. Now?

  Wind blew the curtains sideways. Lifted the Indian rug suspended from wooden beams. Wind across her feet. Face. Across his. As they lay on the mesa between rocks. The desert under his arms. She watched rain in the distance. Curtains of rain moving slowly. Wanting to watch that. So much time spent in a country where hearing it meant just another day of bloody weather. And voices commenting cold today yes but not as cold as yesterday looks like rain. Could I return to that? Yes once this assignment is over. The papers are signed. The death certificate. Everything is in order. I’ll get a ride tomorrow. Someone must be leaving town. If not then the time is not right. Is it ever right? Let things happen.

  Slide, fall back, into a rose garden. Do such places still exist? The sound of tea cups on a Sunday. The steady mower rhythm. Newspapers. Walks in parks. Drizzle. Grey buildings. Toll of church bells. Backyards of machinery. Did they still hang out the washing on Mondays? Yes. Of course. That distance. How many hours forward? Time. No time. No sense of yesterday. What happened a week ago. Not then. Flying from place to place. Corners. No spaces now for filling in. Leap away and they’re there. Waiting. Watching. If yer don’t watch out the Goblins will git yer. They got you all right in the end. I knew they would. They’re there all the bugs circling circling. Dried white skin. You looked so pale. Thanks for not letting the worms get me. Oh let me rest, let me think, let me dream, let me alone. You are alone. Damn you Goddamn you—no no don’t leave me. The door swung back she saw him kneeling between legs. Knew what the next move would be. Counter-movement. Anticipation. You were a rotten lousy lover did ever anyone tell you that? You kept coming I made you come hours after. Make me now. She spread out her legs. Felt the heat of fire. No Dairymaid Your Search Has Ended. Somewhere in a small town licking icecream. He rolled joints in one hand, drove with the other, chatted up three chicks in the back seat. Their faces stretched on bone racks. Teeth rattled in the back of her head. Something pulled down her neck. Just under hair. Hold me. Hold the tears that can’t come. You cried enough when