Even if there was no hot water, I would have liked to take a shower, but I was afraid someone might hear the water running. I turned around to take another beer and was startled. The woman was there, standing in the door opening. She came near. So close to me. I could feel her breath. I held my own. She placed a finger on my lips and told me to let her. Then, without protest, I let myself be undressed like a snake lets the sun shed its old skin.
Her cold hands moved across my body and pulled me to the floor. Her lips were soft. Her tongue as well. Our bodies ached for each other as if they’d already met. Her nipples hardened under my touch. My head fell back when she bit on my ear. And as soon as I took her shirt off, her long hair stuck to her skin like the stripes on a wild animal.
KILOMETRE 3112
The sheets cast the movement of our staggered breathing and my body moulded her shape. I was the negative of her silhouette. A thirsting shadow. I’d left my exhaustion in the car, the woman’s touch had burned it out of me.
She turned and faced me.
She asked why I wasn’t sleeping, what I was thinking of. I said nothing and let my hands softly survey her body. The white of her skin melting into the white of the sheets. My blood pumped through my veins, a physical presence. Desire pushed me against her again. But she told me to calm down, to hold her tight and to try to sleep.
Sleep.
I tossed and turned a bit, then reached for my cigarettes.
KILOMETRE 3112
I awoke in the labyrinth of sheets. The woman was no longer there. I quickly got up. The insistent fingers of day scratched at the sides of windows. It must be late. I got up, pulled the drapes, and was blinded by daylight throwing itself at me, claws out.
I put on my clothes. Slipping my belt on I caught the side of the ashtray that fell on the floor and shattered. With my foot, I pushed the cigarette butts and pieces of glass under the bed and the dream I’d been dreaming came back to me, in a rush.
Through the bay window, I watched clouds dangerously heaping up over the refinery. Among the smokestacks and reservoirs, there were skyscrapers, highways, parks. Then a long vortex of wind came down from the sky, churning within itself. Like in the movies. It advanced towards me, destroying everything in its path. Cars, company dump trucks, pedestrians. Far away, the asphalt danced beneath the squall. Then the rain came down. Close by, trees writhed and kowtowed to avoid breaking. I turned around and, in the room where I stood, a crowd of people demanded answers. We heard explosions. The bay window shattered. Wind rushed into the room, pushing against the walls. Doors slammed open and shut. I recognized no one. The tornado was there. I knew that everything depended on me. But when the time came to act, I saw my father, shivering, in a ball on the floor in the middle of the increasingly frantic group of people. I wanted to cry out his name, but each time I opened my mouth I called after someone else. I walked towards him, trying to catch his eye. After that, I wasn’t sure. It became hazy.
KILOMETRE 3112
The woman opened the door as I was about to leave. Face to face with her, I smiled sheepishly. She held two bags, filled to the brim. She greeted me and said there was still plenty of good stuff in the restaurant kitchen, that there were two or three people outside, but they’d probably not seen her.
We sat on the bed before a meal of a few less-than-fresh vegetables, sliced bread, apples, peaches, canned hearts of palm, and a chocolate bar. We ate in silence, taking care to save some food for later.
Suddenly we heard three sharp knocks on the door next to ours. We listened closely, our eyes fixed on the breadcrumbs on the sheets. Through the wall we could hear a man’s voice. He was calling out to open the door. Another voice called out it was time to pay. We looked at each other. Then, with as little noise as possible, we quickly gathered our things. I walked towards the door. Someone spoke next door. He said he didn’t understand, that he’d already paid. Impossible, a voice replied, and anyway he still had to pay again.
I took the woman by the hand, gesturing that she not make a sound. I opened the door and pulled her along with me. In the parking lot a group of four people carried boxes to a van. Nearby, two men interrogated the occupant of the neighbouring room about a hockey bag and guitar case. I moved faster, but we had barely come out of the room when one of them called out to us.
Where do you think you’re going?
I lowered my head and turned towards him. He demanded that we pay for the night. I told him I had no money on me but we could go to the bank. The man walked towards me, asking whether I was making fun of him.
What’s in the bag? Food. Show me. Come see for yourself.
While the man looked me over, I saw, over his shoulder, our neighbour who, still facing his improvised creditor, discreetly winked at the woman. As soon as I leaned down to open the bag, he pointed his finger at the people working around the van and asked what they were doing. The man I’d been speaking to turned around and, surprised at not having noticed before, made his way to them, taking a handgun out from the pocket of his coat. At the same moment, our neighbour knocked the other man down with an astonishing punch, took his bags, and threw himself in our direction, dragging us with him.
Running, I told him my car was behind the motel. He asked me what direction I was going. I gasped, towards the coast. The east coast. He said that was fine with him. We jumped in the car and I started it immediately. The tires shot gravel behind us and we sped through the motel’s parking lot. There were several people around the van. And boxes spilled on the ground. We heard shouts. Then a gunshot. But I kept my foot on the gas.
KILOMETRE 3114
I slipped into fifth gear. The motor beat its drum at full speed. My eyes glanced at the dials, everything was in order, we were back on the road. I turned towards the woman. Breathing hard, she told me that she was all right. The man who followed us was seated in the back, cramped between my tools, my bags of clothes, his hockey bag, and his guitar case. He laughed, saying that we sure had gotten the bastards, then thanked us. He admitted that it was a nice coincidence. That his car had died in front of the motel. And he hadn’t been sure what to do next. That it was kind of us to pick him up since he wasn’t a mechanic and would’ve never managed to repair his own car. He leaned forward, his face between our two seats. The woman sighed and closed her eyes. The man was of indeterminate age, greying temples with sharp blue eyes, clear whites, not at all bloodshot. He added that, in any case, he would be with us only for a few hundred kilometres. That he’d be our conversationalist. That our journey with him would be a quick one. But could we, perhaps, tie some of the luggage on the roof to make a bit of room for him?
I hesitated, scanned the mess in the backseat, and said we could stop, but only for a moment. Once the car was on the shoulder, I took a rope out and asked him to give me his things. He refused and threw two of my bags out of the car, telling me that should be enough. I watched him for a moment. He was playing with me. Then he tipped his head towards mine and whispered that I didn’t want to know what was in the guitar case.
While I tied the rope as solidly as possible, he got out of the car and gave me a slap on the shoulder. He told me everything would be fine. That he knew the area. I told him to get the jerry can from the trunk and empty it into the gas tank. That we would need it.
KILOMETRE 3224
The small red car was fully packed and speeding along under the black eye of the sun. My bags were tied to the roof like a hunter’s kill, the body of some animal paraded on Main Street at the end of autumn. My arms stretched out, I held the wheel without effort. As if it wasn’t me driving. Once again before the parading kilometres, I looked at the dials, knowing I’d fallen behind. I also knew that even if I could drive as the crow flies, I still had a lot of road ahead of me.
The asphalt shone and the scenery slowly changed. Forest now dominated the landscape. The horizon tightened around us. We passed a few small rivers and lakes
. Beside me, the woman said nothing. Through the window, she watched transmission towers all in a row, like pilgrims frozen by lightning.
The man sat in the back seat, among my tools and trash. One hand on his bag, his eyes on his guitar case, he said it was hard to think of life before all of this. That the power outage had changed everyone’s lives. That those who didn’t show fear these days were the most dangerous. He’d heard about riots in the cities, mass movements that had nothing to do with popular revolt. It seemed that thousands of people were crossing bridges on foot to become refugees in the surrounding countryside and the smoke of fires could be seen from kilometres away. He added that he’d been told all sorts of stories. Whether power plants had been the target of attacks or not, one thing was certain, this was the worst power outage since electricity was invented. Fifteen days now – maybe more out east – with nothing at all working except for the combustion engine.
In the mirror, small glance after small glance, I tried to evaluate the man behind me, my eyebrows raised. While his clear gaze was radiant, his halting demeanour betrayed something strange. He asked me whether we could turn on the radio. That he wouldn’t mind listening to a few oldies. That music was a rare treat these days, even when you were a musician. While the woman searched for something other than dead air, I answered that the radio didn’t work, that at least I hadn’t been able to find a station since I’d left. The man smiled. Watching the woman continue her fruitless search, he said he was happy to have met us. That he knew the area and could tell us the places where we could rest and resupply without fear or worry. I thought about the motel and the beers I’d left behind. I almost wanted to turn around.
KILOMETRE 3429
The man said that it wasn’t the first time he had travelled cross-country. Nor would it be the last. Like a sailor, he was used to the swaying of the road, the dead-end hours of the night, and the flickering horizon.
He said that these days you crossed the continent like you used to cross the ocean. With a bit of luck, and a lot of patience and stubbornness. He would have loved to have been alive during the great explorations. Sailing over the horizon before losing yourself in a forest. It would have been worth it, even if his dream meant a short life and an anonymous grave.
He told us that, one day, a long time ago, a man had embarked on a galleon hoping to explore the great open spaces he’d heard so much about in the ports of his own country. But after two hard weeks of sailing, the wind stopped blowing. Heat oppressed the crew, made worse by the incessant swaying of the open sea under the ship crippled by a windless ocean. Creative and courageous, the young man threw himself in the water to freshen up. He swam for a little while, enthralled by the infinite sea around him. When he turned his head he realized that the current had pushed him far from the ship. The swells were high, making his return doubly strenuous and lengthy. The crew was waving at him from the bridge. They threw out a lifeline, though so close to the ship that it didn’t really shorten the distance he had to cross. The young man was valiantly fighting the abyss when shark fins suddenly appeared in the waters near the ship. He thought himself lost. With each movement, he anticipated having a leg or an arm ripped from him. Then as if by magic, a light breeze quickened the current and brought him considerably closer to the ship. The other sailors shot their muskets around the exhausted swimmer, scaring the sharks. Then, as soon as he had his hands on rigging, they dragged him up onto the bridge, where he fell to his back, half dead. The captain walked over to him and told him he’d be left to be eaten by sharks next time. He didn’t like his ammunition being wasted.
In the rear-view mirror, far away, I saw clouds thicken from white to grey to black. In front of me, though, sunlight pierced the silhouettes of trees and danced on the asphalt. From one glance to another, the black mass behind us seemed to gain ground while the man continued his story.
Around the same time, not long after the discovery of the New World, a captain managed to convince some hundred men to join him for an expedition. They left the old continent a few months later, heads full of promises. But the crossing was long and difficult. As soon as the crew landed, many were ready to return home. Reminding them of the commitment they had made, the captain gave the order to burn all the ships except one. That night, flames ate through the wood of the ships, under the horrified eyes of the sailors. The next day, while high tide was dragging bits of burned wood on the beach, the captain spoke. He told the cowards to leave right away on the last ship with a story as their only reward. Then he spoke to the rest of his men, telling them they no longer had a choice. Glory had a price. They had to follow him now and obey. The next day, at dawn, they would take their weapons and armour and march into the jungle. They’d only return when they had enough gold to buy the crown off their king’s head.
The trees were closing in on us, and we charged headfirst into the landscape like animals fleeing without knowing why. The road was deserted. We still had a good amount of gas, we could keep going for a long time.
Taking a few cans of beer out of his bag, the man said that the day was far-gone enough and that it was probably noon somewhere. I nodded in approval. The woman pretended to not have heard. The man handed me a beer and let another fall at my co-pilot’s feet, telling her that it was better to drink than be thirsty. As I swallowed my first mouthful, he took the opportunity to compliment her on her beauty and apologized for talking so much, saying he was only trying to distract her. When I looked in the rear-view mirror, I saw him raise his beer to the health of survivors.
KILOMETRE 3445
Enormous stumps, branches left willy-nilly, and conifers lying on their side – all abandoned to the slow decomposition of battlefields – decorated the forest around us. From time to time, in a hollow between hills, the roots of trees swam in stagnant water. Trunks rose from these swamps, without branches or with barely any, like tall silhouettes with indistinct limbs. Long scrawny shadows watched the thin incision of the road in the belly of the immense boreal forest.
Drinking his beer, the man said that we all end up coming home, one day. That all three of us were returning whence we came. Despite nothing being certain anymore. And that our hopeful folly was that time hadn’t eroded anything in our absence. As if erosion was some otherworldly phenomena, for others but never for us. Then he raised his voice to say that all of it was ridiculous. Life went on, with or without us. People died and disappeared. We never really found what we were looking for. Memory was only good for spinning a great yarn.
Like another ambitious captain, he continued, who so long ago had wanted to avoid a dangerous crossing by looking for a shortcut through northern waters. The captain had also hoped to find a new maritime passage. And with it, glory. After a few weeks navigating along the coast, he met an ice floe. He faced one of two possibilities: turn around or circumvent the ice by sailing out to sea. Turning around at this point in the expedition was inconceivable to him. And so he inventoried his supplies again and pushed his ship onward between the icebergs. But after only a few days, the sailors could well see a crag of ice closing in on them. The ship was immobilized, and soon enough they understood that they’d be prisoners of this frozen sea until spring. And winter was terrible. Wind. Cold. Hunger. The endless white that confused sky and earth. And constant bickering that wasted precious energy. When spring finally arrived, they were all looking south and had been for some time. Weak, demoralized, gums red with disease, they prepared the ship. When the ice bank finally broke open and the ship could sail again, they abandoned their dead and, famished, began their way back. But poor weather followed them. Every time they advanced any distance at all, the sea would push them back by just as much. One night when the sea was calm, the captain was taken by a strange inebriation that had nothing to do with wine. He threw himself into the deep blue of this sea of ice and salt, leaving behind his crew to fight the wind. Few of them ever saw land again.
The man said he couldn’t care les
s about promises of return. That he’d never believed in anyone’s return. Even more so these days. However, he said, it doesn’t matter where you go, or how hard you tried to erase your memory, remembrance always gripped you where your skin was most tender. Then he lit a cigarette that he puffed on as if he could breathe at last.
On my right, the woman took care to stay as far away as she could, leaning against the window. When she turned her head towards me, her eyes held the dryness of the prairies we’d just left. Are you okay? She said something softly, but I couldn’t hear her over the tireless voice of the man behind us.
You always had to doubt true stories and official narratives. The more the truth of a story was insisted upon, the more corrupt it was. A few years after the war, in a southern sea, a destroyer had run aground on some high shoals. It had been quickly taken by a storm and, after a four-day search, the authorities concluded that the ship and crew were lost. But two weeks later, on a beach, the waves spat out a survivor. Burned by the sun, tortured by hunger and thirst, he was transported to a military hospital. Soon enough, the press made him into a national hero. Twelve days on a makeshift raft, in the middle of the sea, without water and a book as his only food. Even though no one was allowed to visit him, his story was on the tip of everybody’s tongue. The miracle man who ate words. Then months passed, and time and forgetfulness played their usual role. One day, however, the story returned to the surface. The ship had sunk, surely, but no reef existed where it had torn open. Several journalists tried to find the survivor, but the army had disposed of him somewhere. Meanwhile, a story of survival at sea was published by a daring publisher. A fiction. It told the story of a sailor who survived his ship’s sabotage as it smuggled weapons destined for a neighbouring country crushed under the heel of some hellish dictatorship. Almost two weeks floating on a makeshift raft. Surviving beyond all hope, drinking rainwater, and eating the pages of a book. The captain’s diary.
Running on Fumes Page 7
