My frown deepened. “Are you saying they worshipped her?”
“They respected her deeply. They spoke of odd events that happened around her: hearing the voices of dead loved ones; seeing lights in the sky or in the trees. There were reports that Aja could predict the future and heal the sick. It was these stories that piqued my interest in her. But when I asked where I should go to meet her, the townspeople said I’d never find Aja that way. That she had to come to me.” Clara paused in her typing before adding, “And that’s how we met.”
“She appeared on your doorstep one day?” I asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in my voice. If Clara was offended she didn’t show it. She continued.
“One day I was taking a long walk in the jungle outside of town. But I had wandered too far off the path and was lost. It was a hot day and I had foolishly forgotten to bring water with me. I don’t want to exaggerate and say my life was in danger but I was becoming concerned. It’s very humid in that part of the world. Feeling dizzy, I stopped under the shade of a tree to rest. It was then I saw Aja. She just walked up to me and pointed with her arm, saying, ‘There’s a stream of fresh water up ahead. Come, I’ll show you.’ She took me completely by surprise. All she had on was a short, white dress. It was dirty and so was she. Her hair was long—it looked like it had never been cut, never been combed. Yet she looked—how should I say it?—beautiful.”
“She’s a beautiful girl,” I said.
“Yes. But that’s not what I mean. She had an inner beauty—I felt it right away. I followed her to the stream, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she pulled her dress over her head and dove stark naked into the water. It was like the most natural thing in the world to her. I can’t say I followed her example but it was a relief to splash my face and head and take a deep drink. My dizziness passed and I sat and rested on a rock while Aja swam lazily in the stream, mostly on her back, staring up at the blue sky. I didn’t know if it was because of the coolness of the water, or the prettiness of the spot, or the presence of Aja herself, but I began to feel a deep peace settle over me. And I knew that my meeting with Aja had been no accident.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Clara eyed me closely. “I think you know what I mean.”
“I don’t, honestly. Tell me.”
The woman shrugged as best she could with her half-paralyzed body. “I just knew that Aja and I were supposed to be together from then on. But when she got out of the water, after dressing, she took my hand and showed me a way back to the path. Yet she didn’t go with me back to town, not that day, and a part of me felt confused and hurt.”
“Mrs. Smith, may I ask a question?”
“Clara, please. Yes, ask anything you wish.”
“Do you have any children of your own?”
“No. I know what you’re thinking. That I’d always longed for my own child and that meeting Aja was the fulfillment of an old and painful wish. No, you don’t have to apologize. I’d be thinking the same thing if I was in your position. But the truth is, and it might sound cold, but I’d never really wanted children.” Clara paused. “Not until I met Aja.”
“Tell me more.”
“I didn’t see her again for a month. Then, one day, she just showed up while Bart and I were having lunch on the porch. We invited her to stay and eat. She was obviously half-starved—you only had to look at her. It took a while for her to open up but eventually she began to answer our questions.”
“What did you ask her?”
“Normal things. Where do you live? How do you feed yourself? What do you do when it rains? Does anyone ever try to hurt you? This last question made her laugh. She acted as if the idea of her being harmed was totally foreign to her.”
“Excuse me, I meant to ask this earlier. Were you speaking Portuguese the whole time?”
Clara hesitated. “No. Initially, we were only passing through Selva when we heard about Aja. For that matter, we were just visiting Brazil. It wasn’t as if we lived there. Neither Bart nor I spoke Portuguese. When we talked to Aja, it was always in English.”
“Did many of the people in Selva speak English?”
“Very few. It’s a small town and doesn’t get many tourists. If people speak a second language, it’s usually Spanish.”
“Then who taught Aja English?”
“I don’t know. She never said.”
“What led you to Selva in the first place? From what you’ve said, it sounds like a pretty remote place.”
Clara raised her head. “I had a dream about the town.”
“A dream?”
“Yes. A few days before we set out on our trip. The dream was the reason I scheduled a visit to Brazil.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“Los Angeles.”
“I see. So I take it Aja started to stop by regularly?”
“She’d show up once every week or so. Then, after a couple of months, she began to come by more often. Bart and I set up a room for her and she began to stay overnight. After a year or so she almost never left.”
“This started when she was roughly eight years old?”
“We don’t know her actual birth date. And we don’t know anything concrete about her parents, except that they both died when she was around four or five. But the villagers never told us how they died, and Aja would never talk about them.”
“But you believe a few of the villagers did know how they died?”
“Yes. But I think they were afraid to say how.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many years has Aja been with you now?”
“Ten years, almost to the day.”
“Bart gave me the impression it was her idea to move here.”
“That’s true.”
“Do you know why she wanted to come to this particular town?”
Clara looked at me a long time. “You know Aja, she seldom says much. But from hints she’s dropped, I’ve gotten the impression she came here because she was looking for someone.”
“Who?”
Clara smiled. “You.”
I felt my skin burn with fresh blood, although I can’t say her answer surprised me. All along, talking to the woman, I had felt she was leading up to some sort of revelation.
Clara was clearly intelligent; the stroke that had impaired her left side had not damaged her mind. Yet I found her story of meeting Aja disturbingly vague. It had an almost fairy-tale-like quality to it. Indeed, it reminded me of Billard’s encounter with Aja in the cemetery.
At the same time I was certain Clara was not lying.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Clara said when I didn’t respond. She reached out and took my hand, squeezed it for a moment before her fingers returned to her pad.
“I’m glad one of us does,” I said.
“You’re thinking I’m no different from the primitive villagers who lived beside Aja all her life. That I’ve romanticized the story of her life. But the truth is I haven’t told you a fraction of the wild tales surrounding her.”
“You mean I haven’t heard anything yet?”
“Exactly.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not ready to hear it all, not yet. But I promise you, before I sleep tonight, I’ll write down a few things that will help you better understand her.”
“Fred,” I heard a voice speak at my back.
I turned. It was Aja, standing in the dim doorway, wearing a tight red dress, tall black boots, looking anything but saintly, more like sex incarnate. She flashed a bright smile.
“Do you want to go?” Aja asked.
I stood clumsily, somehow feeling that it was rude to leave Clara so abruptly but at the same time anxious to be alone with my date. With my head turned away, I felt Clara pat my hand.
“It was nice to finally meet you, Fred.”
“Likewise,” I replied. The wa
y she said “finally”—I got the impression the woman had been waiting a long time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN THE CAR I saw that my mother had left a message on my cell. I picked it up and was surprised to hear my parents were spending the night in Balen. It seemed my mom’s company was celebrating a huge quarterly success and was throwing a party at a nearby hotel. Because they were going to be out late, and drinking, they thought it best not to try to drive home late. It sounded like my mom’s company was springing for the hotel room.
Aja noticed my uncertain expression. “A change of plans?” she said.
I started the car. “Well, I wanted to take you to Balen so we’d have some privacy. But I just found out my parents are going to be gone for the night. In fact, they’re spending the night in Balen.”
“So there’s no reason to go there.”
I felt like such a dick for blushing. “We could go to my house and hang out but it’s not very exciting there. Besides, I promised you dinner in a fancy restaurant. You’re probably hungry.”
“Do you have food at your house?”
“Leftover turkey. It’s only a day old.”
Aja shrugged. “I like turkey leftovers.”
“You really want to go to my house?”
“Yes.”
I was fortunate I didn’t have to worry if the house was clean. My mother loved to tidy up as much as my father loved to work in the garden. Our house was always immaculate, with the exception of my bedroom. It was not that I was a slob but my space was limited, what with my guitars, amps, and keyboards, never mind my computer and books.
My parents had bought me a tablet the previous Christmas but, for me, there was a special pleasure in holding and reading a real book. I doubted that I’d ever throw out my collection of novels. Besides science fiction, I’d collected tons of mysteries. I had every book Agatha Christie had ever written.
If my friends could have seen me the first half hour I was alone with Aja I’m sure they would have died laughing. For some reason, hanging out with her in the place where I’d grown up made me feel especially nervous and clumsy. For example, in the kitchen, suddenly I couldn’t find a damn thing. I even had trouble finding a pot to boil rice. Then I had trouble remembering how long I was supposed to let it cook. Finally, though, I began to calm down and by the time I had the food on the table I was back to my usual witty self.
“Does Bart do the cooking at your house?” I asked as I sat across from Aja, the width of the table separating us. I’d offered her a beer or a Coke but she seemed to prefer water. She also kept me from piling too much rice, turkey, and steamed broccoli on her plate. Given that she weighed no more than a hundred pounds, I could see why.
“I do most of it,” she said.
“Really? Where did you learn to cook?”
“Aunty taught me. She and her husband owned a restaurant when they were young.”
“She didn’t mention her husband to me.”
“He died not long after they married.”
“She never remarried?”
“She told me there was no point—that she’d never be able to love someone else as much.” Aja added, “I disagreed with her.”
“Isn’t it possible she was right? I mean, isn’t it possible there’s only one special person out there for all of us?”
“No,” Aja said and there was a peculiar authority in her voice, as if she was absolutely certain what she was saying was true.
“You’d never make it in the music business,” I teased. “Almost every song recorded nowadays is about finding your soul mate.”
She spoke in a serious tone. “That’s not what you write about when you compose your songs. I’ve heard them. You write what comes to you from the Big Person.”
“The Big Person?”
She gestured. “I don’t know what you call it. When you write a song, don’t you listen inside, first, before you come up with the lyrics?”
I nodded. “Yeah, usually. I know I write better when I’m alone and the house is quiet. Silence seems to help me connect with my muse.”
“Your muse.” Aja appeared to savor the word. She added, “The Big Person must be the same as the muse.”
“Is ‘Big Person’ a phrase they use where you come from?”
“No.”
“Then why do you use it?”
Aja continued to struggle to find the right words. “To separate it from the Little Person.”
I chuckled as I took a bite of turkey. It didn’t taste bad for leftovers. The rice was pretty good, too. My mom preferred basmati and, like her, I put plenty of ginger in it.
“You’re losing me,” I said. “Who’s the Little Person?”
Aja went to answer but then stopped and smiled. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
After we finished our meal and cleaned up—it was my idea to wash the dishes—we watched a movie. Aja had never seen The Lord of the Rings—she had only seen a handful of films—so I played her a tape of the first installment: The Fellowship of the Ring. She watched the whole thing without uttering a word. But it was obvious she loved it.
It was after midnight when we went up to my bedroom. Aja sat on the edge of my bed and I picked up my acoustic guitar and took a seat beside her and began to strum a few chords. The instrument was out of tune but I remedied that fast enough. Since I was a kid and had first picked up a guitar I’d been able to tune it automatically. It wasn’t bragging to say I could hear notes, precise notes, much clearer than your average person.
“What do you want to hear?” I asked.
“A new song,” she said.
“All my new material is rough.”
“No. Play something brand-new.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“You can do it. Just . . . let it find you.”
“Let it find me?”
She nodded. “Let your muse find it for you.”
Aja sounded so confident that I could do what she was suggesting I didn’t have the heart to tell her I didn’t think my muse was actually alive and on call. Like I often did when I was alone, I strummed a few minor chords—E, A, D, G—switching them around randomly before I began to play individual notes in the same chord structures.
For a while I just let the hypnotic flavor of the chords ease over me. I love the sound of the guitar; I love to just randomly pick at the strings. This time, however, after ten minutes or so, I began to feel a soothing heat inside. It seemed to radiate from my gut and rise up and flow through my fingers. I noticed I’d begun to play faster, my fingers flying between the frets. It was odd but I felt as if I’d touched something special and if I just reached a little farther, a little harder, I’d know what it was and I’d be able to play it.
Then I had it, a brand-new melody. I began to hum along with it, occasionally throwing in a line now and then. I was far from having a complete song but I knew I’d stumbled onto something.
I began to sing aloud. . . .
“Strange girl
Where did you come from?
Where have you been?
Strange one
You’re so full of secrets
I can’t see within
Strange girl
You move so softly
Across the stage
My eyes can’t leave you
I’m hiding backstage
You’re a closed book
I can’t read a page
I suddenly stopped, feeling embarrassed. “God, I’m not sure if that worked. The words I mean. But the melody—there’s something there. What do you think?”
“I liked the words. I liked them a lot.”
I chuckled. “That’s because you’re not a songwriter. I was just throwing out lines. That’s how I compose songs. I’ll throw out a dozen lines and if I’m lucky I keep one.”
Aja was curious. “What lines would you keep tonight?”
“Well, maybe the first handful. They might work as a chorus. Maybe a few other
s.”
“Maybe all of them?”
“No way.”
“Why not?” she asked.
I hesitated. I wanted to tell her that the words made me think of her too much. That she, and not my muse, had inspired them. But there was no way I was going to tell any girl something like that on a first date.
Aja appeared to sense my shyness and put her hand on my knee. “You’re worried you won’t succeed. But you will.”
The certainty in her voice, it was odd, it seemed to vibrate a chord deep inside.
“How can you be so sure?” I said.
Squeezing my knee, Aja stared at me with her big, brown eyes. “It will be okay, Fred,” she said.
“You didn’t answer my question. How can you be so sure?”
“The Big Person.”
I smiled. “He told you?”
“Yes.”
She kissed me then, or else I kissed her. I honestly don’t know who made the first move. It wasn’t a brief kiss, nor was it long; somehow it was timeless. The next thing I knew we were lying on my bed. I was stroking her hair and running my hand over her shoulder and down the side of her hip and leg. And Aja was touching my face and the feel of her fingers—there was something extraordinary about them.
Her touch was not merely loving. I felt as if her hands were actually made out of love. I knew that was crazy, yet it felt so real. I’d like to say that I felt as if I was falling in love with her right then but the love I felt coming from her—it seemed so much bigger than anything a normal human heart could conjure up. It was like a tidal wave of caring, of intimacy—of something so big that perhaps only a Big Person could really understand it. All I knew for sure was that I’d never met anyone even remotely like Aja.
Then my phone rang. It rang and rang and I was forced to answer it. The screen on my cell said it was Dale. He wouldn’t call this late unless it was important. I propped myself up on the bed with my elbow.
“Hello?” I mumbled.
“Fred, it’s Dale. We have a problem.”
“We do?” I said. He sounded bad.
“It’s Mike. When you canceled practice he got restless. He drove over to Balen. I tried to stop him but he said he had some business to take care of. I knew it could be nothing good. Turns out he went to pick up five pounds of pot at the home of some big dealer. Someone must have tipped off the cops. He was followed by the police, and when he was inside the dealer’s house, completing the deal, the cops hit the place. There was a shooting. Mike didn’t get hit with a bullet but he got hit over the head hard. I don’t know the full story, only what the cops told me. The dealer might have struck Mike, thinking he’d set him up, or else Mike might have gotten into a fight with the cops. You know how he gets when he’s cornered. They might have cracked him over the head with a baton. But his injury—it’s serious. I spoke to the emergency doctor just before Mike was wheeled into surgery. He told me there could be brain damage.” Dale started crying. “Fred, I don’t know what to do. The doctor said I have to prepare myself for the worst.”
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