“Does it hurt, going through?”
“No, of course not. It’s very thin, just loud. You’ll see.”
The crashing freaks me the fuck out. Makes me think about drowning accidents. Diego can probably run a marathon with a keg on his back if he wanted to, but he might not realize I’m not so invincible.
“I don’t know…”
He tilts his head, like Awww, that’s sweet. Eyes on mine, teasing and giving at the same time. His hand finds mine under water and pulls it toward his own body as it moves. He’s pulling me in along with him.
I tighten up, resisting. My teeth are clamped shut, the water sputtering in my eyes. Oh god.
“It’s okay, Lia. Come on. One… two…”
“Diego!”
I hear myself squeal, not unlike an anime character. No use.
“Three!”
I’m yanked forward, and now that I know it’s definitely happening, I move with him like we’re tobogganing and I’m in the back, unable to see the bottom of the hill and just hoping the big guy in front knows what he’s doing.
Turns out, it’s wet.
A gigantic showerhead set on power massage, or the sensation of getting punched all over by a toddler in puffy boxing gloves. My hair plastered over my forehead like I’m a Lego man. Kinda strange, kinda violent, but not painful. I can see people finding it therapeutic, like having your back walked on.
I’m through this liquid force field, but my eyes are shut, full of water. I feel Diego guide me forward until I’m on sturdier ground, and I stop to wipe my eyes, gliding my hands over my wet-slick hair. At last, I open my eyes and look past droplet-twinkly lashes.
“Oh! Wow. I’ve never— Diego, it’s amazing.”
“It’s okay, hay?” He’s a few paces ahead of me, all serpentine muscle shadows.
Issokay. And it is.
11
I’m standing knee-deep in the water, but it’s much warmer than it was on the other side of the falls, my feet tingly and sending pleasure signals to my brain. I have the creepy-gross feeling like it’s pee water, but I remind myself I’m not at a suburban kiddie pool.
The ground feels strange as I take little steps forward. Cooler than the water, which doesn’t make sense. Unless it’s a natural spring. And yeah, it probably is.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” I’m on autopilot, reacting in an awed loop.
It should be dark but it isn’t, not quite. Everything is glow and shadow. Dappled light everywhere; I can feel it deep in my solar plexus, the place that tenses up like an angry fist so often.
We’re standing in tourmaline water. It looks chemiluminescent, as though someone broke open hundreds of blue and yellow glow sticks and dumped them in so they mingle, bright and translucent. Then we arrive and mix things up, creating ripples and erratic refractions. I’ve always loved that, the way you can see watery shadows on walls and ceilings.
Shafts of sun beam in from a wide opening in what I would name the Sanctuary, a natural, rounded roof about twenty-five feet high. Beyond it I can see the flag-blue sky and waxy green vine leaves spilling over, dangling down the lagoon. Every few feet a pink blossom accessorizes the vine like a kid barrette.
Lazy, gold light hangs, a hazy tractor beam that could go only to heaven, though I seem to be already there. It seems literally to be “heaven” as it’s been painted throughout history, the cave walls an unearthly white that sparkle-burst when photons meet them, natural baths the color of gemstones. Minerals and miracles.
But then, this must be a more contemporary artwork because Diego stands in the foreground like he’s been Photoshopped in, facing forward but turned at the hip to look back at me.
He shadows easily, all those carefully carved muscles and blunt-cut bones jutting at angles. Rich darkness cuts away from the cheek, the cleft of the lower back, below the brow. If he were the moon, he’d be a thick crescent.
“Don’t tell Jose I showed you.”
Diego’s watching me coolly. A tiger in a tree, heavy body in unperturbed stillness – no need to tense up because the subject in question clearly isn’t a threat. I’m someone to be studied with equanimity.
“Where am I?”
My voice hits the space like water shadows, light and loose.
“My childhood.” There’s humor in his voice, but it still surprises me. There’s a personal note in all of this. Is this part of his inner-friend-circle initiation?
For me it’s a rare glimpse of another world, or worlds, since it’s already become a heaven, a childhood, a mineral lagoon, a place I thought only existed in cinema.
“This place looks like something from a movie.”
He nods.
“Or maybe it’s more like a dream,” I continue.
“Then we’re having the same dream.”
I really like that. I’m encouraged.
“Why is the water warmer here? Is there a spring?”
“Si.” He nods. “I’ll show you.”
He extends his arm, palm up, the joint at the base of his thumb jutting out into a sharp turn where his hand is widest, the part he pressed against my back earlier. His fingers are strong, the nails trim and rounded. He keeps himself in good condition, like Genesis. A loose green-and-purple string bracelet circles his wrist, darkened with dampness. A lone red pony bead is knotted awkwardly in place. Looks like a child’s craft.
“Hey, nice bracelet,” I point, immediately sorry I’ve done it. What if it’s from, I don’t know, some supermodel who loves DIY projects but just doesn’t have time to whip up a nicer gift because she’s posing for Vogue? I think that would make me feel weird.
“A gift from my niece.”
“Oh, right.” Relief sweet as soft-serve.
He fingers the plastic bead. I make my face serious.
“Is that a real diamond?”
He grins widely in a silent laugh, but at the bracelet and not me.
The masculine hand, the open gesture, the love for his niece, and – my favorite – his shy laugh at my joke. Irresistible.
He drops his hand and moves onward. I follow, up to my hips now, wading dreamily in Esmeralda. We pass under friendly sunbeams, the warmth of the sun full of love as it wanders over my skin.
“Watch your step,” he drawls over his shoulder.
We’ve come to a small natural pool the size of a big bathtub. It’s overflowing, and I see it’s the source of the water all around us. A small space when shared with someone as large as the company I’m keeping.
He walks on a short trail of stones that look like they’ve been deliberately placed, and then lowers his body down into the spring.
My jaw slackens as he uses his arms to lower his heavy body into the “tub.” Is he the kind of friend who hugs on birthdays and when he hasn’t seen you in a while? Or even every time you meet? I know he isn’t, but I extend the fantasy anyway. I could maybe sometimes come up from behind and sling an arm around him, affectionately but platonically. It’s just that I want to touch him so badly. Copping a feel of a deliciously toned tricep or two couldn’t do much damage. His eyes close, and he tips his head back as if it’s involuntary, lost in the experience.
I copy his route along the rocks and slide my body neatly into the water like I’m back home, taking my evening bath. If I close my eyes I can see the beige tiles with the retro starburst motif, the toothpaste-white caulking around the edge of the porcelain tub.
When I open my lids I’m in a surreal cave-bath, in my underwear with the newest, most attractive friend I’ve got. In a rainforest. That’s on a volcano.
The crazy thing is, it’s here that’s the real world. The boring bathroom scene is the dream.
The pool is hot and slightly effervescent, so it’s like we’re sitting in a big soda fountain.
“This is like the spa,” I breathe.
“It’s good for your skin, your health.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he teases, exaggerating my accent. The corner
of his mouth slides up one cheek. “The water’s full of minerals. It’s supposed to keep away infection and cleanse your system through your skin.”
“Interesting.”
“Our parents took us here when we were young, a few times each year to keep away sickness.”
“Really? That’s pretty cool of them.”
He shrugs, an arm coming up, exposing the breadth of his shoulders, pulling his hair into a fist and squeezing the water out of it. So casual, with no real clue about the effect it has on the girl in front of him.
“It’s just tradition.”
“Did it work?”
“The minerals?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh, I dunno,” he says thoughtfully, confiding. “Truly, I never thought about it. I don’t get sick very often. Neither does Genesis, actually. But, that doesn’t mean anything…”
His body language is saying we’ve gone into sensitive territory. Family stuff; typical. Looks like he wants to backpedal again.
“The color looks fake,” I say quietly, my bottom lip at the surface, chin submerged. “I mean, in a good way.”
“I know. I don’t get used to it, the way it looks.”
“Strange that it’s so beautiful and also beneficial. Maybe there’s a reason.”
“Nature has a way of communicating.”
I like that very much. His eyes look esmeralda like the name of this place, and bright like he’s made of the same stuff as the water. He may as well be. He might have come to life right inside this pool, a safe and fruitful womb where mysterious creatures are born.
He moves as comfortably in the water as he does panthering along the trail. Like his fear valve has been shut off. Or maybe he’s just the king of the rainforest. I wouldn’t be surprised.
It’s obvious to me now that there are layers and layers to Diego, and that the brooding laborer with the unapologetic once-overs is him at his most primitive. Diego Primitivo. Anchored in that part of the man is the ego, attached to sexuality and mortality: it’s his slipperiest and most instinctive self. Those dark red hues of worldly attachment and animal instinct lick upward and hide the subtler, more complex layers of his humanity. And maybe I can say the same for myself.
I imagine that in purifying ourselves together, the crust of ego and all of its toxicity has indeed washed off, cleansed me. My guard is down like an unrolled window.
“I wonder, if this water were ugly, would we still seek it?”
Silence.
“You ask funny questions, gringa.”
“Maybe it doesn’t translate.”
“No. No, I’m thinking about what you said.”
“I’ve been in natural hot springs in Banff, in Canada,” I start. “It was more built up like a spa, but the color of the water was almost like this. Like jade.”
We’ve come naturally closer in conversation, and he’s anchored himself onto the rocky edge with one hand flat on the stone, his body bobbing under the surface. I’ve got my arms straightened by my sides, holding the rock protruding underneath. It’s silty, but I can grip it easily with a finger from either hand and stretch my body out comfortably in front of me. It’s easy to float.
The water loves me like it does Diego: we’re cradled, our bodies half-obscured in the thick of it.
“The Rocky Mountains,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Huh?”
“That place with the hot springs. I know it, but I’ll fuck up the name.” He rolls his eyes, a bit sheepish. “The name of the town.”
“Banff?”
“That’s right. How do you spell it?”
“B-A-N-F-F.”
“Baff.”
“Banff.”
“Banth.”
“Close enough.” It’s funny, but I don’t want to make him feel foolish. “Have you been there?”
“When I was young. All I remember was the mountains everywhere, and the glacier lakes. Azul. Beautiful.”
“Did your family travel a lot when you were a kid?”
“Well, once or twice a year. That’s a lot for a family around here, but it’s not like we were world travelers.”
“So where did you go?”
He looks up in a squint, remembering.
“To the US a few times. My uncle lives there, in Miami.”
Again he looks away like something’s simmering. He’s an animal and also a heavy cage, completely free and trapped at the same time. It’s a wonderful riddle. Or a Strokes song.
He half-stands to shift positions and I turn away, shyness showing up in random spurts and taking me by surprise. When the water is still again and I hear him exhale, I turn back and he’s closer. Maybe it’s only inches, but he’s turned toward me and his body is so protrusive we may as well be sitting in a thimble trying to ignore each other.
Those backlit eyes are so liquid it makes me thirsty. In some Bond film opening, I’m swimming around inside them in a mod white monokini. Nina Simone singing low and moody. Volcano Mountain, it would be called.
He leans toward me conspiratorially, and then his eyes fall and snag on my lips. In a way I’ve seen a boy do before. Oh god.
Is he going to kiss me?
His lips part slightly. I begin to freak out quietly, heart like a helicopter. But it’s all for nothing. I’m way off.
“My mother died.” He drops it on me like a crystal chandelier.
Oh.
“She died one year ago, just over one year,” he continues. “I never really believed in this shit since I was a kid, but I’ve been praying for her soul. Sorry. The family trip made me think of it. Actually, I think about it a lot anyway.”
We are inches apart. I feel my mouth form a soft O shape.
A sad Diego had never occurred to me.
I want to say I’m sorry, but the words seem empty and I want to respect his confession. It feels natural to communicate this simply by returning his gaze with kind eyes. The intensity makes me feel like my eyeballs take up my whole face, like I don’t exist outside of the world that is in those inches between us.
“What was her name?” I ask, quiet.
“Anarosa. Rosa.”
“I’m so sorry, Diego.”
“It’s weird, I can’t stop thinking about it. Death. Life. Family,” he says, the English words skidding into one another, lubricated by his accent. He glances at me quickly, and I nod in agreement. He continues.
“Everything changed. Everything changed, but it’s so much the same, this small town, the beach, the tourists…” He trails off.
We are quiet for a few moments. I might know how to comfort a girlfriend, but I wish I knew what he needed.
Maybe this explains everything – maybe he’s been needing someone to talk to. A friend. I hear myself start to relate in the only way I know how.
“I had an accident once, and it changed how I see life.”
“Yeah? How?”
“I got darker, you know? It really did change me. I ask more questions now, bigger questions,” I reply, fading out at the end.
“Me too.”
I glance at him sideways. “I still don’t know the answers.”
He shakes his head. “Neither do I.”
“Even though I wouldn’t want to go through the last year again, I learned a lot. That’s something.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
Diego is in pain. He’s a son without his mother, trying to be a warrior when his heart is broken, bleeding. In the dark and protection of a cave, he let me in on it. If I know guys, this is a big deal. He’s raw. The ego was stripped and has been overcompensating.
“I’ll say a prayer for her too, if you want,” I start, not really knowing where I’m going. “I mean, I don’t usually pray, but I could try. Maybe it will help to have one more person thinking about her.”
He doesn’t say anything, and we are quiet for a minute or so.
I hope that wasn’t a disaster. I’m not at all well-versed in this stuff, coming from a weddings-and-fu
nerals kind of religious experience. Again I feel a boost of lucid awareness. I wouldn’t have predicted talking in a cave about prayer and death with a boy I want to dry-hump, but weird is starting to feel normal.
Actually, for the first time in Costa Rica, talking about death of all things, I feel at home.
“Thanks, Lia.”
“Sorry, I don’t know…”
“Muchas gracias. Es precioso.”
He’s right – this has been a precious moment, like something you can hold and drop and shatter.
“I wonder what time it is?” he asks up to the dome ceiling above us.
“Good question.” It could have been half an hour or ninety minutes since we wandered in here.
He sits with it for a moment, then wrenches himself out of the water.
“I have a feeling it’s late. I’m going to run out and check my phone. Can you follow me out on your own?”
Heaven-bubble goes pop.
“Definitely.” I’ll move faster if I don’t feel I have to impress him, anyway. Can it be that late? I know the bus is leaving at four. Maybe he’s overreacting.
I’m dripping along and navigating the inner edge of the cave. I come to the sheet of waterfall again, my old foe. Rather than dwelling on it, I charge through with the knowledge that it didn’t hurt me the first time.
Celebrating my survival, I wipe my eyes and scan the big, bright pool for Diego, but the change in light is drastic and all I see is a blurry figure.
“We gotta go, gringa, it’s three twenty!”
“What?!”
“I know. We have to haul ass.”
In my frantic frenzy I’m amused that he knows “haul ass.” I guess it’s a surf thing.
The trip back to the bus is a crazed, blistering blur of running with wet underwear, yanking underwear off, going commando in shorts and paying for it.
The first leg of the journey back is fun because I’m full of energy. Feeling rejuvenated from the mineral soak, it’s easy to keep pace with him when he jogs. My feet are blistered, but the momentum of our quiet run keeps me moving. We could be two animals springing through the forest, deer or gazelles bounding weightlessly.
We have a couple miles to go when I start to feel queasy, and even Diego needs to stop for refueling. He leans over with his palms on his knees, looking up at me exhausted and ruddy.
Lessons in Pure Life Page 12
