Life During Wartime

by Lucius Shepard

“Maybe not. But I’m going to learn what’s happening, and nothing I feel for you is going to get in the way.”

  “I don’t believe I’m hearing this shit,” he said. “I mean you musta got this dialogue from a bad movie. ‘Forgive me, Manuel. But until all wrongs are righted, my heart belongs to the cause.’”

  She slapped him hard on the cheek, slapped him again, coming at him with a flurry that stung both sides of his face. He grabbed her wrists, and when she tried to knee him, he shoved her away. “You bastard!” she said, standing with her hands clawed, staring at him like a madwoman through strands of hair. “Stupid bastard!” Then she spun on her heel and strode off, disappearing behind one of the huts.

  He clenched his fists, needing to hit something, but found only air. The little girls watched him, big-eyed and solemn. “Take my advice,” he said. “Grow up to be lesbians.”

  They exchanged stares and giggled.

  “I’m serious,” he told them. “It’s got to be easier than this shit.” He ambled toward the river, rubbing the sting from his cheeks, looking at the hut behind which Debora had vanished. “I love you, too,” he said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Some days it seemed he was moving through a vacuum, an airless gray created by his lack of purpose, and other days it seemed he wasn’t moving at all, that life was flowing past beneath a projection of rock upon which he had been stranded. He had nothing to do, nowhere to go: He had come to the end of purpose, and though the frustration caused by Debora’s rejection had acted to shore up his feelings for her, she was a problem he had no energy to solve; he thought she might be right about the comparative values of commitment and emotion, and he envied her capacity for denial, because seeing her every day drove him to distraction. Whenever their paths crossed he would—like a vampire anticipating a hot feast—relish every detail of scent and dewy fever; he would imagine himself following her to Panama, saving her life, and receiving infinite gratification. He had the idea that she was delaying her departure, that she was having trouble putting him behind her; but while this augured well for his chances with her, he knew that to take advantage of those chances he would have to endure more war, and he doubted he was capable of endurance. The memories of the dead men in his wake were weights bracketed to his heart, holding him in place. He could feel them. They were solid and fundamental restraints. And even more solid, more fundamental, was the idea that he was a pawn in a centuries-old feud. He wasn’t sure he believed that to be the case: spoken out loud it had the ring of fantasy. Yet each time he added up the elements of his experience, it seemed clear that fantasy and truth were in union. He saw that the feuding families in Pastorín’s stories, the playful way he had been maneuvered, and much of the war were imbued with a common character, a whimsical arrogance, and this enforced his belief. Belief made him angry, and anger made him eager to explore the perversity that underlay the war. But anger and eagerness were outfaced by his spiritual exhaustion, and so he did nothing.

  He went often to the hollow, occasionally accompanied by Nate Lubove. Sunsets were the best time. The shafts of light bathing the chopper would burn red and orange through the canopy, kindling fiery glints from the cockpit, scalloping the black metal with gleams, and the huge silhouette would take on the aspect of an evil Easter egg waiting for a monster child to reach down and snatch it. Mingolla would feel that the light was congealing around him, armoring him in orange and black, and he would think darkly romantic thoughts concerning solitary adventures and high purpose. Whenever the computer addressed him, he would refuse to respond: he didn’t want its solace or companionship. Its skeleton pilot and divine mechanical voice seemed to him emblems of the fraudulence of the war, and he sat beside it only to remind himself of this state of affairs.

  Now and then he tried to engage Nate in conversation, and for the most part Nate begged off. Always a minimal soul, he was growing more minimal, less inclined to both speech and action, content to watch his butterflies, and Mingolla, who, like him, sensing a resonance between them, chalked up his taciturnity to a brooding nature. Once, however, Nate did talk to him, telling stories about the wars he’d covered. Afghanistan, Kampuchea, Angola. He’d come to be a war tourist, spending his days in luxury hotels talking to other bored correspondents, comparing the current conflict with the various back-fence wars they’d seen, filing sentimental human interest pieces and getting drunk with ex-presidents while mortar fire chewed the surroundings into ruins.

  “I’ve never experienced a war like this, though,” he said, kicking his heels against the boulder. “It’s insane. And the most insane part of it is in Panama.”

  “You’ve been there?” Mingolla asked.

  “Yes, a year ago. The place was a puzzle. Most of the city went on as usual, but one barrio—Barrio Clarín—was barricaded from the rest. The official word was that it had been quarantined, but no one could tell you what disease had caused the quarantine. It was impossible to get clearance to enter it, but we heard things. Rumors of pitched battles in the streets. And stranger rumors yet. They sounded ridiculous, but you kept hearing them over and over, and you couldn’t help but pay attention to them.”

  “Tell me,” said Mingolla.

  “There’s not much to tell. Just that people said there were some sort of negotiations going on in Barrio Clarín, something to do with the war. That’s all. I have no verification of it, of course. But I saw some things that, uh, while they weren’t verification, they did tend to lend substance to the rumors. For instance, I saw the doctor who managed my therapy entering the barrio. It was at a distance, but I could never mistake Izaguirre for anyone else.”

  “Izaguirre!”

  “Do you know him?”

  “He was in charge of my therapy, too.”

  “You were in Mexico City, then?”

  “No,” said Mingolla. “Roatán.”

  “Hmm.” Nate looked down at the chopper. “The doctor gets around, doesn’t he?” He let out a pained sigh. “Well, I suppose it must all come clear in Panama.”

  “What…” Mingolla began, wanting to question Nate further about Izaguirre, but Nate cut him off.

  “I’m so terribly weary of all this blood, this confusion,” he said. “It seems my life has been nothing but blood and confusion. The other day I was trying to remember something pleasant out of all my times at war, and I could only recall one thing that struck me as of moment. Such a small thing, too. Yet because it’s unique, I suppose I’ve magnified it.”

  Mingolla asked Nate to tell him, impressed by the fact that he could recall anything pleasant of war.

  “It was the summer of ’89, Afghanistan,” said Nate. “The Bamian Valley. Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  “It was beautiful. There were dust storms to the south, and the sunsets…Unbelievable! Violent red and yellow skies, the colors melting before your eyes, and the hills black against them. Like a prehistoric landscape. There was a boy, a young boy, he’d lost his leg to a Russian mine, and he’d lost his voice, too. Or at least he wouldn’t talk to anyone. Not even me…though he was curious about me because of my blond hair. They were all curious about that. I had with me a thumb piano. Do you know this? A little wooden box, hollow, with metal strips for keys. Twelve keys, I think. You strike them with your thumbs, and they make a brittle tinkling music. An African instrument. The boy was fascinated. I was not so good a player, you understand. I only used it to accompany my thoughts, my reveries. And when I saw the boy’s interest in the instrument, I gave it to him.” Nate yawned, leaned back on an elbow. “I taught him how to strike the keys, and he would sit for hours with it on his lap. Of course I was occupied with other matters. Russian fighters would launch rocket strikes at our positions, and I was working with a film crew, shooting the battles. So for a time I forgot the boy and the thumb piano. Then one night I was walking on the perimeter of the camp. Beautiful night.” Nate slumped lower, resting his head on his arm. Blinked sleepily. His speech grew slurred, slower. “Stars
, more stars than you see down here, because the air was so clear. A sickle moon, cold and silver. Cool air. A night of clarity. And I came across the boy sitting on a rock looking out over the valley. He was playing the thumb piano. His shoulders hunched, his face intent upon the instrument, a shadow against the stars and the dark blue sky. God, how he played! So fluent, so expressive! He’d outstripped the limits of the twelve notes. Cold rippling arpeggios that seemed to be making the stars dance, with simple melodies stated above them. Poignant melodies, sad melodies. It had power, the music. Power like Bach, even though it had no great amplitude or range. For a moment I wasn’t sure it was the boy playing. I thought he must be a spirit, that if I moved closer I would discover he was a creature of shadow without eyes or mouth or any feature. The war was in the music, the strength of the people.” Nate sat up straighter, drew a deep breath. “They weren’t an admirable people, you see…though much was made of their nobility, their fighting spirit. They were murderers and thieves, many of them. For example, I spoke to one man who told me that years before he’d learned that young travelers were selling their blood to hospitals in Kabul. He’d been inspired by this to ambush travelers going through the Khyber Pass. He’d cut their throats and store their blood in leather sacks. And when he had collected what he assumed to be a fortune in blood, he’d taken the sacks to Kabul. The blood was rotten, of course, and he’d been terribly distressed when the hospital wouldn’t buy it. Now he thought the whole thing absurd, that it had been a big joke on him. That was how a lot of them were. But whatever was good about them, it was in that music the boy played. The purity of their determination, their love of the land. I”—another yawn—“I still hear it sometimes. It seems to be playing in my nerves. When I’m sleepy, like now.”

  He appeared to doze off for a couple of seconds, and Mingolla, astonished by how much this reminded him of Amalia, shook him awake.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “The humidity,” said Nate. “I’ve never gotten used to the humidity down here. I’m always having drowsiness.”

  “You looked sick or something.”

  “No, it’s only the humidity. The heat doesn’t trouble me…but in Israel it’s dry, you understand.”

  Mingolla wasn’t convinced, but let it pass. “What’s it like in Israel these days?”

  “I have no idea. It’s been years since I was there…years.” Nate stared at a far-off point in the canopy. “I can hardly remember it.”

  Ordinarily Mingolla would have passed off this last comment as well, but there had been an anxious undertone to Nate’s voice that made it seem a matter of real concern. He asked Nate what he did remember, and Nate, uncomfortable with the question, muttered something about inflation and militance, and refused to discuss the subject.

  “I don’t get much pleasure from remembering it,” he said, and Mingolla, guilty over having pressed him, said he could understand that.

  Returning from the hollow one evening, he noticed a trail leading south away from the village yet angled toward the river, and on impulse he set off down it. The trail was densely overgrown, running for the most part uphill, and by the time he reached a thicketed bluff overlooking the river, he was sweaty and begrimed. Twilight had blended water and jungle into a gray medium, and mist was forming in mid-stream; but full dark was still a half-hour off, and Mingolla thought he would have a swim. He threaded his way down the bluff and was about to push through the wall of brush bordering the bank, when he spotted Debora. She was buttoning her dress, and he had a glimpse of her high small breasts before white cotton closed them in. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, and after she had done all her buttons, she removed the towel and let the hair spill over her back. She sat on the bank, legs dangling over the edge. Beside her stood a tent, its peak outlined against a band of pink light that showed above the treeline on the far side of the river. Mingolla stood a minute considering the possibilities, realized there was just one, and pushed through the brush.

  She started at the noise, turned toward him. He had expected her to react violently, but she only said, “What are you doing here?”

  “Walking,” he said, “I didn’t know this was your place.”

  “I stay here some nights. There’s a hot springs.”

  He sat next to her. The water below was crystal clear, bubbling from a limestone cavity, and he could make out tiny fish darting over a pebbled bottom. “How hot is it?”

  “Too hot to touch at the source. But farther out it’s just warm. You should try it.”

  Her solicitude made him think he could talk to her, but he found he had nothing much to say. He felt her eyes on him.

  “I’ll be leaving soon,” she said, her voice icy.

  The action of the springs made a racy turbulent sound that was audible above the rush of the current.

  “Do you want to come with me?”

  Startled, he tried to catch her eye, but she had turned away.

  “It’ll be easier with someone else along,” She gave a twitch of her head as if she wanted to look at him but was fighting the urge. “It’s up to you.”

  Her shirt was molded to the wet curve of her ribcage, and he could see tension there, tension in her cabled neck, the stillness of her head.

  “Well?” she said.

  “I don’t have the strength for it anymore.”

  “That’s not true,” she said. “You’re just tired…like how you get after you’ve been hiking, and when you lie down, your muscles ache and you don’t think you can go on. But once you do, you’re all right again.”

  “You have Nate,” he said. “He’ll share the load.”

  “I know, but…”

  “But it’s not the same, right? Why don’t you be honest, why don’t you tell me the real reason you want me along?”

  He traced the line of her jaw, and she shivered—an all-over shiver, the way a colt reacts to something unfamiliar in the wind—but she didn’t pull away. “Because I want you, because I want to make love with you…is that what you want me to say?”

  “If it’s true.” He moved his hand to her shoulder, lower, felt her heartbeat. The band of pink in the west had deepened to crimson, widened, its shape like a flame blown back in a strong wind, and the curve of her cheek held a red sheen.

  “Of course it’s true. I can’t hide it, I’ve never been able to hide it. Maybe that is part of the reason, but it’s the smallest part.”

  “Because it’s suspect, because everything is suspect.” He heard the seductive challenge in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “The only way it won’t be suspect is if you learn to trust it.”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Then why do you want me along? You think we’re going to be buddies or something? That it?”

  “No…I…”

  “You have to trust it, you have to trust something.”

  “I want to,” she said. “I do, but I can’t.”

  He turned her, his hands went to her waist. “Why not?”

  Her words came in a fragmented rush. “It’s just never been good, not with…and…I want to…I want for it…”

  He slipped one hand up under her shirt, and she caught her breath, holding very still.

  “No,” she said weakly.

  “I love you,” he said, inching his hand higher. “And you love me.”

  “I’m trying not to,” she said.

  “What for?”

  His thumb nudged the swell of her breast, rubbed slowly back and forth, a sleepy rhythm. Her head drooped to the side as if her attention had been attracted by a faint sound on the far bank, and he kissed the angle where her neck and shoulder joined. The cool green taste of the river and the warmth of her skin mixed on his tongue. Like a hypnotist, he locked on to her eyes as he undid her blouse. She made a sound that started to be a rejection but died in the back of her throat. He spread the halves of the blouse, bent to her breasts, nuzzled them, kissed their tips, teasing the nipples hard. When he took on
e in his mouth, worked it gently with his teeth, she shuddered and put her hands on the back of his head, guiding him.

  “Wait,” she said. “Wait.”

  But he was through waiting and drew her down on the bank, his hand moving to her belly, lower, feeling the softness beneath her jeans, knowing she was open, ready.

  “Wait!”

  This time she shrilled it, and dismayed, startled, wondering if he’d hurt her, he let her go. She rolled away from him, stood, holding her blouse closed. “I can’t,” she said. “I don’t even know you.”

  That could be argued, he thought, but why bother? He sat up, his balls aching. He was puzzled, though not by her reaction. Women were always making this mistake, discovering in the middle of things that they weren’t prepared for you to touch them here or there or somewhere, leaving you doubled over in pain. No, he was just generally puzzled. Looking at the bubbled surface of the spring, it seemed he was staring down through the strata of his various conditions. Blue-balled, on a riverbank at sunset, in the midst of a rain forest, the midst of war, surrounded by lunatics and Indians, in Guatemala. And binding it all together the strange web of his relationship with this woman. He wondered why he wasn’t more puzzled.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s just skip it.” He turned to the far bank, and when he looked back a minute later, he found that she had gone.

  Darkness sifted in, the moon was still down, and not wanting to negotiate the trail without a flashlight, he crawled into the tent. It had her smell, and that made him feel isolated among the night cries and the slop of the river. Too bad the tent wasn’t equipped with a phone. He’d make some calls. His parents, of course. Just for the sake of getting oriented to the American wavelength, a dose of salt and Nutra-Sweet. Hi, Mom, hi, Dad, here I am with gun and camera in Mangoland, the war’s no worse than a Disney Tru-Life Adventure narrated by a noble voice, and I’ll be home soon with souvenirs, bye, Mom, bye, Dad. And then, then maybe he’d give Sparky’s a buzz, his hometown hangout. He could picture it. Sparky the old fart scuttling crabwise for the phone, saying, “Yeah, whatcha want?” and he’d say, “Hey, Spark. It’s David Mingolla calling from Guatemala.” And Sparky would repeat the name a couple of times and say, “Sure…Davy! Cheeseburger plate and a lemon Coke, right? How the hell are ya?” he’d say with false heartiness, recalling what a big shot Mingolla’s father was, and Mingolla would say, “I’m kicking ass down here, Spark. Refrying them beaners, y’know.” Because Sparky was a hardcore patriot and why get into it? Then he’d ask who was around, and Sparky would say, “Well, nobody you’d know, what with your crowd split up and all.” And maybe he’d bag calling Sparky’s, he didn’t need a reminder that those days were gone. Who else could he call? Light bulb switching on overhead. Yeah! He’d call up Long Island Woman. Give her a chill and a thrill. What was today? He counted on his fingers. Friday. Damn! They’d be out for a pizza and a movie, their idea of a hot date, and home around midnight for a bout of uninspired sex. Four times a week, regular as sin. Less would be unsalubrious. He remembered the first time they’d made love, how just as they were about to do the deed, she’d drawn back and said in a cool clinical voice, “At home we always do it on our sides. That way neither of us has to bear the other’s weight.” He’d been amazed by her sexual naïveté, yet knowing this about her had given him a sense of mastery, and maybe that had been responsible for his loving her. You didn’t need much of a reason for love; that had been proved again with Debora, And it might be that lack of knowledge was a stimulant to emotion, that things were most alluring when they were not quite real…Naw…he’d bag that call, too. He needed to talk to Debora. In a way, she hung on to revolution with the same avidity that Long Island Woman had hung on to marriage. But there was some hope for her. He’d buzz her on the jungle hotline. “Listen,” he’d say, and hold out the phone to catch the electric message of the night, the crickets and frogs with glowing eyes, the red-skulled monkeys with vibratory tongues, the black magic birds with tympany beaks, and she would tune in to what they were saying separately and unanimously, saying in music, saying in code, in clicks and squeals and arcs of iridescent noise. There is no reason There is no reason There is no reason, and she would be mesmerized, and she would understand, and she would give up her fear.