The Weight of Nothing

by Gillis, Steven;

  The path through the hills was a quarter mile from the beach and well above the sea. The grass was dry, rolling across eddies and hollow curves in the earth. Occasionally he was greeted by a stretch of coolness and shade though for the most part he remained exposed to sharp splinters of sun. In the distance, cypress trees appeared to blacken against the rising heat while far out in the water the sea was a darker shade of green. He walked until the muscles in his legs went from weary to an unsteady ache, and staring down he spotted a large stretch of sea absent bathers and descended to the beach where he slipped off his jeans and T-shirt and entered the water in his undershorts.

  The warmth surprised him. He was prepared for a chill, but instead was taken in by a new kind of heat, all liquid and clement, fitting around him snugly as he swam out fifty yards or more through the silvery foam. Away from land, he thought again of Bailey and then of Jeana. He swam on, dove down, the water providing an ineffable abyss, the salt in the sea stinging the wound on his belly as he held his breath and plunged further, his feet kicking hard as if he was being chased. When he came up at last, gasping from the full exertion of his dive, he settled into a steady stroke, the muscles in his back and arms springing to life as the muted blue of the distant sky covered him. He swam parallel to the shore, a good distance from the beach, churning on even as his arms and legs began to tire and what may have been the fever he felt earlier returned and scorched his brow. He redirected his strokes, went out another thirty yards, then shifted again and glided further down until exhausted, he rolled on his back and allowed his body to drift with the tide.

  The sun caused his eyes to fill with salty tears, and floating aimlessly he absorbed the peacefulness of the moment, the surrounding silence Camus wrote of as weaving together the hopes and despairs of human life. A bird in the sky cast its shadow across the sea and Niles stared as best he could at its flight. (During his own swim in the sea, Mersault contemplated not the sky above but the depth of the water beneath him and all the vast possibilities of the “unknown world … and the salty center of a life still unexplored.”) Niles turned his head to look toward shore, thought again about the expectations of his trip and of the man whose photograph lay at the bottom of his camera bag. The tide beneath him tugged at his shoulders and hips, his feet sinking further down, forcing him to tread until he could regroup and float once more. He concentrated again on Jeana, pictured the rubble of the Reedum & Wepe still smoldering and the first morning he woke to discover the contusion just above his wrist, followed by a sequence of mysterious welts and burns, bruises and abrasions, all appearing as the progeny of some Immaculate provocation. He remembered that first August and a razor’s raw carving of the letter J slashed into his right thigh—the sixth such noctambulistic dissection to find him—and how his body appeared by the end of winter like a man under attack.

  Splayed atop the surface of the deep green sea, he dropped his arms, sank down, came up again and resumed floating. He considered the course of his somnambulistic two-step and how the want to recover, to forgive and move on, and how all of this seemed at odds with a more guttural inclination. He swam on, quit floating, and moved farther from shore. The ache across the right side of his belly where his wound was exposed to the salty sea stung again as he remembered conversations with Marthe, meeting for coffee and dinner and the occasional movie, lunch dates between classes and work. No longer used to keeping company with women, he maintained a certain distance, though eventually she wore him down, cajoled him to stop fighting and learn to relax. He tried, and later that winter—having experienced a hint of happiness otherwise held in abeyance—his affliction took note, released its hold, and fell away.

  Niles puzzled over the connection, wondered what to make of this development, found his confusion further tested one night when Marthe invited him back to her apartment. A bottle of wine stood on the counter, a silver corkscrew nearby. Marthe brought Niles into the front room where they sat on the couch, and when she kissed him he shied from her lips, unnerved by her hand on his cheek, her face against his neck, her fingers sliding up his back, kneading through his incertitude. He stopped her and began to explain as she lifted his shirt over his head, but she quieted him as though she already knew, placing her mouth on the freshest scar, covering the bluest bruise, the gnarl of an ancient bum, until his own hands rose and fell tenderly upon her. She drew him toward her then with gentle persuasion, leading him back to the bedroom and across the covering of sheet where he felt himself lose hold, sinking to a point where no measure of resistance could save him, no release but the one his body sent shivering from his hips, trembling as his heart raced on.

  He slept beside her, then woke with a start, hurrying to dress even as Marthe encouraged him to stay. Back in his apartment, beneath the floor of Bailey’s room and the sounds from his piano producing a soulful rendition of Sammy Gallop’s “Maybe You’ll Be There,” he took the rope and tied his end to the leg of a chair as a false connection, then sat on the side of his bed and wondered about the events of his night. After so much time, was it actually possible this and nothing more was the curative for all his nocturnal nonsense? Was this the mysterious Happiness Camus wrote of, and if so, why did he feel so uneasy? After worrying all this time about the Truth his condition was supposed to reveal, why wasn’t he relieved to know the impetus behind his affliction might be rooted in rediscovering simple pleasures? What was it that made him reluctant to believe the gouging of his flesh could, indeed, be dispatched by a course of forgiveness and learning to love again?

  He dove once more, opened his eyes, swam as deep as he could before shooting up toward the surface and the glimmering light and air that awaited. If he appreciated anything about Marthe Raynal, it was how her presence empowered him with a will to live, though not nearly as much as Jeana’s love once did, and so inspired, he recalled getting up from bed, and thinking of Jeana, went into the kitchen where he removed a knife from the side drawer and in one motion brought the blade through the pale underside of his elbow and down toward his wrist. The cut was deep, though he knew from experience how to tend such wounds without a doctor’s care. Three nights later, asleep this time and without being consciously guided, his condition returned of its own accord, a blunt instrument used to punish the arm which earlier held the knife so intently.

  Aziz moved down the hill in order to sit on the sands where the American had left his clothes and camera bag. He watched the man in the water floating and bobbing, then removed the camera from its case and studied the American through the lens. In the water, Niles felt the heat of his fever, the wound on his belly breaking the surface of the sea as he floated, his half-healed flesh exposed to the rays of the sun. He remained this way for several minutes before rolling over and swimming off. A second bird cast a shadow across the water while a change in the current brought Niles through a suddenly frigid patch of sea. The drop in temperature caused him to struggle with his stroke, drained him of strength, forced him to fight to keep his movements from seizing up as he switched direction, managed to double back through warmer waters where the chill no longer penetrated his limbs. His panic abated and he made his way toward shore.

  Some forty yards out, he began searching the beach for his clothes, surprised to see an unfamiliar figure sitting nearby in the sand. At first he thought he must be looking at the wrong spot, but the rest of the beach was clear. He drew closer, stood in the shallow water and paused to catch his breath as the man aimed the camera in his direction. The sun warmed Niles’ shoulders and hair, the heat pushing at him from behind though he was hesitant to move. “Do not worry,” the man assured him, pointing the camera still while scanning Niles up and down. “I am not a thief.”

  Niles came out of the water and stood a few feet away, shifting back on his heels atop the hot sand. Aziz held the viewfinder against his eye, and continuing to record while taking in Niles’ scars asked, “What has happened to you, my friend?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

&nbs
p; “You have been in an accident?”

  “Will you please shut the camera off.”

  “A car perhaps? Or a mugging maybe?”

  Niles reached with his right hand, extending his arm forward and moving his fingers as if to levitate the camera toward him. Aziz pushed the button on the side of the camera and set it back inside the case. “You see, there. Completely safe,” he remained crouched in the sand, his knees bent and back arched froglike as if at any moment he might spring forward. “I am Aziz,” he said. “And you, my friend?”

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Please, yes. Perhaps so.”

  “If you’ll tell me then.”

  “Of course. I have surprised you, that is all, no?”

  “I didn’t expect to see anyone.”

  “Or them to see you.”

  Niles covered his chest with his arms.

  “Many apologies,” Aziz didn’t move from the sand. “You are American?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are visiting?”

  “Traveling.”

  “Indeed,” Aziz smiled, a light crease cutting through his cheeks as he did so, disappearing again after his grin relaxed. “But why here?” he patted Niles’ pile of clothes, “It isn’t always safe this isolated spot, you know. There are men far less friendly than I who patrol just these areas looking for non-Muslims separated from the herd.”

  “I was hot.”

  “There are more popular beaches than this for tourists.”

  “Maybe so,” Niles pivoted onto the sides of his feet as the sand began to burn.

  “But this place appealed to you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The solitude.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  Niles took a tentative step forward, unsure as yet what to make of the man, feeling awkward while standing there in just his underwear, and reaching out again, he said, “May I have my clothes, please?”

  Aziz leaned to his left and tossed Niles his shirt. A breeze from the water ran up toward the hills and stirred the low brush. The camera was zipped inside its case, protected against blowing sand, and noticing Niles glance in that direction, Aziz said, “Your equipment is safe.”

  “I see that.”

  “I did not come to steal from you.”

  “I never said you did.”

  “Though this is what you thought.”

  “I didn’t know what to think. You surprised me, remember?”

  “If I wanted to steal your camera, why wouldn’t I have taken it when you were out swimming in the sea?” “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps it is because I’m after more,” Aziz stuck his sharp chin out, waited for Niles to react, then laughed. “That’s right,” he spread his arms. “Always more, yes? It is the American way never to be satisfied. A bird in the hand is not good enough when there is a possibility of two in the bush.” He made a different gesture then, opening his fingers flat and extending them toward the camera. “Go ahead. Take it. It’s yours,” he stood up quickly and brushed the sand from his slacks.

  Niles felt himself put oddly on the defensive, and rather than go over and pick up his camera, he bent down for his jeans and shoes. The sun overhead was white and hazed while the surrounding sky glistened in the heat. A second breeze brought a salty scent from the water and for a brief moment Niles was tempted to dive back into the sea and swim again. He wanted to feel as Mersault who left the water shivering and laughing with happiness, but instead, standing there, he felt his fever worsen, his body experiencing both ache and fatigue.

  The sun hit Aziz’s eyes, forcing him to raise his hand above his brow in order to maintain his view of the American. He smiled again and stepped to the side so that the glow of the sun fell away, and recalling what first caused him to follow the American to the beach—though he had no idea at the time where he was headed—Aziz asked, “You are a businessman?”

  “Me? No.”

  “You are not here on business?”

  “I am not a businessman.”

  “What were you doing this morning at the port?”

  “How did you know I was at the port?”

  “I saw you.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying you followed me here?”

  “I admit as much.”

  “But why?”

  “I can’t quite tell you. You stood out. I thought your use of the camera involved some business with which I might be of help. I am a businessman, you see,” Aziz explained about the work he did for his uncle and why he was at the port that morning. “It is important for a man dealing as I do with merchandise and trade to keep his eyes open at all times for opportunities,” he gave a wink, and glancing back at the camera asked, “What then is this filming you were doing?”

  Niles finished tying his shoes, pulled his camera bag back over his shoulder, and still taking in this latest bit of news and how the man hadn’t stumbled accidently upon him at the beach but followed him from the city, he considered walking off. What was he to make of this confession, after all? “Why did you follow me?” he thought it best to not give ground, only Aziz was equally resistant and answered as before, “I told you, my interest is purely business. I have followed others, have bought and sold goods and services in hotel rooms and cafés, in taxicabs and lobbies but never, I admit, on the beach. As for your filming then?” “I’m a tourist.”

  “But your enterprise went well beyond the average traveler. Typically they zip-zip-zip, stealing little pictures for their memory books, yet you were focused for a very long time.”

  “I’m interested in the city,” he said.

  “You have been here before?”

  “No. I’ve read, I mean, I like to read Camus. I’ve studied,” he said, and then for some reason he found himself mentioning Jeana, how they used to lay in bed at night and read to one another from Camus’ books.

  “I see,” Aziz looked closely at Niles. “And this woman then, she is your lover?”

  “Was.”

  “My friend, my friend,” Aziz gave a deep sigh. The sun placed a streak of gold atop the surface of the smooth green sea, sliding softly toward shore where it disappeared inside the sand. Aziz stepped closer to Niles, eying the American with sympathy while at the same time trying to bring all the pieces of the puzzle together. He thought again about the wounds on Niles’ body, and “About this girl then,” he couldn’t resist asking.

  “Jeana.”

  “This Jeana, yes. She left you for another?”

  “No.”

  “But she is the cause of your being here now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your wounds?”

  “I should be getting back.”

  “Did she inflict them?”

  Niles looked away.

  “Ahh, a tiger cat!”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “I need to be going.”

  “You are telling me what then?”

  “I have to get back.”

  “Of course. You are right. There’s no predicting when the next bus will come,” Aziz took hold of Niles’ arm and together they walked across the sand and the green stretch of grassy weed covering the hills on the way to the road. The view from where they came to stand created the illusion that the water was just beyond the edge of the hill and if Niles rushed forward and jumped he would land far off in the blue green deep. Aziz remained quiet for a few minutes, knowing there would be time before the next bus passed and hoping the American would feel inclined to talk, he asked again, “About this Jeana?”

  “Please.”

  “It is just that I was wondering.”

  “Jeana’s dead.”

  “Ahh. I am sorry, my friend.”

  It may well have been the heat, or the fever, but Niles went on from there to tell Aziz about the Reedum & Wepe, the reference prompting a look of immediate recognition and understanding—“I am familiar with th
e event,” Aziz said—as if a key to a long-locked door had at last been provided. When their bus arrived, they took their seats over the right wheel which rattled and rolled beneath them with great urgency. Sitting no more than a foot apart, bouncing atop the hard metal, Aziz brought his right leg up at the knee and turned his hips so he could view the American better. “My friend, my friend,” he said. The bus went down a long slope, picked up speed, and rounded a curve as the sun glistened through the side window and the hillsides rose and fell.

  “How are you feeling?” Aziz asked after a time.

  Niles sat with his hands resting atop the camera case. “I’m all right,” he answered. “I’m due back.”

  “Yes, of course. You are busy. There is much to do, I understand,” Aziz’s tone turned sober, and connecting the whole of the American’s story while picturing once more the cruel flagellation beneath his clothes said, “You’re a tourist and there is much you have to see, though tell me, there is perhaps another reason for your trip?”

  Surprised, Niles replied, “No,” and placed his head against the window. The bus took another turn and slid down a different path, leaving the sun to chase after the rear metal fender. “It is fortunate we ran into one another,” Aziz continued. “There is more than chance involved and how fortunate you are that someone sympathetic to your cause has found you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “My friend.”

  “I’m just here to see the city.”

  “And while you are here to also?”