The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel

by Leslie Marmon Silko

  LAWSUITS

  DAVID HAD WANTED Serlo to notice him; David enjoyed the charged atmosphere of sexual tension that had developed between the three of them. Beaufrey claimed Serlo was asexual; who could blame Serlo when Beaufrey refused to uncover his body? Beaufrey always had sex in silk pajamas or the clothes he was wearing. Beaufrey did not allow himself to be seen or embraced or touched. He ignored his partners. “On rainy days we wear our raincoats” had been Beaufrey’s standard line about condoms. He had such potent sensitivity he was able to wear one over another for added safety. Beaufrey said he knew too much about secret biological research and the use of sexual transmission. HIV had only been the beginning.

  David had been prepared to return to San Diego to make things happen, to have the bitch beaten until she revealed where Monte was hidden, when G. had called; new lawsuits over the photographs of Eric’s suicide had been filed against G., the gallery, and of course David. Fortunately David and the negatives and the color transparencies were not in the United States. G. reminded David he had warned him about the risk of a lawsuit involved with the Eric photography series; but at the time, David had been confident Eric’s family wanted no further publicity or embarrassment. The lawsuit, filed by Eric’s parents, asked millions of dollars in punitive damages. Of course G. could no longer sell David’s prints in the United States, but G. had already made arrangements with a gallery in Munich.

  G. kept telling David not to worry, not to worry, the publicity was worth millions and millions. G. was handling everything. David need not worry. But David had been angry about the attorney’s fees. G. was charging David’s account thousands per month for attorneys. Prints of Eric’s suicide were selling briskly, but David’s share had been consumed by payments to lawyers. David was furious. He had waited years and years for this success to come; Eric’s family and their lawsuits had ruined everything. G. said not to worry, but that was because G. knew there was little chance of losing David to a rival gallery after controversy and lawsuits. Of course the “Eric series” would still be sold abroad and to private collectors, but naturally lawsuits cast shadows over anticipated profits. G. was optimistic about David’s next show; how was the new series progressing? “Great,” David had lied. There was no new series. Why should there be? David had just created a brilliant series. The Eric series was his masterpiece, and the show had been a huge success until the shitbag lawyer’s bills came in the mail. David blamed G. for mishandling the entire situation. He did not trust G. or G.’s bookkeeper either; just like that $100,000 was gone. Now G. had condescended to lend David $5,000, but he wanted more prints from the Eric series sent air express before G. would wire the cash.

  David slammed down the telephone receiver. He felt tears in his eyes. G. had mismanaged the show and sale of his best new work. Hysteria and prejudice had turned the art critics against David. None of them understood how important the Eric series was; none of them realized David’s work was about to redefine the terms portrait and still life. G. had been too anxious to sell sets of the Eric series before further lawsuits were filed by Eric’s family. G.’s attorneys were his old school chums as well, and they had backed down in the face of a team of top-rate lawyers the Texans had hired. Suddenly it was as if all the work David had done to create the Eric series had been destroyed, because all the sets of limited-edition prints had been sold and less than $10,000 remained after the lawyers had been paid. G. talked vaguely about a gallery abroad where the effects of the U.S. lawsuits would not interfere. After that, what was the point of work?

  Serlo rode horseback early in the morning when Beaufrey was away. He had not invited David to ride with him, but David did not care; he invited himself. He spoke no Spanish and the hired help spoke no English. Serlo had been as deliberate and dull as a nun riding horseback. Poor horsemanship appalled Serlo, so he said little to David while they were riding. David did not care how he looked in the saddle; all he cared about was hanging on at a dead run because he felt transformed into the pure sensation of the horse pounding across the earth devouring space and distance.

  David already knew Serlo found him attractive; Beaufrey had confided Serlo was aroused by watching men ride horses. The horseman was potent and virile. David knew how much the danger aroused Beaufrey. Serlo undoubtedly had similar attractions; otherwise, Serlo would not have ridden a horse at all. Horses were dangerously strong. David had met Serlo-types before: pale, aristocratic, and passionless.

  With Beaufrey gone most of the week, David had become bored with satellite TV. He had begun grooming and feeding the chestnut mare himself. The mare learned to whinny when David came to the stables. The ranch hands made jokes among themselves about the stable boy. David didn’t care. Sangre pura was bullshit. David was from the United States, and he knew only money mattered.

  Serlo did not vary his route on the rides. Beside the dressage and jumping courses, there was an indoor course for bad weather. Serlo preferred to ride only the roads and paths because the llano grass often concealed hazards, treacherous rodent holes and narrow, deep gullies. Here the llanos were not as flat. There were gently rolling hills covered with grass and shrubs, and far far in the distance mountains stood so blue and so tall they were lost in clouds and sky. No sensation ever equaled the absolute thrill David had felt on the back of a racehorse. David had raced motorcycles and cars, but they were not alive; they did not risk shattered bones.

  All had seemed so near, almost within David’s grasp, until the injunctions and lawsuits. He knew his Eric series was sheer genius. The Eric series should have launched his career. But it had all turned out wrong, as wrong as the pathologist’s report when his mother had first got sick. Some things were never meant to be, such as his own birth after his father was too old and too drunk. In the beginning David had expected Beaufrey to defend his Eric series, to hire additional lawyers to help G.’s lawyer bring out the big guns, because Beaufrey loved art, especially David’s art, and of course, because Beaufrey loved David, or at least he loved David the artist. But Beaufrey had been strangely complacent about the attacks on David’s work; Beaufrey’s response was that G. and the gallery should handle the matter entirely. “Survival of the fittest, dear David,” had been Beaufrey’s only comment.

  GAMES

  AFTER THE NIGHT rain, a blue mist rose above the rolling green llanos from dawn until noon. A hundred miles in the distance, the high mountains were still hidden in clouds, and it had been easy for David to imagine he was Adam in the Garden. For as far as he could see to the south and the west, there were no jet vapor trails, no engine sounds, no glitter of metal or glass, no dogs barking, no human voice; only the insects whirring and the calls of birds. There were no sounds of cattle or horses and none in sight; he might have been the last man on earth. No wonder Serlo had all those bizarre ideas; Serlo had been too long on the llano.

  Except for ancestral portraits hung along the halls, the only art in the ranch house had been nineteenth-century landscapes of the Spanish countryside with winding roads and neatly kept olive groves behind ancient stone walls. The landscape paintings were some of the most stupid David had ever seen. He found conventional landscapes completely boring. All that mattered in the landscape was the human form, the human face, which was our original “landscape” as infants. So-called still lifes and landscapes were only analogues for the artist’s perceptions and emotions. Eric’s body had become a new landscape, and his colors had been scattered all over the bedspread, ceiling, walls, and floor.

  The midday heat after the night rain had left David exhausted, but the air-conditioning in his room was in poor repair and he had been unable to sleep. Beaufrey was still in Bogotá on business. Serlo spoke with Beaufrey almost daily. Serlo had no answer when David asked what business had suddenly required so much of Beaufrey’s attention. Serlo promised to have the ranch foreman fix the air-conditioning unit in his room and suggested David might sleep more comfortably on the screened porch. The heat had produced a strange fatigue during the
day; David lay on his bed but could not sleep. Although he knew it was quite impossible, fantasies about Beaufrey’s suddenly taking charge still flashed through David’s head. He imagined Beaufrey’s handsome, cruel face as he announced his lawyers in Bogotá had taken care of everything for David. David daydreamed that Beaufrey had arranged secret meetings with European gallery owners to plan a stunning international debut for David and the Eric series. All it took was money. Beaufrey had the money.

  David had known men like Beaufrey before. They betrayed no feelings; their eyes were expressionless. They claimed to have no attachments. They gave no gifts or money, but paid all travel, hotels, meals, whiskey, and cocaine. Beaufrey had even let David keep Seese, the way he had let Eric stay on too. Beaufrey had only been curious, not generous. Beaufrey was attracted to artists because he was easily bored.

  Throughout dinner Serlo watched David eat and chatter about riding racehorses. To Serlo, English sounded like parrot chatter anyway, and he had paid little attention. What he was interested in were David’s presumptions and delusions. David had been trying to interest Serlo in a race horse; Serlo did not bother to explain to David the vulgarity of competition, especially horse racing. David’s ignorance was of course part of his attraction for Beaufrey. Serlo had to admit he was interested too. Serlo had never seen such arrogance coupled with such ignorance, but Beaufrey had assured him all men in the United States were like David. Beaufrey had deliberately left Serlo alone at the finca with David. “The next move is yours,” was all Beaufrey had said.

  Beaufrey’s games. Serlo was tired of games; he had the institute to work for now. For years, Beaufrey had tried to seduce Serlo with luscious young men procured all over the world. Serlo had enjoyed them—pretty blonds hung like donkeys and willing to do anything, anything Serlo might want. He had enjoyed their confusion and shame when he’d revealed he wanted nothing to do with them or any filth.

  David, of course was unique, a special case; Beaufrey’s game had abruptly turned to obsession, and Serlo wanted to end the game. David was only incidental now; Beaufrey was obsessed with David’s child. The instant the child had been conceived, Beaufrey despised it, even more than he had hated the first fetus Seese had aborted. Serlo had been shocked at Beaufrey’s behavior. Serlo had known even then, the time had come. Those of sangre pura must stop playing games and take action before the world was lost.

  BAD NEWS

  THE SORREL MARE’S presence was soothing, and David hoped to meet Serlo in the stable area. At the dinner table the night before, Serlo had smiled at David and had asked if David would be joining him for a ride in the morning. David had not felt so much energy or excitement since Beaufrey left; the prospect of fucking Serlo was the source of his new enthusiasm. He would fuck Serlo and see what that did for Beaufrey. David would show Beaufrey.

  All his childhood, David had wanted a pony or horse to ride far away from the houses and schools and people. Now the sorrel mare was David’s childhood dream come true. David knew he could always remain on the finca even if Beaufrey no longer wanted him, because of Serlo. Serlo wanted David; David felt certain. There was no mistake when a man as remote as Serlo began to smile over the dinner rolls and inquired about morning horseback rides.

  The little mare had gone lame after the ride, and David had been racked with guilt. The swelling of the mare’s knee and foreleg had reminded David of his mother’s cancer. Both Beaufrey and Serlo had warned David before about speed on the mare.

  Serlo had said nothing as the grooms had mixed medicinal plasters to bandage around the mare’s knee. David had not meant to let the mare run until she injured herself, but the sensation of speed over the endless rolling plain had been irresistible. Distances fell away, and the earth was a blur; the little mare had wanted to race beyond all barriers and restraints, and David had not wanted to stop; he had wanted the horse to run the plain forever.

  David had remained in the box stall with the lame mare after Serlo and the grooms had left. He had brushed her, then wiped her with a damp chamois, repeating her name softly over and over: “Roja, Roja, Roja.” David felt great sadness rise from his chest into his throat. It was no use. Nothing mattered. Everything he had tried, everything he had done, had turned out wrong.

  The injury to the little mare had abruptly ended the horseback riding and Serlo’s smiles across the dinner table. David had spent most of his days in the box stall stroking or grooming the horse. Serlo had made it quite clear he thought David was a vulgarian and a fool for riding so recklessly. The mare whinnied when David entered the stable; hers had been the only greeting David had got. Serlo had only stared at him silently when David spoke. The ranch hands and grooms suddenly were mute.

  David had lost interest in photography; he hated the tedium of the darkroom and the odor of chemicals. David had given them his best work and they had watched as the exhibit had been ruined. G. was crazy if he thought David was going to complete a new series or make any more Eric prints either. David was finished with the art racket; galleries were as sleazy as casinos. There was no big money in art unless you were a dealer or a dead artist.

  David massaged the mare’s knee and took her on daily walks to rebuild muscle tone and strength in the foreleg. The mare had quickly recovered, and David was triumphant, leading the horse past the grooms and stable hands. David hardly cared whether Serlo had noticed that David no longer ate at the long dining table with him. He preferred to take meals alone in his room because Serlo had made unforgivable remarks to David when the horse had been injured. Serlo had called him “mongrel,” “misfit,” and “pervert.” Serlo jerked off to fill his private sperm bank yet called himself heterosexual; David had never known such a queer before.

  David had made a special effort to keep the little mare on short rein and at a walk to prevent reinjury. He wanted the mare sound when Beaufrey returned. David had practiced with the mare on the dressage course, and she seemed to relax and work on a looser rein. Alone, David had ridden farther and farther from the ranch house, deeper into the grassy, gently rolling llanos. All the emptiness, all the space, the green of the land and the purity of the blue sky, were lovely but also unearthly. He could understand how Serlo might dream of space colonies orbiting earth, because across the endless plains, the ranch buildings had appeared to be tiny satellites in the vast space of the plains.

  So ten days had become ten weeks in Bogotá for Beaufrey. He had returned one Monday afternoon and offered no explanations and made no comments about his business in Bogotá. Beaufrey had asked David no questions, and he didn’t expect any questions from David. David had lost his temper. Beaufrey didn’t have to ask any questions because Serlo watched and reported everything David did anyway. David knew Beaufrey and Serlo had no secrets; he knew Beaufrey had described every detail of every sex act with David to Serlo—wasn’t that part of their game? David knew all about the mind-fuck games. Beaufrey had left David for ten weeks in the middle of nowhere, ten weeks in which the only English David had heard had been over the telephone or off satellite TV.

  Beaufrey had burst out laughing when David had complained about hearing English only on TV. Poor thing! Foreign languages in foreign countries! Beaufrey’s laughter had infuriated David. Serlo had smiled faintly. David was sick of their secrets. He demanded to know everything. Beaufrey seemed amused by David’s outburst. He had been unpacking the new handguns and carbines he had brought back for the finca’s arsenal. Serlo called it “the gun collection.” David had seen the underground arsenal once; all the walls had been lined solidly with rifles and carbines; dozens of glass cases had been filled with revolvers, automatics, derringers—every kind of handgun.

  Some things it was better not to know. Beaufrey looked at Serlo. Didn’t Serlo agree? Look at these 9mm pistols. David might enjoy the Glock. With the unrest and guerilla activity so widespread, no Caucasian should be without a handgun on his person.

  “Don’t change the subject,” David said. He picked up the gun, and Beaufrey
handed him the empty clip. In another minute Beaufrey would bring out the cocaine as he usually did after they had quarreled. Beaufrey’s eyes were expressionless; his lips did not move. Serlo kept wiping the barrel of a .45 automatic; he didn’t look up. “I want to know all of it—everything.” Beaufrey and Serlo exchanged brief glances. “Everything?” Beaufrey repeated, smiling cruelly. “You want to know everything?” The long dining table was covered with packing debris, shipping boxes, and fifteen or twenty revolvers and automatic pistols. The giant grandfather clock ticked loudly down the hall.

  “It was all bad news, I’m afraid.” Beaufrey’s eyes had been gleaming again, and David felt hopeful they would still be lovers. He did not understand Beaufrey: What bad news? “It all required more time than I had anticipated,” Beaufrey continued, watching David’s face closely.

  “The galleries in Europe . . . ?” David felt his heart leap.

  The room was quiet again, except for the hall clock, and the sound of Serlo slitting open the cardboard packing around the guns. “I said ‘bad news,’ nothing about art.” Both Beaufrey and Serlo watched David closely. David’s mouth hung open stupidly as he began to understand. “The baby,” David said in a flat voice, “you mean the baby.” Beaufrey nodded; he was wiping shipping grease off the cylinder of a brand-new Colt .357 magnum.

  “I really am sorry, David, but with that woman, what could you do?” Beaufrey had never spoken to David so sincerely. David experienced a flood of feelings, a great expansion in his chest from his beating heart. “With a creature like that you expect the offspring to be lost. Isn’t that true, Serlo? You see that here all the time with horses and cattle, don’t you?” Serlo had been cataloging the serial numbers of the new handguns in a huge old ledger bound in brass and leather. Everything that had ever been purchased for the finca was described in the ledger. Serlo nodded yes to Beaufrey’s comparison of the woman with a cow, but did not lift his head. He was sick of David’s stupid, pouting mouth and Beaufrey’s reptilian gaze each time the lovers’ eyes locked on one another. Serlo had watched Beaufrey before. Beaufrey became aroused watching the young men break down. When the young men bored Beaufrey, they angered him; and quite unintentionally Beaufrey was compelled to break them down. Serlo wondered what the American would do or say if he was told the truth about the child. David would shit his pants. Or maybe David would be so stupid that even if he was told the truth, he would not believe it. Serlo decided to tell the gringo, “Some are only fit as organ donors. That is the only useful function left for common rabble.” Of course David did not understand Spanish or Serlo’s meaning, except to know it was derogatory.