Collected Stories by Peter Carey

glasses and I see only my own face staring at me questioningly.
    In the customs shed we form a line. There is an argument about the chickens and one is confiscated. A soldier tethers its feet to the bottom of an old hat stand from which a machine-gun hangs heavily.
    Jorge stands at the head of the line looking along it like a sergeant major. He waves to us and waddles down, a riding crop tucked under his fat folded arm. The riding crop betrays his heroes but looks ludicrous and somehow obscene. He has two broken teeth which appear to be in an advanced state of decay.
    You talk to him and he continues to look across at me. Finally you turn to me and say, he says it is OK … the war was nothing … an incident … they often have them.
    You do not appear happy. Your forehead is wrinkled with a frown that I yearn to smooth with my palm.
    I shake Jorge’s hand. I am immediately sorry. The chicken is in danger of upsetting the hat stand. The soldier removes the machine-gun and places it on the counter.
After
    The bus travels through the flat grey granite as dusk settles. Largerocks pierce the gloomy surface of the earth. There are no trees but a few sheep who prefer the road to the country on either side, possibly because it is softer. It is cooler here on the other side of the border, on this side of the mountains.
    Rain begins to fall lightly on the windows, making soft patterns in the dust. I open the window to smell the rain. You are frowning again. I hold my hand out the window until it is wet and then place my palm on your forehead.
    I say, why do you frown?
    You say, because I love you.
    I say, why do you smile?
    Because I love you.
Postscript
    In Candalido I ask you about the first time we crossed the border and why you crossed separately.
    You say, it is because of the underwear, because they always do that … at the small border posts … take out the underwear.
    I say, why should I mind?
    You say, it was dirty.

Happy Story
1.
    Marie was critical of his ideas about flying. “You’re really in a bad way about this.”
    “I don’t think it’s a bad way,” he said.
    “It’s an obsession,” she said, “all this talk about flying and birds. I think you’re simply unhappy and want to escape.”
    He lay on his back on the beach and watched a seagull ride the wind, dropping, sliding, turning. “I think it’d be good,” he said, “look at that seagull.”
    Marie closed her eyes. “I’ve seen them,” she said. “They’re white and have orange beaks.” She was silent a moment. “And orange legs,” she added. Later she broke the silence to say, “If you could fly you’d want to do something else, like swim.”
    “Seagulls can swim,” he said.
    “Not under water.”
    “They can dive under water,” he said, “but they can’t stay under for long.”
    “That’s what I mean,” she said, “they can’t stay under for long. They can’t swim under water, not like a fish.”
    “No,” he said, “that’s true, they’re not like fish.”
    “Doesn’t that make you unhappy?”
    “No,” he said, “I’m more interested in the flying.”
    She turned on the sand. “You’re exasperating,” she said. “I know you’ll never be happy.”
    “I’d be happy if I could fly.”
    “That doesn’t seem very likely.”
    “It isn’t impossible either.”
    “No,” she sighed, “I guess it’s not impossible.”
2.
    “You’re crying,” she said.
    “No, not really.”
    “I know why you’re crying. You’re crying because of your wife.”
    “No, I don’t think that’s true.”
    “I’m sure it’s true.”
    “It’s not, really.”
    “Then it’s because you can’t fly.”
    “No.”
    “Then what is it?”
    “It’s nothing,” he said. “I wasn’t crying.”
3.
    After making love she was still restless. “What is it?” she asked him.
    “What’s what?”
    “You know.”
    “No, really, I don’t. I feel good. Do you feel good?”
    “Yes, I feel good, but what about you?