missed nothing. American women…
He stopped himself, as if aware for the first timthat Lillian was one of them. His eyes alighted on Lillian’s nails. “I hate painted
nails,” he said. Until now he had been friendly. Something, a shadow of a
resemblance, a recall, had sent him for a moment into the city beneath the
city, the subterranean chambers of memory. But he leaped back into the present
to describe all the work that had yet to be done.
“As you can see, it is still very primitive.”
On the terrace, several camp beds were set side
by side, as in an army barracks, with screens between them.
“I hope you won’t mind sleeping out of doors.”
The Mexican doctor was leaving. “Tomorrow I
will be driving back with friends who are spending a few days in Golconda. If
you want us to, we will pick you up.”
Lillian wanted to walk to the beach. She left
the Hatchers discussing dinner, and followed a trail down the hill. The flowers
which opened their violet red velvety faces toward her were so eloquent, they
seemed about to speak. The sand did not seem like sand, but like vaporized
glass, which reflected lights. The spray and the foam from the waves was of a
whiteness impossible to match. The sea folded its layers around her, touched
her legs, her hips, her breasts—a liquid sculptor, the warm hands of the sea
all over her body.
She closed her eyes.
When she came out and put on her clothes she
felt reborn, born anew. She had closed the eyes of memory. She felt as though
she were one of the red flowers, that she would speak only with the texture of
her skin, the tendrils of hair at the core, remain open, feel no contractions
ever again.
She thought of the simplified life. Of cooking
over a wood fire, of swimming every day, of sleeping out of doors in a cot
without sheets with only a Mexican wool blanket. Of sandals, and freedom of the
body in light dresses, hair washed by the sea and curled by the air. Unpainted
nails.
When she arrived Maria had set the table. The
lights were weak bulbs hanging from a string. The generator was working and
could be heard. But the trees were full of fireflies, crickets, and pungent
odors.
“If you want to wash the salt off, there is a
creek just down toward the left, and a natural pool. Take a candle.”
“No, I like the salt on my skin.”
On the table were dishes of black beans, rice,
and tamales.
And again coffee in the thermos bottle.
After dinner Hatcher wanted to show Lillian all
of the half-built house. She saw their bedroom, with its white-washed walls and
flowered curtains. And behind the wall a vast storage room.
“He is very proud of his storage room,” said
Maria.
It was enormous, as large as the entire front
of the house. As large as a supermarket. With shelves reaching to the ceiling.
Organized, alphabetized, catalogued.
Every brand of canned food, every brand of
medicine, every brand of clothing, glasses, work gloves, tools, magazines,
books, hunting guns, fishing equipment.
“Will you have cling peaches? Asparagus?
Quinine?” He was swollen with pride. “Magazines? Newspapers?”
Lillian saw a pair of crutches on a hook at the
side of the shelf. His eyes followed her glance, and he said without
embarrassment: “That’s in case I should break a leg.”
Lillian did not know why the place depressed
her. She suddenly felt deeply tired. Maria seemed grateful to be left alone
with her husband. They went into their bedroom in the back, and Lillian sat on
her cot at the front of the open terrace, and undressed behind a screen.
She had imagined Hatcher free. That was what
had depressed her. She had been admiring him for several weeks as a figure who
had attained independence, who could live like a native, a simplified existence
with few needs. He was not even free of his past, of his other wife. The
goodness of this one, her warmth, her servitude, only served to underline the
contrast between her and the other. Lillian had felt him making
comparisons
He stopped himself, as if aware for the first timthat Lillian was one of them. His eyes alighted on Lillian’s nails. “I hate painted
nails,” he said. Until now he had been friendly. Something, a shadow of a
resemblance, a recall, had sent him for a moment into the city beneath the
city, the subterranean chambers of memory. But he leaped back into the present
to describe all the work that had yet to be done.
“As you can see, it is still very primitive.”
On the terrace, several camp beds were set side
by side, as in an army barracks, with screens between them.
“I hope you won’t mind sleeping out of doors.”
The Mexican doctor was leaving. “Tomorrow I
will be driving back with friends who are spending a few days in Golconda. If
you want us to, we will pick you up.”
Lillian wanted to walk to the beach. She left
the Hatchers discussing dinner, and followed a trail down the hill. The flowers
which opened their violet red velvety faces toward her were so eloquent, they
seemed about to speak. The sand did not seem like sand, but like vaporized
glass, which reflected lights. The spray and the foam from the waves was of a
whiteness impossible to match. The sea folded its layers around her, touched
her legs, her hips, her breasts—a liquid sculptor, the warm hands of the sea
all over her body.
She closed her eyes.
When she came out and put on her clothes she
felt reborn, born anew. She had closed the eyes of memory. She felt as though
she were one of the red flowers, that she would speak only with the texture of
her skin, the tendrils of hair at the core, remain open, feel no contractions
ever again.
She thought of the simplified life. Of cooking
over a wood fire, of swimming every day, of sleeping out of doors in a cot
without sheets with only a Mexican wool blanket. Of sandals, and freedom of the
body in light dresses, hair washed by the sea and curled by the air. Unpainted
nails.
When she arrived Maria had set the table. The
lights were weak bulbs hanging from a string. The generator was working and
could be heard. But the trees were full of fireflies, crickets, and pungent
odors.
“If you want to wash the salt off, there is a
creek just down toward the left, and a natural pool. Take a candle.”
“No, I like the salt on my skin.”
On the table were dishes of black beans, rice,
and tamales.
And again coffee in the thermos bottle.
After dinner Hatcher wanted to show Lillian all
of the half-built house. She saw their bedroom, with its white-washed walls and
flowered curtains. And behind the wall a vast storage room.
“He is very proud of his storage room,” said
Maria.
It was enormous, as large as the entire front
of the house. As large as a supermarket. With shelves reaching to the ceiling.
Organized, alphabetized, catalogued.
Every brand of canned food, every brand of
medicine, every brand of clothing, glasses, work gloves, tools, magazines,
books, hunting guns, fishing equipment.
“Will you have cling peaches? Asparagus?
Quinine?” He was swollen with pride. “Magazines? Newspapers?”
Lillian saw a pair of crutches on a hook at the
side of the shelf. His eyes followed her glance, and he said without
embarrassment: “That’s in case I should break a leg.”
Lillian did not know why the place depressed
her. She suddenly felt deeply tired. Maria seemed grateful to be left alone
with her husband. They went into their bedroom in the back, and Lillian sat on
her cot at the front of the open terrace, and undressed behind a screen.
She had imagined Hatcher free. That was what
had depressed her. She had been admiring him for several weeks as a figure who
had attained independence, who could live like a native, a simplified existence
with few needs. He was not even free of his past, of his other wife. The
goodness of this one, her warmth, her servitude, only served to underline the
contrast between her and the other. Lillian had felt him making
comparisons
Similar Books
