The Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson Page A

down with tins of tobacco and a gooseneck reading lamp
     
    that plugged into a cracked extension cord
     
    running across the desk and over the roof and down the ladder to the kitchen.
     
    Ancash had made a ceiling of palm fronds
     
    above the library. They moved and clicked in the wind like wooden tongues.
     
    Next to the library was a squat structure
     
    built of clear heavy plastic and some pieces of dismantled telephone booth.
     
    Here Ancash’s mother grew a cash crop
     
    of marijuana and herbs for cooking. She called it Festinito (“Little Feast”)
     
    and said it was her favorite place
     
    in the world. Plaster figures of St. Francis and St. Rose of Lima were placed
     
    encouragingly among the plants.
     
    She herself slept next to the Little Feast on a cot piled high with bright blankets.
     
    You were not cold?
Ancash continued.
     
    Oh no just fine,
said Geryon. In fact he had never been so cold in his life as last night
     
    under the dull red winter stars of Lima.
     
    Ancash came over to the edge of the roof and stood beside Geryon staring down
     
    towards the streets and the sea.
     
    Geryon stared too. Sounds came to them across the white air. There was the slow
     
    thock of a hammer. An uncertain music
     
    like a water pipe starting and stopping. Many layers of traffic. A crackle of garbage
     
    burning. Dry howls of dogs. Sounds
     
    entered Geryon small at first but gradually filling his mind. The streets below
     
    were after all not empty. Two men crouched
     
    beside a half-built wall pulling bricks out of a little stone oven on a shovel.
     
    A boy was sweeping the steps of the church
     
    with a palm frond as big as himself. A man and woman stood eating breakfast
     
    out of plastic containers and staring
     
    in opposite directions up and down the street. They had a thermos and two cups
     
    perched on the hood of their car.
     
    Five policemen strolled past with carbines. Down on the beach a soccer team was
     
    practicing and beyond them
     
    the filthy Pacific came crashing in.
It is different from Argentina,
said Geryon.
     
    How do you mean?
     
    No one here is in a hurry.
Ancash smiled but said nothing.
They move so softly,
     
    Geryon added. He was watching the soccer team
     
    whose movements had the rounded languor of a dream. Smells of burning blew across
     
    the air. Dogs went nosing without urgency
     
    through the garbage and marigolds that lined the seawall.
You’re right Argentinians
     
    are much faster. Always going somewhere.
     
    Geryon could see many small Peruvian people wandering along the seawall. Often they
     
    would stop to stare at nothing in particular.
     
    Everyone seems to be waiting,
said Geryon.
Waiting for what?
said Ancash.
     
    Yes waiting for what,
said Geryon.
     
    There was a sudden loud hiss. The electrical cord that ran across the roof
     
    at their feet exploded in light sparks.
     
    Damn,
said Ancash.
I wish she’d rewire this. Every time someone plugs in the kettle
     
    in the kitchen we have a meltdown.
     
    Herakles’ head appeared on the ladder.
Hombres!
He clambered up onto the roof.
     
    Big chunk of papaya in his hand which he waved at Geryon.
     
    You should try this stuff Geryon! It’s like eating the sun!
Herakles sank his mouth
     
    into the fruit and grinned at them.
     
    Juice ran down his face and onto his bare chest. Geryon watched a drop of sun
     
    slide past Herakles’ nipple and over his belly
     
    and vanish into the top of his jeans. He moved his eyes away.
Did you see the parrots?
     
    Herakles demanded.
     
    Parrots?
said Geryon.
Yes she has a room full of parrots at the front of the house.
     
    Must be fifty birds in there.
     
    Purple green orange blue yellow it’s like an explosion and there’s one big
     
    motherfucker who’s totally gold. Says
     
    she’s going to have to get rid of it. Why?
asked Geryon.
Kills everything smaller
     
    than itself. Last week it killed the cat.
     
    That’s conjecture,
Ancash