then, once again, superimposed one memory on top of another? Does he describe the river accurately, his frantic journey along it, or does he use a sort of verbal shorthand to convey to Rose the general picture, and allow her imagination to fill in the details? Is there any other way to tell her what happened?
Because what Jonas wants, after all, is not simply to describe for Rose a mountain or a cave or his desperation. What he wants is for Rose to feel something, fear or pain or anger or heartache, even if only as a semblance of the emotion he detects within himself, even as he sits in her living room and tells this version of the story. He wants her to know, needs her to know, needs to place it all into context, needs to explain himself, wants her to understand.
So he continues to talk, continues to describe for her how it was, or how he remembers it, or at least how he has convinced himself he remembers it. How scared he was, how angry, how desperate, how alone. And if it comes across as stilted or overwrought, if in his effort to commune with her, conjure for her his reality, he uses commonly held devices, if he describes once too often the strange crescent moon that lit up the world, or his shivering, or the accursed cave in which he was forced to spend the days of his youth, it is in the service of a greater purpose, and he can easily be forgiven.
7
At some point, Younis was woken by convulsions. He lay on his side at the mouth of the cave, legs drawn up and wrapped by his arms. He shivered a little more and closed his eyes, tensing his muscles in an effort to keep away the cold. He shivered again, and moved to stand up, recover some warmth through the motion of doing so. But as he put his hands to the cold earth and began to push himself up, he found that he could not do it, that he lacked the strength to lift his body. He tried again, and again, but found that he could not make himself rise. He tried to open his eyes, but found that he could not, or perhaps, he thought, with a panic suppressed by fatigue, his eyes were open but he could not see anything, or perhaps the world had simply disappeared.
The shivering stopped suddenly, replaced by a distant warmth, and Younis smiled weakly to himself. He drifted in a void, a blackness so complete that a moonless night was like broad daytime in comparison. Images confronted him and then disappeared before he could focus on them, made compelling by his inability to resolve them. He chased after them, trying desperately to focus on something, anything, and a gentle, spinning sensation took hold, rocking him back and forth, lulling him, but simultaneously making it impossible to focus on any one thing, impossible to think, impossible to move. Helpless and exposed, vague visions approaching him from alldirections, he gave up trying to focus on them, let them go, and allowed himself to drift.
And then he was back in his village, where everything was as it was supposed to be, his mother walking out to the pasture at the end of the dusty road, carrying naan wrapped in cloth and hot tea, which he took, steaming, in the bright cool air. The sheep surrounded him, and he protected them with devotion, for their wool, for the warmth and the food they provided. He sipped from the earthen bowl his mother handed him, the tea sweetened and faintly spiced, and he looked up into green eyes that so readily mirrored his own. As he looked, her face changed, growing gradually lighter and lighter, as though the sun overhead were drawing itself closer to the earth. He looked around to see that everything grew brighter, less resolute: the pasture, the stone wall, the earth itself fading away, losing contrast in the light. Soon he could see only her most obvious features, her eyes and nose and mouth, her dark hair, and everything else, her skin and wrinkled brow, her arms and hands, grew brighter with each passing moment, until all he could see was light, and nothing else existed. She disappeared
Because what Jonas wants, after all, is not simply to describe for Rose a mountain or a cave or his desperation. What he wants is for Rose to feel something, fear or pain or anger or heartache, even if only as a semblance of the emotion he detects within himself, even as he sits in her living room and tells this version of the story. He wants her to know, needs her to know, needs to place it all into context, needs to explain himself, wants her to understand.
So he continues to talk, continues to describe for her how it was, or how he remembers it, or at least how he has convinced himself he remembers it. How scared he was, how angry, how desperate, how alone. And if it comes across as stilted or overwrought, if in his effort to commune with her, conjure for her his reality, he uses commonly held devices, if he describes once too often the strange crescent moon that lit up the world, or his shivering, or the accursed cave in which he was forced to spend the days of his youth, it is in the service of a greater purpose, and he can easily be forgiven.
7
At some point, Younis was woken by convulsions. He lay on his side at the mouth of the cave, legs drawn up and wrapped by his arms. He shivered a little more and closed his eyes, tensing his muscles in an effort to keep away the cold. He shivered again, and moved to stand up, recover some warmth through the motion of doing so. But as he put his hands to the cold earth and began to push himself up, he found that he could not do it, that he lacked the strength to lift his body. He tried again, and again, but found that he could not make himself rise. He tried to open his eyes, but found that he could not, or perhaps, he thought, with a panic suppressed by fatigue, his eyes were open but he could not see anything, or perhaps the world had simply disappeared.
The shivering stopped suddenly, replaced by a distant warmth, and Younis smiled weakly to himself. He drifted in a void, a blackness so complete that a moonless night was like broad daytime in comparison. Images confronted him and then disappeared before he could focus on them, made compelling by his inability to resolve them. He chased after them, trying desperately to focus on something, anything, and a gentle, spinning sensation took hold, rocking him back and forth, lulling him, but simultaneously making it impossible to focus on any one thing, impossible to think, impossible to move. Helpless and exposed, vague visions approaching him from alldirections, he gave up trying to focus on them, let them go, and allowed himself to drift.
And then he was back in his village, where everything was as it was supposed to be, his mother walking out to the pasture at the end of the dusty road, carrying naan wrapped in cloth and hot tea, which he took, steaming, in the bright cool air. The sheep surrounded him, and he protected them with devotion, for their wool, for the warmth and the food they provided. He sipped from the earthen bowl his mother handed him, the tea sweetened and faintly spiced, and he looked up into green eyes that so readily mirrored his own. As he looked, her face changed, growing gradually lighter and lighter, as though the sun overhead were drawing itself closer to the earth. He looked around to see that everything grew brighter, less resolute: the pasture, the stone wall, the earth itself fading away, losing contrast in the light. Soon he could see only her most obvious features, her eyes and nose and mouth, her dark hair, and everything else, her skin and wrinkled brow, her arms and hands, grew brighter with each passing moment, until all he could see was light, and nothing else existed. She disappeared
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