centerpoint. Before the collapse, there were five or six squalling blue and green macaws living inside it.
In spite of himself, Park remembers standing at the vista point carved out at the south end of the atrium. The balcony overlook. A couple of pedestal tables and wicker bar stools. He remembers leaning over the ironwork of the railing. Day two, day three of the trip, around that time, right before everything around them went to hell. At the time, he was holding a cardboard coffee cup girded with a heat sleeve.
He waited for Lee. She was off in some gift shop or another, but he knew that it wasn’t going to be enough; she would want to browse the stores in the Trap afterward. Not buy anything, mind you, just browse. Walk in and out of the sun, maybe feed the indri lemurs just so she could say that she had. And he was right about all of it—those were the exact events of that day, at least in his memory—and as they walked together on the cobbled roads of the Trap, Park had said something about the islet being paradise, but she had disagreed with him flatly. She’d told him that paradise is only paradise if the land is willing to welcome more than just your tourist dollars. Only if you can settle on it for generations, only if you are able to own lawfully some small portion of this heaven as property, and only if you can walk through its townships without the locals showing you mal de ojo . It was classic Lee, the entire diatribe.
The memory of such a simple time is too much for him to carry, and he has to stop along the atrium wall and pause a moment. He looks around aimlessly. Without electricity the waterfall won ’t run. In the plunge basin there is a layer of red algae blooming on the rank surface. He looks toward the cage. The door has been pried open and there are maybe five bodies inside, piled together on one end as though they died trying to escape from some terrible thing.
Park crosses the atrium without incident, without catching sight of any movement, and he exits on the far end. Still not another soul. It seems wrong somehow, the complete absence of living beings. There should be more of the sick here, milling around, he knows that. At the very least, he should be able to hear them.
He approaches the facade of the Makoa and kneels next to a valet stand just off-path. He pull s the mask down from his face and unties the makeshift bandage from his head, wrings the sweat out into his mouth, and swallows it. There is a red floret spreading on the grey fabric. He dabs at the wound—the bleeding has slowed down. He ties the rag back on and pulls the mask up over his mouth and nose.
At the base of the Makoa building are the remains of a restaurant terrace, the place where he used to eat meals with his wife, where Melo used to work. Park scans the area, and when nothing moves, he decides to go in.
The dead are cast across the restaurant patio; Park steps over them. The only benefit to living longer is that you become more and more adept at ignoring the things that can’t be changed. It’s gotten to the point where he barely even registers these kinds of sights—the significance of one mass open grave after another.
In the wild, the worth of any single thing can be measured in terms of the advantage it can or can ’t deliver to you personally. Right now, at this moment, how does it help me that this body at my feet was once animated, that it was likely once a mother or daughter to someone? This body, the one that I’m stepping over now, once did meaningful work that put food on a table. This body was needed, wanted. Someone once held and fed and whispered to that small, empty white shell in the corner of the patio. None of it makes any difference now. The only questions worth considering in the wild are the ones whose answers affect your ability to find and intake calories, to drink something
In spite of himself, Park remembers standing at the vista point carved out at the south end of the atrium. The balcony overlook. A couple of pedestal tables and wicker bar stools. He remembers leaning over the ironwork of the railing. Day two, day three of the trip, around that time, right before everything around them went to hell. At the time, he was holding a cardboard coffee cup girded with a heat sleeve.
He waited for Lee. She was off in some gift shop or another, but he knew that it wasn’t going to be enough; she would want to browse the stores in the Trap afterward. Not buy anything, mind you, just browse. Walk in and out of the sun, maybe feed the indri lemurs just so she could say that she had. And he was right about all of it—those were the exact events of that day, at least in his memory—and as they walked together on the cobbled roads of the Trap, Park had said something about the islet being paradise, but she had disagreed with him flatly. She’d told him that paradise is only paradise if the land is willing to welcome more than just your tourist dollars. Only if you can settle on it for generations, only if you are able to own lawfully some small portion of this heaven as property, and only if you can walk through its townships without the locals showing you mal de ojo . It was classic Lee, the entire diatribe.
The memory of such a simple time is too much for him to carry, and he has to stop along the atrium wall and pause a moment. He looks around aimlessly. Without electricity the waterfall won ’t run. In the plunge basin there is a layer of red algae blooming on the rank surface. He looks toward the cage. The door has been pried open and there are maybe five bodies inside, piled together on one end as though they died trying to escape from some terrible thing.
Park crosses the atrium without incident, without catching sight of any movement, and he exits on the far end. Still not another soul. It seems wrong somehow, the complete absence of living beings. There should be more of the sick here, milling around, he knows that. At the very least, he should be able to hear them.
He approaches the facade of the Makoa and kneels next to a valet stand just off-path. He pull s the mask down from his face and unties the makeshift bandage from his head, wrings the sweat out into his mouth, and swallows it. There is a red floret spreading on the grey fabric. He dabs at the wound—the bleeding has slowed down. He ties the rag back on and pulls the mask up over his mouth and nose.
At the base of the Makoa building are the remains of a restaurant terrace, the place where he used to eat meals with his wife, where Melo used to work. Park scans the area, and when nothing moves, he decides to go in.
The dead are cast across the restaurant patio; Park steps over them. The only benefit to living longer is that you become more and more adept at ignoring the things that can’t be changed. It’s gotten to the point where he barely even registers these kinds of sights—the significance of one mass open grave after another.
In the wild, the worth of any single thing can be measured in terms of the advantage it can or can ’t deliver to you personally. Right now, at this moment, how does it help me that this body at my feet was once animated, that it was likely once a mother or daughter to someone? This body, the one that I’m stepping over now, once did meaningful work that put food on a table. This body was needed, wanted. Someone once held and fed and whispered to that small, empty white shell in the corner of the patio. None of it makes any difference now. The only questions worth considering in the wild are the ones whose answers affect your ability to find and intake calories, to drink something
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