At the Bottom of the River (3 page)

*   *   *

The sea, the shimmering pink-colored sand, the swimmers with hats, two people walking arm in arm, talking in each other's face, dots of water landing on noses, the sea spray on ankles, on overdeveloped calves, the blue, the green, the black, so deep, so smooth, a great and swift undercurrent, glassy, the white wavelets, a storm so blinding that the salt got in our eyes, the sea turning inside out, shaking everything up like a bottle with sediment, a boat with two people heaving a brown package overboard, the mystery, the sharp teeth of that yellow spotted eel, the wriggle, the smooth lines, open mouths, families of great noisy birds, families of great noisy people, families of biting flies, the sea, following me home, snapping at my heels, all the way to the door, the sea, the woman.

“I have frightened you? Again, you are frightened of me?”

“You have frightened me. I am very frightened of you.”

“Oh, you should see your face. I wish you could see your face. How you make me laugh.”

*   *   *

And what are my fears? What large cows! When I see them coming, shall I run and hide face down in the gutter? Are they really cows? Can I stand in a field of tall grass and see nothing for miles and miles? On the other hand, the sky, which is big and blue as always, has its limits. This afternoon the wind is loud as in a hurricane. There isn't enough light. There is a noise—I can't tell where it is coming from. A big box has stamped on it “Handle Carefully.” I have been in a big white building with curving corridors. I have passed a dead person. There is the woman I love, who is so much bigger than me.

*   *   *

That mosquito … now a stain on the wall. That lizard, running up and down, up and down … now so still. That ant, bloated and sluggish, a purseful of eggs in its jaws … now so still. That blue-and-green bird, head held aloft, singing … now so still. That land crab, moving slowly, softly, even beautifully, sideways … but now so still. That cricket, standing on a tree stem, so ugly, so revolting, I am made so unhappy … now so still. That mongoose, now asleep in its hole, now stealing the sleeping chickens, moving so quickly, its eyes like two grains of light … now so still. That fly, moving so contentedly from tea bun to tea bun … now so still. That butterfly, moving contentedly from beautiful plant to beautiful plant in the early-morning sun … now so still. That tadpole, swimming playfully in the shallow water … now so still.

I shall cast a shadow and I shall remain unaware.

My hands, brown on this side, pink on this side, now indiscriminately dangerous, now vagabond and prodigal, now cruel and careless, now without remorse or forgiveness, but now innocently slipping into a dress with braided sleeves, now holding an ice-cream cone, now reaching up with longing, now clasped in prayer, now feeling for reassurance, now pleading my desires, now pleasing, and now, even now, so still in bed, in sleep.

HOLIDAYS

I sit on the porch facing the mountains. I sit on a wicker couch looking out the window at a field of day lilies. I walk into a room where someone—an artist, maybe—has stored some empty canvases. I drink a glass of water. I put the empty glass, from which I have just drunk the water, on a table. I notice two flies, one sitting on top of the other, flying around the room. I scratch my scalp, I scratch my thighs. I lift my arms up and stretch them above my head. I sigh. I spin on my heels once. I walk around the dining-room table three times. I see a book lying on the dining-room table, and I pick it up. The book is called
An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Butterflies and Moths.
I leaf through the book, looking only at the pictures, which are bright and beautiful. From my looking through the book, the word “thorax” sticks in my mind. “Thorax,” I say, “thorax, thorax,” I don't know how many times. I bend over and touch my toes. I stay in that position until I count to one hundred. As I count, I pretend to be counting off balls on a ball frame. As I count the balls, I pretend that they are the colors red, green, blue, and yellow. I walk over to the fireplace. Standing in front of the fireplace, I try to write my name in the dead ashes with my big toe. I cannot write my name in the dead ashes with my big toe. My big toe, now dirty, I try to clean by rubbing it vigorously on a clean royal-blue rug. The royal-blue rug now has a dark spot, and my big toe has a strong burning sensation. Oh, sensation. I am filled with sensation. I feel—oh, how I feel. I feel, I feel, I feel. I have no words right now for how I feel. I take a walk down the road in my bare feet. I feel the stones on the road, hard and sharp against my soft, almost pink soles. Also, I feel the hot sun beating down on my bare neck. It is midday. Did I say that? Must I say that? Oh me, oh my. The road on which I walk barefoot leads to the store—the village store. Should I go to the village store or should I not go to the village store? I can if I want. If I go to the village store, I can buy a peach. The peach will be warm from sitting in a box in the sun. The peach will not taste sweet and the peach will not taste sour. I will know that I am eating a peach only by looking at it. I will not go to the store. I will sit on the porch facing the mountains.

I sit on the porch facing the mountains. The porch is airy and spacious. I am the only person sitting on the porch. I look at myself. I can see myself. That is, I can see my chest, my abdomen, my legs, and my arms. I cannot see my hair, my ears, my face, or my collarbone. I can feel them, though. My nose is moist with sweat. Locking my fingers, I put my hands on my head. I see a bee, a large bumblebee, flying around aimlessly. I remove my hands from resting on my head, because my arms are tired. But also I have just remembered a superstition: if you sit with your hands on your head, you will kill your mother. I have many superstitions. I believe all of them. Should I read a book? Should I make myself something to drink? But what? And hot or cold? Should I write a letter? I should write a letter. I will write a letter. “Dear So-and-So, I am … and then I got the brilliant idea … I was very amusing … I had enough, I said … I saw what I came to see, I thought … I am laughing all the way to the poorhouse. I grinned … I just don't know anymore. I remain, etc.” I like my letter. Perhaps I shall keep my letter to myself. I fold up the letter I have just written and put it between the pages of the book I am trying to read. The book is lying in my lap. I look around me, trying to find something on which to focus my eyes. I see ten ants. I count them as they wrestle with a speck of food. I am not fascinated by that. I see my toes moving up and down as if they were tapping out a beat. Why are my toes tapping? I am fascinated by that. A song is going through my mind. It goes, “There was a man from British Guiana, Who used to play a piana. His foot slipped, His trousers ripped…” I see, I see. Yes. Now. Suddenly I am tired. I am yawning. Perhaps I will take a nap. Perhaps I will take a long nap. Perhaps I will take a nice long nap. Perhaps, while taking my nap, I will have a dream, a dream in which I am not sitting on the porch facing the mountains.

*   *   *

“I have the most sensible small suitcase in New York.

“I have the most sensible small car in New York.

“I will put my sensible small suitcase in my sensible small car and drive on a sensible and scenic road to the country.

“In the country, I live in a sensible house.

“I am a sensible man.

“It is summer.

“Look at that sunset. Too orange.

“These pebbles. Not pebbly enough.

“A house with interesting angles.

“For dinner I will eat scallops. I love the taste of scallops.

“These are my chums—the two boys and the girl. My chums are the most beautiful chums. The two boys know lumberjacks in Canada, and the girl is fragile. After dinner, my chums and I will play cards, and while playing cards we will tell each other jokes—such funny jokes—but later, thinking back, we will be so pained, so unsettled.”

*   *   *

The deerflies, stinging and nesting in wet, matted hair; broken bottles at the bottom of the swimming hole; mosquitoes; a family of skunks eating the family garbage; a family of skunks spraying the family dog; washing the family dog with cans of tomato juice to remove the smell of the skunks; a not-too-fast-moving woodchuck crossing the road; running over the not-too-fast-moving woodchuck; the camera forgotten, exposed in the hot sun; the prism in the camera broken, because the camera has been forgotten, exposed in the hot sun; spraining a finger while trying to catch a cricket ball; spraining a finger while trying to catch a softball; stepping on dry brambles while walking on the newly cut hayfields; the hem of a skirt caught in a barbed-wire fence; the great sunstroke, the great pain, the not at all great day spent in bed.

*   *   *

Inside, the house is still. Outside, the blind man takes a walk. It is midday, and the blind man casts a short, fat shadow as he takes a walk. The blind man is a young man, twenty-seven. The blind man has been blind for only ten years. The blind man was infatuated with the driver of his school bus, a woman. No. The blind man was in love with the driver of his school bus, a woman. The blind man saw the driver of his school bus, a woman, kissing a man. The blind man killed the driver of his school bus, a woman, and then tried to kill himself. He did not die, so now he is just a blind man. The blind man is pale and sickly-looking. He doesn't return a greeting. Everybody knows this, and they stay away from him. Not even the dog pays any attention to his comings and goings.

*   *   *

“But things are so funny here.”

“But where? But how?”

“We are going to the May fair, but it's July. They are dancing a May dance around a Maypole, but it's July. They are crowning a May queen, but it's July. At Christmas, just before our big dinner, we take a long swim in the warm seawater. After that, we do not bathe, and in the heat the salt dries on our bodies in little rings.”

“Aren't things funny here?”

“Yes, things are funny here.”

*   *   *

The two boys are fishing in Michigan, catching fish with live frogs. The two boys do not need a comfortable bed and a nice pillow at night, or newly baked bread for breakfast, or roasted beef on Sundays, or hymns in a cathedral, or small-ankled children wearing white caps, or boxes of fruit from the tropics, or nice greetings and sad partings, or light bulbs, or the tremor of fast motor vehicles, or key chains, or a run-down phonograph, or rubbish baskets, or meek and self-sacrificing women, or inkwells, or shaving kits. The two boys have visited the Mark Twain museum in Missouri and taken photographs. The two boys have done many things and taken photographs. Here are the two boys milking two cows in Wyoming. Here are the two boys seated on the hood of their car just after changing the tire. Here are the two boys dressed up as gentlemen. Here are the two boys dressed up as gentlemen and looking for large-breasted women.

*   *   *

That man, a handsome man; that woman, a beautiful woman; those children, such gay children; great laughter; wild and sour berries; wild and sweet berries; pink and blue-black berries; fields with purple flowers, blue flowers, yellow flowers; a long road; a long and curved road; a car with a collapsible top; big laughs; big laughing in the bushes; no, not the bushes—the barn; no, not the barn—the house; no, not the house—the trees; no, not the trees, no; big laughing all the same; a crushed straw hat that now fits lopsided; milk from a farm; eggs from a farm; a farm; in the mountains, no clear reception on the radio; no radio; no clothes; no free-floating anxiety; no anxiety; no automatic-lighting stoves; a walk to the store; a walk; from afar, the sound of great laughing; the piano; from afar, someone playing the piano; late-morning sleepiness; many, many brown birds; a big blue-breasted bird; a smaller red-breasted bird; food roasted on sticks; ducks; wild ducks; a pond; so many wide smiles; no high heels; buying many funny postcards; sending many funny postcards; taking the rapids; and still, great laughter.

THE LETTER FROM HOME

I milked the cows, I churned the butter, I stored the cheese, I baked the bread, I brewed the tea, I washed the clothes, I dressed the children; the cat meowed, the dog barked, the horse neighed, the mouse squeaked, the fly buzzed, the goldfish living in a bowl stretched its jaws; the door banged shut, the stairs creaked, the fridge hummed, the curtains billowed up, the pot boiled, the gas hissed through the stove, the tree branches heavy with snow crashed against the roof; my heart beat loudly
thud! thud!,
tiny beads of water gathered on my nose, my hair went limp, my waist grew folds, I shed my skin; lips have trembled, tears have flowed, cheeks have puffed, stomachs have twisted with pain; I went to the country, the car broke down, I walked back; the boat sailed, the waves broke, the horizon tipped, the jetty grew small, the air stung, some heads bobbed, some handkerchiefs fluttered; the drawers didn't close, the faucets dripped, the paint peeled, the walls cracked, the books tilted over, the rug no longer lay out flat; I ate my food, I chewed each mouthful thirty-two times, I swallowed carefully, my toe healed; there was a night, it was dark, there was a moon, it was full, there was a bed, it held sleep; there was movement, it was quick, there was a being, it stood still, there was a space, it was full, then there was nothing; a man came to the door and asked, “Are the children ready yet? Will they bear their mother's name? I suppose you have forgotten that my birthday falls on Monday after next? Will you come to visit me in hospital?”; I stood up, I sat down, I stood up again; the clock slowed down, the post came late, the afternoon turned cool; the cat licked his coat, tore the chair to shreds, slept in a drawer that didn't close; I entered a room, I felt my skin shiver, then dissolve, I lighted a candle, I saw something move, I recognized the shadow to be my own hand, I felt myself to be one thing; the wind was hard, the house swayed, the angiosperms prospered, the mammal-like reptiles vanished (Is the Heaven to be above? Is the Hell below? Does the Lamb still lie meek? Does the Lion roar? Will the streams all run clear? Will we kiss each other deeply later?); in the peninsula some ancient ships are still anchored, in the field the ox stands still, in the village the leopard stalks its prey; the buildings are to be tall, the structures are to be sound, the stairs are to be winding, in the rooms sometimes there is to be a glow; the hats remain on the hat stand, the coats hang dead from the pegs, the hyacinths look as if they will bloom—I know their fragrance will be overpowering; the earth spins on its axis, the axis is imaginary, the valleys correspond to the mountains, the mountains correspond to the sea, the sea corresponds to the dry land, the dry land corresponds to the snake whose limbs are now reduced; I saw a man, He was in a shroud, I sat in a rowboat, He whistled sweetly to me, I narrowed my eyes, He beckoned to me, Come now; I turned and rowed away, as if I didn't know what I was doing.