Strange Girl (11 page)

“Oh yes.” Clara must have hit a special button because a string of laughter followed. She gestured to a nearby chair. “Please, have a seat.”

Sitting, I wondered if her gesture had contained a hidden message because I noticed Bart had suddenly split. I didn’t mind. I was curious to talk to the woman alone, and hopefully find out what kind of person it took to adopt an eight-year-old girl who’d been roaming the streets of an obscure shantytown since God knew what age. I did the best I could to explain my interest in Aja’s background—and in Clara for that matter—and the woman immediately put me at ease.

“Please, ask any question you want,” she typed.

“How did you first meet Aja?”

Clara’s fingers flew over the pad.

“Bart and I had heard stories about the
‘Pequena Maga’
—that means ‘Little Magician’ in Portuguese—before we actually met Aja. That’s what the people in Selva called her. The majority were fond of her and for most the nickname was an affectionate title. But even before we met Aja face-to-face we spoke to a few who feared her, probably because she was something of a mystery. They didn’t understand how she lived, what she ate. You see, since she was a child, Aja lived almost like an animal. She had no home, no family. She wandered in and out of the jungle, and when she was in town, no one ever saw her begging for food or asking for help. And no one ever touched her or tried to harm her. They just let her be.”

I frowned. “Are you saying no one spoke to her?”

“Oh no. She spoke to anyone who spoke to her, although she usually had little to say. But you have to understand the people of Selva. They’re a kind people but simple. In their own way, they too live close to nature. For the most part they’re very religious and they seemed to sense a saintliness to Aja.”

My frown deepened. “Are you saying they worshipped her?”

“They respected her deeply. They spoke of odd events that happened around her: hearing the voices of dead loved ones; seeing lights in the sky or in the trees. There were reports that Aja could predict the future and heal the sick. It was these stories that piqued my interest in her. But when I asked where I should go to meet her, the townspeople said I’d never find Aja that way. That she had to come to me.” Clara paused in her typing before adding, “And that’s how we met.”

“She appeared on your doorstep one day?” I asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in my voice. If Clara was offended she didn’t show it. She continued.

“One day I was taking a long walk in the jungle outside of town. But I had wandered too far off the path and was lost. It was a hot day and I had foolishly forgotten to bring water with me. I don’t want to exaggerate and say my life was in danger but I was becoming concerned. It’s very humid in that part of the world. Feeling dizzy, I stopped under the shade of a tree to rest. It was then I saw Aja. She just walked up to me and pointed with her arm, saying, ‘There’s a stream of fresh water up ahead. Come, I’ll show you.’ She took me completely by surprise. All she had on was a short, white dress. It was dirty and so was she. Her hair was long—it looked like it had never been cut, never been combed. Yet she looked—how should I say it?—beautiful.”

“She’s a beautiful girl,” I said.

“Yes. But that’s not what I mean. She had an inner beauty—I felt it right away. I followed her to the stream, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she pulled her dress over her head and dove stark naked into the water. It was like the most natural thing in the world to her. I can’t say I followed her example but it was a relief to splash my face and head and take a deep drink. My dizziness passed and I sat and rested on a rock while Aja swam lazily in the stream, mostly on her back, staring up at the blue sky. I didn’t know if it was because of the coolness of the water, or the prettiness of the spot, or the presence of Aja herself, but I began to feel a deep peace settle over me. And I knew that my meeting with Aja had been no accident.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Clara eyed me closely. “I think you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, honestly. Tell me.”

The woman shrugged as best she could with her half-paralyzed body. “I just knew that Aja and I were supposed to be together from then on. But when she got out of the water, after dressing, she took my hand and showed me a way back to the path. Yet she didn’t go with me back to town, not that day, and a part of me felt confused and hurt.”

“Mrs. Smith, may I ask a question?”

“Clara, please. Yes, ask anything you wish.”

“Do you have any children of your own?”

“No. I know what you’re thinking. That I’d always longed for my own child and that meeting Aja was the fulfillment of an old and painful wish. No, you don’t have to apologize. I’d be thinking the same thing if I was in your position. But the truth is, and it might sound cold, but I’d never really wanted children.” Clara paused. “Not until I met Aja.”

“Tell me more.”

“I didn’t see her again for a month. Then, one day, she just showed up while Bart and I were having lunch on the porch. We invited her to stay and eat. She was obviously half-starved—you only had to look at her. It took a while for her to open up but eventually she began to answer our questions.”

“What did you ask her?”

“Normal things. Where do you live? How do you feed yourself? What do you do when it rains? Does anyone ever try to hurt you? This last question made her laugh. She acted as if the idea of her being harmed was totally foreign to her.”

“Excuse me, I meant to ask this earlier. Were you speaking Portuguese the whole time?”

Clara hesitated. “No. Initially, we were only passing through Selva when we heard about Aja. For that matter, we were just visiting Brazil. It wasn’t as if we lived there. Neither Bart nor I spoke Portuguese. When we talked to Aja, it was always in English.”

“Did many of the people in Selva speak English?”

“Very few. It’s a small town and doesn’t get many tourists. If people speak a second language, it’s usually Spanish.”

“Then who taught Aja English?”

“I don’t know. She never said.”

“What led you to Selva in the first place? From what you’ve said, it sounds like a pretty remote place.”

Clara raised her head. “I had a dream about the town.”

“A dream?”

“Yes. A few days before we set out on our trip. The dream was the reason I scheduled a visit to Brazil.”

“Where are you from originally?”

“Los Angeles.”

“I see. So I take it Aja started to stop by regularly?”

“She’d show up once every week or so. Then, after a couple of months, she began to come by more often. Bart and I set up a room for her and she began to stay overnight. After a year or so she almost never left.”

“This started when she was roughly eight years old?”

“We don’t know her actual birth date. And we don’t know anything concrete about her parents, except that they both died when she was around four or five. But the villagers never told us how they died, and Aja would never talk about them.”

“But you believe a few of the villagers did know how they died?”

“Yes. But I think they were afraid to say how.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many years has Aja been with you now?”

“Ten years, almost to the day.”

“Bart gave me the impression it was her idea to move here.”

“That’s true.”

“Do you know why she wanted to come to this particular town?”

Clara looked at me a long time. “You know Aja, she seldom says much. But from hints she’s dropped, I’ve gotten the impression she came here because she was looking for someone.”

“Who?”

Clara smiled. “You.”

I felt my skin burn with fresh blood, although I can’t say her answer surprised me. All along, talking to the woman, I had felt she was leading up to some sort of revelation.

Clara was clearly intelligent; the stroke that had impaired her left side had not damaged her mind. Yet I found her story of meeting Aja disturbingly vague. It had an almost fairy-tale-like quality to it. Indeed, it reminded me of Billard’s encounter with Aja in the cemetery.

At the same time I was certain Clara was not lying.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Clara said when I didn’t respond. She reached out and took my hand, squeezed it for a moment before her fingers returned to her pad.

“I’m glad one of us does,” I said.

“You’re thinking I’m no different from the primitive villagers who lived beside Aja all her life. That I’ve romanticized the story of her life. But the truth is I haven’t told you a fraction of the wild tales surrounding her.”

“You mean I haven’t heard anything yet?”

“Exactly.”

“Then tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not ready to hear it all, not yet. But I promise you, before I sleep tonight, I’ll write down a few things that will help you better understand her.”

“Fred,” I heard a voice speak at my back.

I turned. It was Aja, standing in the dim doorway, wearing a tight red dress, tall black boots, looking anything but saintly, more like sex incarnate. She flashed a bright smile.

“Do you want to go?” Aja asked.

I stood clumsily, somehow feeling that it was rude to leave Clara so abruptly but at the same time anxious to be alone with my date. With my head turned away, I felt Clara pat my hand.

“It was nice to finally meet you, Fred.”

“Likewise,” I replied. The way she said “finally”—I got the impression the woman had been waiting a long time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IN THE CAR I saw that my mother had left a message on my cell. I picked it up and was surprised to hear my parents were spending the night in Balen. It seemed my mom’s company was celebrating a huge quarterly success and was throwing a party at a nearby hotel. Because they were going to be out late, and drinking, they thought it best not to try to drive home late. It sounded like my mom’s company was springing for the hotel room.

Aja noticed my uncertain expression. “A change of plans?” she said.

I started the car. “Well, I wanted to take you to Balen so we’d have some privacy. But I just found out my parents are going to be gone for the night. In fact, they’re spending the night in Balen.”

“So there’s no reason to go there.”

I felt like such a dick for blushing. “We could go to my house and hang out but it’s not very exciting there. Besides, I promised you dinner in a fancy restaurant. You’re probably hungry.”

“Do you have food at your house?”

“Leftover turkey. It’s only a day old.”

Aja shrugged. “I like turkey leftovers.”

“You really want to go to my house?”

“Yes.”

I was fortunate I didn’t have to worry if the house was clean. My mother loved to tidy up as much as my father loved to work in the garden. Our house was always immaculate, with the exception of my bedroom. It was not that I was a slob but my space was limited, what with my guitars, amps, and keyboards, never mind my computer and books.

My parents had bought me a tablet the previous Christmas but, for me, there was a special pleasure in holding and reading a
real
book. I doubted that I’d ever throw out my collection of novels. Besides science fiction, I’d collected tons of mysteries. I had every book Agatha Christie had ever written.

If my friends could have seen me the first half hour I was alone with Aja I’m sure they would have died laughing. For some reason, hanging out with her in the place where I’d grown up made me feel especially nervous and clumsy. For example, in the kitchen, suddenly I couldn’t find a damn thing. I even had trouble finding a pot to boil rice. Then I had trouble remembering how long I was supposed to let it cook. Finally, though, I began to calm down and by the time I had the food on the table I was back to my usual witty self.

“Does Bart do the cooking at your house?” I asked as I sat across from Aja, the width of the table separating us. I’d offered her a beer or a Coke but she seemed to prefer water. She also kept me from piling too much rice, turkey, and steamed broccoli on her plate. Given that she weighed no more than a hundred pounds, I could see why.

“I do most of it,” she said.

“Really? Where did you learn to cook?”

“Aunty taught me. She and her husband owned a restaurant when they were young.”

“She didn’t mention her husband to me.”

“He died not long after they married.”

“She never remarried?”

“She told me there was no point—that she’d never be able to love someone else as much.” Aja added, “I disagreed with her.”

“Isn’t it possible she was right? I mean, isn’t it possible there’s only one special person out there for all of us?”

“No,” Aja said and there was a peculiar authority in her voice, as if she was absolutely certain what she was saying was true.

“You’d never make it in the music business,” I teased. “Almost every song recorded nowadays is about finding your soul mate.”

She spoke in a serious tone. “That’s not what you write about when you compose your songs. I’ve heard them. You write what comes to you from the Big Person.”

“The Big Person?”

She gestured. “I don’t know what you call it. When you write a song, don’t you listen inside, first, before you come up with the lyrics?”

I nodded. “Yeah, usually. I know I write better when I’m alone and the house is quiet. Silence seems to help me connect with my muse.”

“Your muse.” Aja appeared to savor the word. She added, “The Big Person must be the same as the muse.”

“Is ‘Big Person’ a phrase they use where you come from?”

“No.”

“Then why do you use it?”

Aja continued to struggle to find the right words. “To separate it from the Little Person.”

I chuckled as I took a bite of turkey. It didn’t taste bad for leftovers. The rice was pretty good, too. My mom preferred basmati and, like her, I put plenty of ginger in it.

“You’re losing me,” I said. “Who’s the Little Person?”

Aja went to answer but then stopped and smiled. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.

After we finished our meal and cleaned up—it was my idea to wash the dishes—we watched a movie. Aja had never seen
The Lord of the Rings
—she had only seen a handful of films—so I played her a tape of the first installment:
The Fellowship of the Ring
. She watched the whole thing without uttering a word. But it was obvious she loved it.