Crickets had taken over, like they always do this hour.
The falling sun tinted most of the surrounding leaves a surreal bluish green and other leaves golden. They flickered in a gentle breeze. Every shimmer, every sway, every flicker catching the corner of my eye, tickled a memory.
Some things you never forget. Some things are hard to remember. I couldn't dig up the particulars of this memory no matter how hard I concentrated. Not then. But it was right there, like a feather tapping my temple.
I heard the other voices again - the giggling voices. They were happy voices. Very satisfied voices.
I traced them upstream, carefully winding my way around the berry brushes and blooming trees.
Occasionally the crickets got louder, but it was still the same old tune.
I came upon a clearing. Across that clearing was a plush green field and beside it, a tree lined path. An old man was on that path, walking as if in some sort of daze, like a man carrying a huge disappointment.
I saw behind him other folks walking, mostly old or seemingly old people, walking as if in a strange sort of procession. Much like the old man, they were walking askance: dazed-like but as if practiced and laden with disappointment - a shared solicitude. There were no crickets here, or else the crickets had gone absolutely quiet.
I saw ahead of the procession a solemn gathering. Then I noticed, coming from the other side, a younger group dressed casually but solemnly. Six of them bore a draped coffin above their shoulders.
There was no music - none I could hear - but those surrounding the coffin were marching New Orlean's style, the way New Orleans march to bury their departed.
There was a large seven embroidered in red and gold on the white sheet draping that coffin.
Beyond them and on the downside of a stream of sunlight, filtered-in sort of sideways to a circular extension of the green field, I saw several rows of impecably white crosses. Everyone was headed that way.
Everyone but me.
I didn't know what to make of this. Everything was quiet. The sun was lower now. The tinted leaves seemed a more golden green and less bluish.
I continued upward along the stream, quickening my pace.
Then I heard those voices again and, slowly, the crickets took over the trees again, took over the world it seemed, like a gathering of cackling ghosts, like a tune no one can sleep through, except a baby.
Eventually, I got to the pond, what some others might call a lake. That's where the voices were coming from. They must have been swimming in that pond, this happy band of eight or nine - not more than twelve - athletic youths that seemed more like a mixed group of models out of Jungle Fever. Now they were leaving, heading away from where I now was. Some had towels strewn around their necks. Their bodies were so beautiful - so jungle beautiful - I sighed. They were still laughing, of course, and chattering as though they had not a care in this world - just young and full of desire - life, just a novelty.
They reached the far side of the smaller loop of the pond, an area in which water lilies, tawny daylilies and lotuses bloomed. They drifted farther, past the natural spring, and farther away from there, their joyous voices receding. Soon after that they disappeared through the berry bushes.
My mind got crowded.
I was still trying to make heads or tails of everything when I noticed to my right a woman of unimaginable beauty - calm and dexterous - the kind of woman you'd want to dream about. The kind of woman you'd think, if you ever came upon her, your words would stumble around in your mouth. You would want to touch her but your fingers would tremble.
I saw her.
She draped a towel across a bush by the pond then tested the water with her toes. Then she dove into the pond. The pond took her in as smoothly as a gentle ripple. Just then I saw a movement ashore, aback of where she had stood before she dove into the pond. It was that gorilla.
It had the most menacing look and was cantering toward the pond, picking up speed. The woman was swimming oblivious of the gorrila, oblivious of me, oblivious of the shore.
I shouted. "Hey!" She did not respond. Instinctively, I plunged and felt a wicked thud against my forehead, but fought off the pain so I wouldn't be delayed getting to her, to save her.
She must have seen or heard me coming and, perhaps, was spooked by my sudden intrusion. She sped back to shore, back to the very spot she had come from, back toward that gorilla. I shouted as I swam hard toward her. "No. Don't. No. A gorilla!"
But she kept swimming ever faster, back to where her towel was, to where the gorrila was, and she got to shore before I could reach her.
I saw her grab the towel from the bushes. She covered herself with it. I kept shouting, swimming as fast as I could, and I pointed too, as best as I could manage those three acts together. It was like trying to tap my head, rub my belly and whistle at the same time. For a guy who can't juggle two balls and chew gum at the same time, this feat took every effort I could muster. I was frightened for her.
She stood on the embankment watching me with wry amusement as I clawed up to her, heaving.
"Are you mad?" She asked.
"The gorilla!" I pointed behind her.
She turned to look. Then looked at me again. "What gorilla?"
"It was ... It was," I bobbled about looking for some sign of the danger. "It was right there," I said. Standing so close to her I could've fainted. Somehow I didn't. "It was right there," I said. "It isn't safe here."
She chuckled. "Is that your best line?" She asked.
"Huh?"
"You'd have to do much better than The Gorilla! way much better than It isn't safe here! to lure a quality woman. With hooks like those the only thing you'll catch is a fish wishing to amuse itself with one question: coo-coo?" She chuckled. "Look at you!"
I looked.
I was soaked.
Water was still seeping from my shoes.
I looked the fool. Yet, she didn't seem the least bit frightened of me; just every bit amused. She didn't seem to be bothered by the possibility of a gorrila lurking in the bushes set on attack. The very idea seemed a mere joke - a joke that wasn't all that funny. Maybe I - alone - was the unfunny joke, but I knew that somewhere behind those berry bushes, somewhere behind those blooming trees a gorilla was watching us, the very gorilla I saw from my veranda, a gorilla with a distinctive mark. I could feel it watching and I was trying my darndest to be brave for her, because she was standing so incredibly close to me. Right there! Uh!
We have an instinct, I think, to protect a thing of beauty. I had that instinct. For those moments, the probability of being mauled to bits by a gorrila seemed a privilege, for it would be both of us mauled by the same gorilla at the same time. Both of us would be in the gorilla's belly crunched together, digested together, pooped out together, fertilizing this island ... together. We'd be together. Forever. Conjoined.
"You'll catch your death of stupidity," she said, "standing stiff in your wet clothes. It's about to rain. Come with me."
I followed her.
Uh! Just to see her. And then to meet her. Now, I was following her. That gorrila was watching us alright. I knew it. I could feel it. But following her ... Uh ... I couldn't give a rat's poop about gorillas. Or rain.
On the other side of a beautiful garden, beyond the bushes beyond that pond, there was a house. The house was hidden from casual view. The path was pebbled. Walking up it, she picked a berry and ate it. I had the urge to do the same but resisted.
Undulating garden beds round and about made this hidden house seem on the crest of a wave, like Noah's ark revamped.
When she got to it she opened the front door. The door was not locked. She beckoned me in.
I stepped in and stood at the doorway.
She tossed her towel into an open basket and turned around and saw that I was still standing at the door. She came toward me, tapped me out of her way and closed the door. "You'd have to do something about those," she said, pointing to my wet wear. "You have a horrible bump on your forehead. It needs attending to. You're not a good diver, are you?"
I felt the bump. "I guess not."
It was a horrible bump. I was actually ignoring the pain.
She returned and tossed a large towel to me. I caught it.
"Let me see how bad it is," she said, and came up to examine the bump on my forehead. She had a wonderful scent. "Hmmm. Do you plan to let those clothes dry on you?" she asked after her quick examination then stood in front of me, as if I were a kid and she was my mother.
I froze.
"Not very bright, are you?" She asked, unfolding her arms from her athletic torso, exposing a marvelous navel and a faint mark beneath. "Or do you expect me to undress you too?"
"Oh - ah - well!" I fumbled before the more instinctive parts of my senses thawed. Then I said, "Would you, please?"
"In your dreams," she said and turned her back to me, walking off. Uh! "There's the bedroom," she pointed to her right, still going. "I'll get something to soothe that bump. I don't have to tell you what to do in there, do I? It seems I have to tell you everything or you won't budge. A man doesn't grow roots standing in the same spot you know. He'll rot. Or do you have a different opinion?"
I didn't respond; I was afraid I'd bite my tongue. I was already biting my lip.
I practically tiptoed into the bedroom.
Wo-hoe! Paradise.
Some people have it all, I was thinking.
This was the kind of bedroom you dream of, with the perfect bed. I realized I was invited in to get dried: the idea, ostensibly, being to save myself from a slow and stupid death. I took off my shoes, undressed and began to dry myself. I hadn't realized that the bedroom door was still open. If I had closed the door I would've noticed the Stradivarius and the Botticelli. The sight of those two was bound to, at least, nudge my memory, but I wasn't thinking straight. The door remained open.
It came to mind that I did not know who this woman was, that I hadn't inquired her name, and she didn't ask me mine.
Now I was thinking it wouldn't be smart, would it, to bring that up, because I didn't know how I got to the island or why.
In fact, that's how I landed in that bedroom: I was searching for answers. That's why I tracked the voices to the lily pond. That's how I came to discover her. And she is a beauty, isn't she? Uh! So kind and beautiful. Beauty is immortal. It is. Ugly rots. It stinks.
"This should soothe your bump," she said from behind, startling me. I had only just completed drying myself and had barely wrapped the towel around my waist and tucked it in when she said, "Let me see that bump."
Instinctively, I spun around. And it happened.
"Wow!" Her eyes flickered. She smiled. "Now you have two bumps," she said. "That one's the real problem. A huge problem!"
"Uh!"
"You do sprout roots, don't you? I misjudged."
My embarassment was total: the towel was hanging around me by a breath.
No warning whatsoever, this surprising turn of events warped my mind. Though, under the circumstances, it should have been no surprise. Should it? What would you expect of a verile man, a man excited by the scent of an appetizing beauty right at his fingertips, if that man as well is desperately trying to find himself, desperately trying to figure out who he is, and practically dribbling? Hmm?
I held my breath. Dear God.
Prologue | Chapter One | Two | Three | Four | Five | --->
