By the Light of My Father's Smile (22 page)

The cathedral of the future will be nature, Señor, said Manuelito. In the end, people will be driven back to trees. To streams. To rocks that do not have anything built on them. That is what the Mundo believe.

This was the boy who might have been my son-in-law. Why had I been so stupid as to divert the stream of life? I might have had grandchildren who grew up to walk thoughtfully about the world teaching these things!

No one among the Mundo believes there is anyone on earth who truly knows anything about why we are here, Señor. Even to have an idea about it would require a very big brain. A computer. That is why, instead of ideas, the Mundo have stories.

You are saying, are you not, I said to Manuelito, that stories have more room in them than ideas?

He laughed.

That is correct, Señor. It is as if ideas are made of blocks. Rigid and hard. And stories are made of a gauze that is elastic. You can almost see through it, so what is beyond is tantalizing. You can't
quite make it out; and because the imagination is always moving forward, you yourself are constantly stretching. Stories are the way spirit is exercised.

But surely you people have ideas! I said.

Of course we do. But we know that there is a limit to them. After that, story!

He had told me he must go away for a while. In his absence I must practice the initiation song. I was puzzled by the last stanza, the one that ends “por la luz de los ojos de mi padre.”

No, no, Señor, said Manuelito. You keep saying by the light of my father's
eyes.
That is not correct. It is “por la luz de la
sonrisa
de mi padre”! By the light of my father's
smile.

I shrugged. It seems only natural, I said. The eyes have light, I said. The teeth do not.

Think of the smile as the crescent moon, he said, high in the night sky. Though turned sideways to North Americans, in our hemisphere it is turned like a bowl, or a boat, so that it is like a smile in a dark face, is it not?

Oh, I said. I had never really thought about the moon.

Do not worry, Señor. All you need to do is practice. When the time comes, you will understand.

Why must you go away? I asked.

Remember how I told you that everyone who dies has two tasks? Well, the one that I have to do that does not involve you and Magdalena is in Vietnam.

I realized what this might mean for him. I held out my arms. I am sorry, I said, embracing him.

Do not be sorry for me, Señor. After all, I am safely dead. And as you see, it is not a bad life. But in Vietnam there is a child, a little girl whose spirit died the moment her parents were killed. She is now a prostitute on the streets of Da Nang, and dying of AIDS.

Did you murder her parents? I asked.

I did, he said, simply. After I hid her in a granary basket, through whose chinks she apparently peeked. Our orders were to destroy the village. We destroyed it.

How will you face her? I asked.

She will die, and then it will be easy.

But she will hate you, I said.

No, he said. She will understand immediately that I am bringing back something she has lost. It is what she most wants to take with her into her death.

What is that? I asked.

The moment just before her parents were shot. The last moment of being herself. The last moment of being whole. Of having a soul. It is amazing, is it not, to think that that moment is one we shared? We two, alone of all the world. Complete strangers. Neither speaking the other's language, except through the eyes. And yet, I saved her because she reminded me of Magdalena, the first day we met, the day she stepped on my foot.

Manuelito laughed.

How can you laugh! I asked.

Oh, Señor, he said. Laughter isn't even the other side of tears. It is tears turned inside out. Truly the suffering is great, here on earth. We blunder along, shredded by our mistakes, bludgeoned by our faults. Not having a clue where the dark path leads us. But on the whole, we stumble along bravely, don't you think?

And so you laugh, I said.

I laugh, he said, waving his hand in the air, attempting to disguise a tear.

Susannah is lounging in a deck chair on the deck of Irene's yacht. She is wearing a red, scoop-neck T-shirt and dark green shorts that close along the side with black buttons. On her feet are white espadrilles. Her hair has grown longer since she's been traveling with Irene, and is in glossy, silver-streaked locks that resemble Pauline's; her left nostril sports a twinkling golden stud; her lanky frame seems deeply bronze against the khaki of the chair. She is reading a letter from Pauline:

The first thing that happens to women after they've seen how being with one another can work, is that they have a case of the frights. It is as if they look into each other's eyes and discover they've been trasformed into bears.

My daughter smiles at this image, enjoys this turn of her former (she thinks) lover's mind, and looks out on a glass-smooth sea. She only misses Pauline when she doesn't hear from her. This puzzles her. The minute she gets a letter, she feels she doesn't miss her at all. But now she thinks: Is this simply a part of being, and of perceiving, the bear? She holds the letter in such a way that it shades her eyes from the sun.

I miss you, the letter continued. Shamelessly. I think about you all the time. Every minute of the day. In fact, I create extra minutes in the day in which to miss you. In my derangement, I have created a new dessert, a completely healthy and delicious blackberry shortcake. Its name is “Oh, Susannah!” Diners are in love! Susannah stretches her arms above her head and inadvertently smells her armpits. She imagines Pauline's head, her silver locks, nestled there. Startled, she blinks her eyes.

It is never smooth sailing, she read. Whether with woman, or, as I imagine, with man. In fact, one of my friends tells me that the surest way to have sympathy for a man is to start sleeping with women. Did you think I would be problem free? Better than Petros? More soulful than that other guy you never liked to talk about? I have problems. I work on them. What more can anyone do?

At this, Susannah sat up. It was time for lunch, and she saw Irene coming toward her.

Did you notice that the boat has stopped? asked Irene, as one of the crew laid out bowls and salad forks.

Has it? asked Susannah, in a daze. She was still thinking of Pauline, and, in fact, mentally writing a response to her which she would later wire from the office-study Irene had thoughtfully set up for her on the astonishingly well-run and self-sufficient boat. She was stuck on one line, the most honest she would ever bring herself to write: You are a bear; I am a bear; yes, I am afraid.

It is over there, just by that outcropping of rocks, that I will place my mother, said Irene, pointing at a sloping hillside that seemed to be sliding into the sea, and on which yellow grasses and bright windflowers winked in the sun. No matter how much sun Irene got, she never seemed to tan. Now she squinted in the direction she pointed, her skin as white as paper and mottled by brown liver spots.

Ah, said Susannah, seeming to relax into the spectacular view. It is stunning. What a view she will have!

Yes, said Irene, mopping up goat cheese and salad juices with a piece of bread. It is not a bad place to spend eternity.

Eternity. The word made Susannah think, quite firmly, of the moment. The moment in which she sat immersed in the daughterly intentions of Irene. Every once in a while, lately, perhaps because she was getting older, she had these moments that seemed dense and deep, true and eternal. They seemed outside of and beyond time, somehow. And in this particular moment, she was languorous from the stately, nearly imperceptible roll of the boat, the excellent grilled fish and opulent Greek salad, the ticklish white wine, and the face of her friend, as Irene looked at the Greek island landscape and straight into her abused and rejected mother's heart.

You see, it is not too far from my former prison, said Irene.

Sure enough, just to the right, but much closer to the sea, sat the small white church. Only now it was surrounded by other buildings that housed a nursery, a hospital, a school, a center for women. The church itself had been transformed into a place where people could learn ancient rituals that had once been beloved by the people of Greece. They involved dancing and prayer as one. Eating and prayer as one. Loving and prayer as one.

It is so different, now, from what it was, said Irene. For one thing, I had a giant fireplace built in one end. A fireplace you can cook in. To me, that is what is always missing from churches.

Fire? asked Susannah.

Of course, said Irene.

Plenty of brimstone, though, said Susannah, laughing.

My daughter is dreaming about her fear of where life is taking her. In the dream, there are two women, each of whom offers her food. She begins to eat the food, happily. Enjoying it. When the first woman sees this, she slowly begins to pour salt over everything. Susannah turns hopefully to the food offered by the other woman. That woman calmly pours a fine stream of sand.

She sits next day with Irene and tells her this dream.

Irene has her tarot deck and lays out the cards.

In one, there is a woman cutting off another woman's hair.

The woman whose hair is being cut is oblivious to what is going on. She is looking into a large mirror that does not show what is being done to her. She likes her reflection so much that she smiles. Not noticing the other woman's frown.

Oh, says Irene, the muddled territory of the blissfully deluded.

Oh, shit, says Susannah, peering at the cards. At least I recognize myself.

You are so deluded it's a wonder you're such an honest person, says Irene.

That's the way I fight my delusions, I think, says Susannah.

Another card that Irene studies shows a woman riding a large elephant. She thinks she is in control, but the elephant is about to step over a boulder that will dislodge her. By the elephant's side, very small, there is a woman yelling up at her, attempting to warn her of the danger. The rider is too into her power trip, however, to hear. Luckily, just at the edge of the card, there appears the tiniest wing of an angel. Not even a whole angel yet, just the promise of one. If the woman comes to her senses, she will be saved.

What does it mean, being saved? asks Susannah.

I think it means becoming aware. Irene pokes out her lips in concentration, reading the cards. And what this card says is that you are gaining that possibility.

Thank goodness, says Susannah.

Your dream is about your sister, the giant one you told me about, said Irene.

Magdalena? asked Susannah, suddenly sitting very straight.

Yes. And it is trying to draw your attention to her resemblance to Pauline.

What? asked Susannah, blinking.

Irene shrugged. I never had a lover myself, but I have known many. Read cards for them. They are always falling in love with members of their own family.

But that's grotesque, said Susannah.

Irene had started to puff on a small (rolled just for her, by order, in Cuba)
cohiba
cigar. As she spoke, she blew smoke from the corner of her mouth.

There is a place where your sister and your lover meet, absolutely.

Susannah thought of the truculent Magdalena, the sensuous Pauline. Where, she snorted, in the world is that?

Right in the middle of your life.

¿Cómo?

Didn't you tell me that Pauline wanted your childhood; that she yearned for the life she assumed you had?

Yes, said Susannah, puzzled.

And even as adults, didn't she try to take it from you by spoiling the times you spent together that were supposed to make up for what she hadn't had?

Susannah thought of the trips, nearly always disastrous, that she had gone on with Pauline. Kalimasa came back to her in all its sultry despair. Pauline running about the countryside like a teenager, ignorant as any ghetto youth of the ancient mores of the culture, stuck on herself and pretending to be stuck on half the young boys she met.

This was your second childhood, too, said Irene. She spoiled it for you.

And yet, thought Susannah, just like my parents' lovemaking, sex with Pauline had somehow brought it back. The feeling of being a child, doing something naughty, and getting away with it in a magical land.

Susannah, said Irene smiling, you are so deluded, so unsure of what exactly is happening, that you do not even recognize your own abuse, your own suffering. You think everyone else has it harder than you do. No wonder these two women in your life have wanted to hit you over the head.

Tears sprang to Susannah's eyes.

No, no, said Irene, clucking like a mother hen and taking her hand.
I
do not want to join them in hitting you over the head. I am an old, old woman, and I understand. You have suffered a spirit fracture. I am the angel, perhaps, who has arrived to help it be, at last, properly set.

A
spirit
fracture? asked Susannah hoarsely, feeling the label fit her wound exactly, and beginning to weep.

Yes, said Irene. Just a fracture. Your spirit is not broken, as was your sister's.

How does Magdalena fit into this? she asked Irene, sniffling.

Irene laughed. Pauline was the woman pouring sand, she said. Even you were able to sense something wrong there. Magdalena was the one pouring salt. In itself, salt is a condiment; it belongs in food. That is why you hardly noticed until it was too late.

Too late? said Susannah.

Yes. At many different points you might have reconnected with your father, but there was a shaker of salt right by your elbow. Before you knew it, in all kinds of ways, Magdalena had unpalatably overseasoned your food. A word here, a whisper there. It should be a crime to be younger than anyone else in a family. If they want to, those who are older can feed you such distortions and lies!