Collages (2 page)

From occasional vague descriptions, Renate had
understood that his parents had brought him up in this impenetrable silence.
They had a language they talked between themselves and had only a broken form
of English to use with the child. They had left him in America at the age of
eleven, without any words of explanation, returned to Norway, and let him be
brought up by a distant relative.

“Distant he was,” said Bruce once, laughing.
“My first job was given to me by a neighbor who owned the candy machines in
which kids put a penny and get candy and sometimes if they are lucky, a prize.
The prizes were rings, small whistles, tin soldiers, a new penny, a tie pin. My
job was to insert a little glue so the prizes would never come down the slot.”

They laughed.

When I met you in Vienna, I was on my way to
see my parents. Then I thought: what’s the use? I don’t even remember their
faces.”

Before he had left the room, they had been
drinking Mexican beer. He said looking at his glass and turning it in his hand:
“When you are drunk an ordinary glass shines like a diamond.”

Renate added: “When you are drunk an iron bed
seems like the feather bed of sensual Sultans.”

He rebelled against all ties, even the loving
web of words, promises, compliments. He left without announcing his return, not
even using the words most people uttered every day: “I’ll be seeing you!”

Renate would fall asleep in her orange shawl,
forgetting to undress. At first she slept, and then awakened and waited. But
waiting in a Mexican hotel in the middle of the desert with only the baying of
dogs, the flutter of palm trees by candlelight, seemed ominous. And so one
night she went in search of him.

The countryside was dark, filled with fireflies
and the hum of cicadas. There was only one small cafe lit with orange oil
lamps. Peasants in dirty white suits sat drinking. A guitarist was playing and
singing slowly, as if sleep had half-hypnotized him. Bruce was not there.

Returning along the dark road she saw a shadow
by a tree. A car passed by. Its headlight illumined the side of the road and
two figures standing by a tree. A young Mexican boy stood leaning against the
vast tree trunk, and Bruce was kneeling before him. The Mexican boy rested his
dark hand on Bruce’s blond hair and his face was raised towards the moon, his
mouth open.

Weeping Renate ran back to the room, packed and
drove away.

She drove to Puerta Maria by the sea where they
were exhibiting her paintings. And the image of the night tree with its flowers
of poison was replaced by her first sight of a coral tree in the glittering
sunlight.

It eclipsed all the other trees with the
intensity of its orange flowers growing in tight wide bouquets at the end of
bare branches, so that there were no leaves or shadows of leaves to attenuate the
explosion of colors. They had petals which seemed made of orange fur tipped
with blood-red tendrils. It was the flower from the coral tree which should
have been named the passion flower.

As soon as she saw it she wanted a dress of
that color and that intensity. That was not difficult to find in a Mexican sea
town. All their dresses took their colors from flowers. She bought the coral
tree dress. The orange cotton had almost invisible blood-red threads running
through it as if the Mexicans had concocted their dyes from the coral tree
flower itself.

The coral tree would kill the memory of a black
gnarled tree and of two figures sheltered under its grotesque branches.

The coral tree would carry her into a world of
festivities. An orange world.

In Haiti the trees were said to walk at night.
Many Haitians swore they had actually seen them move, or had found them in
different places in the morning. So at first she felt as if the coral tree had
moved from its birthplace and was walking through the spicy streets or the
zling festive beach. Her own starched, flouncing skirt made her think of the
coral tree flower that never wilted on the tree, but at death fell with a
sudden stab to earth.

The coral tree dress did not fray or fade in
the tropical humidity. But Renate did not, as she had expected, become suffused
with its colors. She had hoped to be penetrated by the orange flames and that
it would dye her mood to match the joyous life of the sea town. She had thought
that steeped in its fire she would be able to laugh with the orange gaiety of
the natives. She had expected to absorb its liveliness intravenously. But to
the self that had sought to disguise her regrets the coral tree dress remained
a costume.

Every day the dress became more brilliant,
drenched in sunlight and matching its dazzling hypnosis. But Renate’s inner
landscape was not illumined by it. Inside her grew a gigantic, tortured black
tree and two young men who had made a bed of it.

People stopped her as she passed, women to
envy, children to touch, men to receive the magnetic rays. On the beach, people
turned towards her as if the coral tree itself had come walking down the hill.

But inside the dress lay a black tree, the
night. How people were taken in by symbolism! She felt like a fraud, drawing
everyone into her circle of orange fire.

She attracted the attention of a man from Los
Angeles who wore white sailor pants, a white T-shirt, and who was suntanned and
smiling at her.

Is he truly happy, she wondered, or is he
wearing a disguise too?

At the beach he had merely smiled. But here in
the market, the one behind the bullring, he was lost, and he appealed to her.
He did not know where he was. His arms were full of straw hats, straw donkeys,
pottery, baskets and sandals.

He had strayed among the parrots, the sliced
and odorous melons, the women’s petticoats and ribbons. The petticoats swollen
by the breeze caressed his hair and damp cheeks. The palm-leafed roofs were too
low for him and the tips of the leaves tickled his ears.

“I must get back soon,” he said. “I left my car
alone for two hours now.”

“They’re not strict with tourists,” she
answered. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh, it’s not in the street. I wouldn’t leave
it in the street. I tried every hotel in town, until I found one where I could
park my car near my bedroom. Do you want to come and see it?”

He said this in the tone of a man offering a
glimpse of an original Picasso.

They walked slowly in the sun. “It’s such a
beautiful car,” he said, “the best they ever made. I raced it in Los Angeles.
It’s as sensitive as a human being. You don’t know what an ordeal it was, the
trip from Mexico City. They are repairing the road—it was full of detours.”

“What happened to you?”

“Nothing happened to me, but my poor car! I
could feel every bump on the road; every hole, the dust, the stones. It hurt me
to see it struggle along that road, scraped by pebbles, stained with tar,
covered with red dust, my beautiful car that I took such care of. It was as if
my own body were walking on that road. I had to drive through a river. A little
boy sat astride the hood, and guided me with a propeller-like gesture of his
hand, indicating the best path through the water. But I never knew when we were
going to get stuck there, my poor low-slung car in muddied waters, where the
natives wash all their laundry, and bathe the cattle. I could feel the sand and
grit in the motor. I could see the flies, mosquitoes, and other insects
cluttering the air vent. I never want to put my car through such an experience
again.”

They had reached a low, wide rambling hotel
surrounded by a vast jungle garden. There under a palm tree, among sun flowers
and ferns, stood the car, sleek and shining, seemingly undamaged.

“Oh, it’s in the sun,” cried the man from Los
Angeles and rushed to move it into shadows. “It’s a good thing I came back. Do
you want to sit in it? I’ll order drinks meanwhile.”

He held the door open.

Renate said: “I would love to drive to the
beach on the other side of the mountain. It’s beautiful at this time of the
day.”

“I’ve heard of it, but it wouldn’t be good for
the car. They’re building on that road. I hear them set off dynamite. I
wouldn’t trust Mexicans with dynamite.”

“Have you been to the bullfight?”

“I can’t take my car there, the boys steal
tires and side mirrors, I hear.”

“Have you been to the Black Pearl night club?”

“That’s one place we can go to, they have a
parking lot with an attendant. Yes, I’ll take you there.”

Later when they were having a drink, the sun
descended like a meteorite of antique gold and sank into the sea.

“Ha,” breathed the man, smiling. “I’m glad it’s
cooler now. The sun is not good for my car.”

Then he explained that for the return home he
had made arrangements to get his car back without suffering anymore. “I booked
passage on a freighter. It will take three weeks. But it will be easier on my
car.”

“Be sure and buy a big bottle of mineral
water,” said Renate.

“To wash the car?” asked the man from Los
Angeles, frowning.

“No, for yourself. You might get dysentery.”

She offered to speak to the captain of the
freighter because she talked Spanish.

They drove to the docks together. The captain
stood half-naked directing the loading of bananas and pineapples. He wore a
handkerchief tied to his forehead to keep the perspiration from falling over
his face. The orange dress attracted his eyes and he smiled.

Renate asked him if he would consent to share
his cabin with the American, and take good care of him.

“Anything to please the senorita,” he said.

“How will you fare on fish and black beans?”
she asked the car worshipper.

“Let’s buy some canned food, and a sponge to
wash the salt off my car. It will be on the open deck.”

The day of his departure the beach town
displayed its most festive colors; the parrots whistled, the magnolia odors
covered the smell of fish, and the flowers were as profuse as at a New Orleans
Carnival.

Renate arrived in time to see the car being
measured and found too big for the net in which they usually picked up the
cargo. So they placed two narrow planks from the pier to the deck, and the man
was asked to drive the car onto the freighter. One inch out of the way and both
car and man would fall into the bay. But the owner of the car was a skillful
driver, and an amorous one, so he finally maneuvered it on deck. Once there, it
was found to be so near the edge that the sailors had to rope it tightly like a
rebellious bronco. Lashed to the ship by many ropes it could no longer roll
over the edge.

Then the man from Los Angeles moved into the
only cabin with his big bottle of mineral water and a bag of canned soups.

As the freighter slowly tugged away he cried:
I’ll let you know in what state my car gets there! Thanks for your help.”

A month later she received a letter:

“Dear Kind Friend: I will always remember you so
gay and carefree in your orange dress. And how wise you were! If only I had
listened to your warnings! I used the mineral water to wash the salty mist off
my car, and so the first thing that happened was that I got the ‘tourista’ with
a high fever. The captain kept his word to you and shared his cabin with me,
but also with a barrel of fish, cans of gasoline, and hay for the animals. Then
the sea got pretty rough and the car began to roll back and forth, and at each
roll I thought it would plunge into the sea. I decided to sleep inside it, and
if anything were to happen we would both go together. At the first town we
stopped at, we took in a herd of cattle. They were crowded on deck, and they
pushed against my car, dribbled on it, and even tried to gore it. At night they
quarreled and I don’t need to describe the stench. The heat was as heavy as a
blanket. At the second stop we took in a Madame and about twenty call girls who
were being moved to another house. The captain gallantly offered his cabin. Tequila
was free on board and so you can imagine how rowdy the nights were. After three
weeks I arrived in Los Angeles a wreck, but my car is in fine shape. I had it
lubricated and I wish you could hear it purr along the roads. Los Angeles has
such wonderful roads.”

RENATE MOVED TO MALIBU, CALIFORNIA

Weeks later, when she was installed in her
house, Bruce arrived, as if they had agreed to take a detour and resume their
relationship. He laid his dusty and tired head on her shoulder and sought in
the darkest part of her hair, at the base of her neck, the place where the
nerves most clearly carried messages of future pleasures. His eyes were clear
and innocent, free of memories. He smiled innocently, and settled in the house
like a privileged guest, detached from the care of it. He took the cover off
his typewriter, and then he gave her a few pages to read.

“That’s the beginning of my novel,” he said.
And Renate read:

“The hotel in Acapulco was a series of
cottages. It seems the ‘patron’ was quite a puritan and wanted no scandal, no
extra visitors at night. It seemed that he patrolled the cottages at night
himself. He wanted the place to remain a ‘family’ hotel.”