Dispatch from the Future (4 page)

Is one of the symptoms remembering the ghosts

one has seen? I am not going to sign my name

to this postcard because who knows whose eyes

will see it besides yours and you should know

who is in Mogadishu right now and who is not.

The passwords to my accounts are hidden

somewhere in the following true story.

When I was fourteen, my father promised

me to a man who lived in the forest.

I never went to his cabin; he always came

to mine. When he asked me why I never came

I said I did not know the way and so

he tied a rope to all the trees and asked my father

to see that I followed it. Sometimes we put ourselves

in danger just to live and tell about it.

And sometimes we put ourselves in danger

because our fathers betroth us to murderers.

When I finally found the house no one was home

so I hid and I waited. Blood as red as apples,

apples as red as blood, skin as white as snow,

snow as red as blood: no one has seen what I

have. My betrothed came home with some men

and a girl and I still have her finger to prove it.

(Is one of the symptoms a constant dull ache?

Don’t answer that; I don’t have an address.)

I ran out of his house when he fell asleep

and I kept her finger under my pillow and I did

not tell what I had seen. Sometimes we

are so close to running, but we do not;

we’d rather sleep on a piece of a body

than steal a boat in the middle of a moonless

night and sail to the northern country where

the people assume you’ve done no wrong,

but if you have done wrong, they forgive you,

always, and maybe one of them forgives you more

than the others, and he takes you on long walks

in shady arbors and you want to tell him how

much you like his sweater, but ever since

the forest you’ve been mute, so you write

how much you like his sweater with a stick

in the ground and he gives it to you

off his back. Then you start to write all

that’s ever happened to you, but

the best parts disappear into the grass

and he doesn’t give you anything else, but

he does say that maybe you should run away

and you think he means he will come with,

but when the stars are all out

and he’s still not at the pier to meet you, you sail

from that barren land without him

and send letters to show you forgive him

for staying. Is one of the symptoms a feeling

like you’ve been here before? I have not

been to a place yet that was not somehow familiar.

This is the end. The sun is just coming up

over the sea. In the desert they dream of water

and snow-capped volcanoes. I dream of amnesia.

In the play everyone thought he was a Croat

because he said his girlfriend bled to death

in his arms, but when they re-enacted her death

it was a convenience store robbery. Can you imagine

being so disheartened? I can imagine bleeding to death

in someone’s arms. You reminded me of my husband

just then, who has the same name as your friend.

Before we could marry, Raul traveled to Djibouti

and toiled in my father’s salt fields for seven years.

For seven years we are on the sea but we are thirsty.

For seven years we ride our camels at dusk

across the desolation. How do I know you love me?

How do I know that when I sleep you don’t write

letters to someone who can read them? Raul says

there is no wasteland he wouldn’t cross barefoot

if I was crying on the other side: for seven years

we have no idea what’s going on. How could we

have known, in the bliss of such tranquility,

the terrible awfulness which would befall us?

You tell me. At the end of seven years we marry

beneath a canopy of some breathtaking rocks; I

think of what a good story this will be for our children:

at the altar I said I love you and your father said,

How do I know? I said, the life expectancy here

is pretty low, Raul. My father told him not to

raise his voice at me and I removed my veil.

Let us dance, I said, until all the stars are out,

and we did, and that was the last night I saw him.

All I’ve ever wanted is to ask the same question.

To answer he sends me sealed, empty envelopes.

I am afraid that if they build a sarcophagus

exactly to your measurements and then

invite you to a party, the sarcophagus

will be there and you will climb inside

and fit and then they’ll shut the lid

and throw you into the river and you

will drown and what will I do then?

I couldn’t sleep alone after I saw the movie

about the chariots and bloody ostrich hunts,

in which one man kills his brother and the wife

of the dead one has to wander around the desert

until she has picked up every piece of his body

and put them back together with the magic

tricks she knows. He doesn’t live, but

he does get to go to the underworld, and the rest

of the movie is all about her life as a priestess

because when she asked if she could go with

him he said no, but I know that if I put you

back together I would follow you

to the underworld even if you said

you didn’t want me to, even if you said

there were not enough seats in your chariot

or riverboat or rickshaw because when two

people spend as much time together in a small,

enclosed space such as we have in this one,

they will follow each other to future small,

enclosed spaces. This is a pretty long book

inscription, but when you leave I want you

to keep this with you at all times, in case

you need a curse, a lament, a mirage

or incantation. To speak the name of the dead

is to make them live again. I will never forget

when I was just your sister in the acacia

tree of our childhood and at night the chariots

and thrones and arrows and birds and twins

in the stars foretold our future ruin. I’ve heard

it said that he who loves you swallows stones

for you while your enemy waits for you

to birth a son to avenge his father’s death

by causing a tempest to flood the earth.

I have been lost before, but not with this many broken bones,

and I had a brighter torch. If you were lying in wait in a cave

like I am, right now, in the darkness, and you didn’t know

when the next sandstorm would be, and you didn’t know

if the next morning the war would start, and you didn’t

know how long your torch would last, would you still

write letters with your only hand that wasn’t useless?

Yes. And let’s say that at this point you still believe

that the person who has promised to come back

for you is coming. Let’s say you haven’t started

to wonder about your flare gun yet and what

it’s good for inside the cave. Can anyone ever

foresee that they will end up like this, in love

with a faceless, amnesiac cartographer?

I have learned from the Sahara the necessity

of white dresses and small airplanes. They didn’t

think I belonged, but I waited my whole life to see

the ancient drawings of the ancient people swimming

in the ancient place. I was not in Italy, swinging

from a chapel ceiling. I was not in Cairo, bathing

in a clawfoot tub, because that hadn’t happened

yet. I was just in love with the one person I wasn’t allowed:

you, who I write letters to while I hemorrhage to death

in a place that no one knows exists. It is not on any map.

The map has not been made. I am starting to think that

the only way I’ll ever be found is if you, the cartographer,

trade your topographical secrets, your photographs, your

name, to the Nazis in exchange for a jeep. Please. The light

is fading. If you can’t tell, the picture I drew in the corner

is of a scorpion in an amulet on a chain I wear under my dress

near my heart. This place was once water, but now

it is sand. There is so much I want to tell you, but

I have not eaten in three days and the fire you built

is just cinders. You once asked me how I could be married

to him, but look who died and look who lived; look who I’m

drawing pictures of scorpions for. I can’t feel my legs.

I don’t think you’ll be back in time. Listen: after

you read this, you will be burned in a terrible accident.

You will forget my name and the shape of the land

you spent your life’s work learning, but you will

never forget that you left me to die. My light

is gone. I am writing to you now in the darkness.

SWF ISO tall, dark and handsome

entomologist for Panamanian adventure.

Must not fear Colombian rebel groups,

or refer to ex-girlfriends with fondness.

The latter is non-negotiable. Please

be prepared for foot and mouth disease,

mosquitoes in the jungle after dusk,

no cell phone reception, the consequences

of taking German in high school,

and the world’s largest predator bird.

Pic for pic. I am a former debutante

with a trust fund who suffers seizures

accompanied by musical hallucinations.

I hear Mahler’s
Kindertotenlieder
. Friends

say I’m a helpless romantic. (You would be, too,

if you lost your entire family to a flash flood.)

I recently returned from a six-month spiritual retreat

and the only thing missing in my life now is danger.

When replying, please indicate whether or not

you own a dugout canoe. I will provide enough

U.S. currency to bribe the insurgency and

on New Year’s Eve we will enter the swampland.

The first rule of
Calling in “The One”: 7 Weeks

to Attract the Love of Your Life
is don’t talk

about calling in the one. The second rule is

surround yourself with people who care for you

enough to tell you that you’re better off alone

so that if and when you do find “The One,” it’s like

the most surprising thing ever. 95% of those

surveyed said they’d been hurt in the past,

but only 94% wanted to talk about it

on a first date. Katherine Woodward Thomas,

M.A., M.F.T., tells us, “Take heart and be not

discouraged.” When asked what her heart seeks,

Jennifer (not her real name) said a cold place,

like Siberia, where she would never have to leave

the house at all. This is just one example

of how we set ourselves up to end our lives

alone in remote places where by the time

our bodies are found they are unrecognizable.

After our friends don’t want to hear us talk

about this anymore, Katherine Woodward Thomas