Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand: A Novel of Adam and Eve (7 page)

T
HEY WALKED UNTIL THE GULLS AND THE SMELL OF
salt came to meet them. Before their eyes appeared an enormous, transparent blue bowl. The dog dashed into the water, unafraid. He leaped about, barking madly. The cat, indifferent, lay down on the sand to contemplate the sea. Adam told Eve about his explorations. He wanted to take her to see what he had seen. They walked into the water. She advanced with caution. The effort it took to push her way through the liquid made her feel limited, clumsy.

“Now, Eve,” said Adam, when the water was up to their chins. “Now, sink down, spread your arms and push toward the bottom.”

It was useless. However much she tried. She was stymied by the choking in her nose, her mouth, her throat, and the water pushed her back to the surface. Moving her arms and her legs, desperate, she tried to head back toward the beach. She was aware that Adam was following her, confused and embarrassed. “This isn't how it was before,” he told her. His body wasn't
responding; it wouldn't go any farther down than the depth of a few arm strokes before water entered his every orifice and he couldn't breathe. The sea was to look at, Eve told him when they had reached dry land and had recovered from the salt water they'd swallowed and the battering and bumping the attempt had dealt them, especially Adam. He had been so emphatic in describing the underwater world. Now he doubted he had ever seen it, and wondered if it too was a dream, as much of his life seemed of late.

“But the sea is not only to be looked at,” he said with certainty.

Eve lay on the beach and closed her eyes. The sound of the waves regularly slapping on the shore was like the noise of the incessant string of questions forming and dissolving in her mind.

A short while later, Adam returned. He sat down beside her.

“Look, I've brought something for your hunger,” he said.

She looked. It was some rough, oval shells. When they were opened, she saw they were filled with a thick, white, trembly substance that left her mouth clean, as if the water had been turned into delicate, briny meat. Adam had laid one on a rock and hammered it with a stone until it revealed the fruit inside. Oysters, he said. Oysters, she repeated, laughing.

“How did you find out that they had something inside we could eat?”

“The same way I knew their name. The same.”

They did not go back to the cave until the next day. They spent the night on the beach, some distance apart, humiliated by the uproar in their guts: the noises, the smells, the waste
they expelled. At dawn, nauseated, they washed in the ocean. They discussed the possibility that their bodies might have grown rotten, if this was a new punishment for again having put something in their mouths. But then they saw the dog and cat urinate, defecate, and scratch sand over their waste.

“Adam, do you think the animals know they're animals?”

“At least they don't think they may be something different. They don't get confused the way we do.”

“Besides animals, what do you think we are?”

“Adam and Eve.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“Eve, Eve, you never tire of asking questions.”

“If it occurs to me to ask it's because there are answers. And we should know them. We ate the fruit, we lost the Garden, and we know almost nothing more than we did before.”

They were talking as they returned to the cave. It was doubtless a punishment to think that the body would choose that way to wreak vengeance when they ate, Adam said, but the truth was that he, at least, felt better, with more strength in his muscles, and more spirit.

“It's reasonable. Expelling something that smells so bad makes you lighter. And what a curious sensation—very different from pain, don't you think?”

Smiling, Eve concealed how embarrassed the subject made her feel. To see herself reduced to ingesting and eliminating like the dog and the cat nauseated her, made her feel diminished. She could not understand how Adam seemed to draw something good from what to her was humiliation. She could not understand how he failed to perceive the implicit animality of the experience.

“The Other wasn't playing when he said that dust we are and to dust we will return. These bodies of ours—how long do you think they will last? Adam asked.

“I don't know. I know only that mine hurts more than yours.”

Water began to fall from the leaden sky. Large drops beat down on their shoulders. They went running into the cave. The rain was falling in torrents. In the sky, a tree with illuminated, gleaming branches lashed the firmament. The earth answered the assault of the lighted branches with harsh rumblings. In the darkness they saw the sparkling eyes of the cat. The dog sniffed the ground. The four grouped together on the projecting rock that served them as a bed. Embraced, Adam and Eve watched the explosions, the thunder and lightning, astonished and fearful.

“Is the sky going to fall? Are the stars dropping from the sky?” Eve asked.

“I don't think so,” said Adam. “They're very far away.”

“How do you know?”

“I'm not sure.”

Eve awoke bleeding from between her legs. She was terrified when she got to her feet and saw the red liquid flowing from her sex. In the splendor of the dawn, the cave was filled with mist. Even the clouds had taken refuge from the sky's fury, she thought. In her lower abdomen a fist was opening and closing, mortifying her. The red liquid was warm and sticky. The dog came over to her and smelled her. She pushed it away, uneasy. She went to the spring in the cave and washed off, but the blood kept flowing. She woke Adam. He said he would bring her leaves so she could clean off. He told her she
should lie down again. They were frightened but they hid their fear from each other. Adam quickly returned. His hands were full of figs and fig leaves, and his face was glowing. With the rain, two figs trees had burst up from the fruit he had buried at the entrance to the cave. The trees, fully grown, were covered with figs.

“Look, Eve, look. You were right. They are for us. We can eat them.”

With the leaves and water from the spring, Adam made a poultice for Eve's wound.

“Do you think I'm going to die, Adam? I don't feel as if I'm going to die. I only hurt occasionally.”

“It's best if you keep quiet. Eat a fig.”

Adam went out with the dog. Lying in the shadows of the cave, Eve opened a fig and scrutinized the sweet, pink interior, the flesh, and the tiny red seeds in the center. My body is different from the man's, she thought. The liquid that comes from him when he is above me, shouting and groaning, is white. Mine is red, and comes out when I am sad. She drew her legs up to her chest. She could not forget his words, blaming her for their misfortunes. The words had hurt as much as the rocks that had torn their feet when they climbed the mountain to jump to the death from which Elokim had rescued them. She was convinced that the reason he had rescued them was the same he had for provoking them to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge: He wanted to see how they would like being on their own. She had facilitated that for him, though Adam chose not to comprehend. It was easier to blame her than the Other who never allowed himself to be seen.

After the sun set, they were amazed by the brightness of
the night. From the cave, the branches of the fig trees were clearly outlined in an ashen light. They thought that the night was filled with water, and went outside to look. From one side of the celestial dome to the other, the limpid night that followed the rain reminded them of the surface of the sea. High above them hung a round, luminous, pale star, soft and smiling.

“The extinguished sun is beautiful,” said Adam.

“It isn't the sun. It's the moon. That is why I'm bleeding.”

“How do you know?

“I know,” Eve continued. “I know that inside me there is a sea that the moon fills and empties.”

Adam did not ask further. The enchantment of the mystery contained in Eve's unusual tameness, the fragrance of the clear air, the cool light delineating the shapes of the rocks and trees, and the sky rising to infinite heights, sank into his eyes and his skin. Along with his sense of being very small—a vulnerable, lost, and banished creature—he experienced the certainty that he and Eve were an essential part of that desolate nocturnal landscape.

“Do you think we're alone, Eve? Do you think that in this immensity there are no others like you and me?”

“There are others. We have seen them in dreams.”

“Could they be hiding inside us? Will they appear while we sleep?”

“I don't know, Adam.”

Knowledge, Eve thought, was not the light she had imagined would suddenly suffuse her mind but a slow revelation, a succession of dreams and intuitions that accumulated in a place that predated words; it was the quiet intimacy that was growing between her and her body. In that flowing, in the weight of
her lower abdomen and her breasts, in the pain that now filled the place where the man sank himself into her, she sensed a bubbling of life, a spring that would burst from her and flow in every direction. She did not want to leave the cave while she bled. Doubled up, she spent those days dozing, as if dreams were the only reality that interested her.

F
IGS, PEARS, BITTER FRUITS, GRASSES WITH GOLDEN
grains that satisfied the need to chew something, Adam collected everything he thought might drive away hunger, but the hunger returned. Every morning when he opened his eyes he felt it, lodged in the center of his body, living in him like a creature independent of his will, imperious and cruel. What could he give it? the man wondered. Fruit barely placated it, despite the fact that both he and the woman savored the soft pulp and never ceased to be amazed at the ability of the trees to sprout edible things from their branches and leaves. On their walks around the vicinity of the cave, Adam had also tried ants and other insects, and thick, fleshy plants with mysteriously watery interiors. He followed the squirrels and tasted the hard seeds they bit into with their long teeth, but his hunger was greater than all the little things he found and shared with Eve. She, unlike him, never tired of going to the fig tree to satisfy her hunger. She thought that the appearance of the Phoenix carrying the figs in its claws and the way that the trees had
grown overnight were an unequivocal signal that those fruits were meant to take the place of the white petals that had been their food in the Garden.

Crouched amid the grasses, fearful of another encounter like the one he'd had with the hyenas, Adam did not dare go too near large animals. Following the cataclysm, there had been many days when he and the woman scarcely noted their presence. Swaying from time to time, the earth lay before them, desolate and silent. Slowly, however, a mixture of sounds—some familiar, others indecipherable—traveled to them through the air. At night they heard the howling of wolves and coyotes, and in the daytime, from far away, came the roar of lions and the powerful trumpeting of elephants. Small animals, pheasants, monkeys, moles, badgers, and rabbits moved through the tall grasses and sometimes they could get close enough to meet their eyes before they scampered away, disappearing into the vegetation, seemingly possessed by the fear that the hyenas inspired in them. Flocks of storks, herons, and ducks flew by overhead. Eve said that their calls touched her heart because they seemed filled with questions.

The cat and the dog intrigued Adam. They ate very little fruit, and yet they did not seem to suffer the pangs of hunger that were mortifying him. What did they do during the long periods they absented themselves from the cave?

He discovered the answer one morning at dawn. He was awakened by a flock of chattering birds that had settled in the branches of the fig trees. He sat on a rock to watch the blackbirds hop about, sing, and peck at the figs. Agitated, the cat meowed and the dog barked without interruption as they circled beneath the trees. Cain pushed up on his hind legs as
if he wanted to fly. Arching its back, the cat sloughed off its drowsiness and, with an indecipherable expression, focused on the birds. Suddenly, after clawing the trunk of a tree, the cat stretched and gave an agile leap onto a low branch. It climbed toward the top of the tree and crouched among the leaves. Adam watched, fascinated. He saw how with a swift slash of its paw the cat hooked one of the little birds and clamped its teeth onto the bird's neck. Growling fiercely, using its long claws to stave off the dog, the cat descended the tree and ran to hide in some tall grass. Adam tiptoed over to see what it was doing. He watched it begin its unequal game with the bird, corralling it, clawing it, biting it until it was dead. Then he watched as the cat sank its teeth into the flesh and circumspectly ate it. Revolted, Adam left. Shortly afterward, the cat emerged from its hiding place, cleaned its face, and lay down in the sun for a siesta, well satisfied.

Hunger attacked Adam as suddenly as the repugnance had done. He stood where he was. He took a fig. He bit into it. He wondered if the blood of the bird had a different taste. Suddenly he understood the meaning of the bones and the smells he had noticed in his explorations, the strange laments, the sounds of hidden tigers. He looked at the fig tree with resentment, stomach rumbling. He spit out the fruit. He thought about the long journey to the sea, and the oysters. He knew what he had to do.

He went inside the cave to look for the long pole whose tip he had sharpened with a rock to help in breaking open nuts and digging up bitter roots. “Where are you going?” Eve asked. Adam said that he was going to investigate the sounds of a herd of animals roaming the plain. He wanted to know if
they would allow him to come near. He could not explain to himself why he had avoided telling her the truth. “Be careful,” she said.

“I will.” He left with the dog. The cat stayed with Eve.

The sun was warm in a cloudless sky. Adam decided to go in the direction away from the Garden, toward the open plain beyond which more rock formations and groups of palm trees were visible. If other animals were looking for a way to feed themselves, he could not be sure that they would not consider him food. He was afraid, but he was also driven by urgency. Cain, too, was restless, as if he understood the man's mission.

They had not walked very far when Cain pricked up his ears. Adam saw the rabbit and stooped low. He tried to call the rabbit so it would come of its own accord. “Here, rabbit, rabbit.” The little animal sat up on its hindquarters and set its ears straight. The dog ran after it. By the time Adam caught up, the rabbit was already lifeless. Cain was holding it down with a paw and was tearing off pieces with his teeth. Adam stepped back. He let the dog eat. He watched what he was eating, what he left, the uneventful, completely natural way the dog was dealing with its prey, and also the earnestness with which Cain protected his catch even from Adam. When he started toward the dog, it had bared its teeth, growled. The man waited. He searched the horizon, perturbed. What might there be farther on? Might there be beneath their feet another sky like the one they saw at night? What did animal blood taste like? With the pole he prodded the dog so they could move on. It wasn't long before Cain dashed off after another rabbit. Adam ran behind the dog, testing the swiftness of his legs. He tore the rabbit from Cain's jaws. The rabbit's head swung loosely from its body.

This time it was the man's turn to hide. He sat down beneath a tree. He closed his eyes. He sank his teeth into the fur. He tasted the blood, the meat beneath the skin. With his teeth and nails he tore off the skin and pulled off a leg. He ate the warm, bloody meat with the smell of musk.

He heard soft laughter. A mocking laugh.

“Look what you've become. Now you have to kill in order to eat.”

Adam thought it was the voice inside him, but then he recognized the hoarse tones that were reminiscent of rolling stones. He saw the Serpent.

“It's you. I recognize you. What do you eat?”

“I have eaten mice, deer. Rabbit isn't bad. But look at you, who thought you were so special. Here you are, eating like any animal.”

“Is that how we will survive in this world, eating each other?”

“Life feeding on death. Elokim flies into a rage and does these things: he condemns one kind of nature to live like another. But as you see, he said I would eat dirt, and you grass and thorns, but he changed his mind. Now he would rather we feed on each other.”

“You know him very well.”

“We have been together for a long time. As long as he exists, I will exist, too.”

“You exist to contradict him.”

“Without me he would find eternity intolerable. I provide him with surprises, the unpredictable. I have given you a gift,” the Serpent added, hissing. “You will find it when you get back to the cave. It will help you eat, and keep warm. But you must
hurry. I tried to warn Eve but she refused to listen. If you don't hurry, she will die.”

A chill of alarm ran down Adam's spine. He felt his muscles tense, his hands clench. He yelled for Cain, and as fast as he legs would carry him started back toward the cave, carrying the remains of the rabbit to share with Eve.

As he ran across the meadow, he saw a pride of lions that roared ferociously in his direction. They had formed a circle around their prey to protect it. As slowly as he could, trying to convey that he had no intention of competing with them, Adam eased behind some rocks and then picked up his pace again. He was remembering how many large, strong beasts he had named. All of them hungry, he thought. Who would devour whom?

He still had some distance to cover when he saw the smoke and flames enveloping the cave and the fig trees. Someone had covered the stones that formed the entrance with brush and grasses. Fire was crackling, rising in tall flames. He stopped, not knowing what to do. Even before he had known fear, fire had intimidated him. Of all the elements, it was the most powerful and magnificent. To see it so close, to feel its heat and smoke, and to imagine Eve in it, filled him with terror and impotence. The dog raced around as if mad, barking and howling. Adam went as close as he could, braving the heat, covering his face with his hands. He, too, began to howl, to moan, to stomp the ground with his feet, calling and shouting to Eve. Smoke was choking him. It couldn't be that Elokim would allow the Serpent to kill her. He had said that the time of dying had not come. Adam yelled at the top of his lungs, cursing, pleading, possessed by the most absolute desperation.

“Elokim. Elokim!” he cried, circling around, looking toward the Garden.

In a very short time, he saw the Phoenix. It was flying swiftly, extending its enormous red and gold wings. Adam clenched his fists. What could the bird do to calm the fire? Dazed, he watched it light above the burning cave, its wings outspread. Immediately, the fire that had been spreading in many directions began to retreat and converge upon the body of the bird, as if it were a domesticated creature responding to an imperative call. The outline of the bird, the entire body, sucked in the fire, growing larger so it would all fit inside. The flames embraced it, licked its tongues over the feathers of the Phoenix without altering the bird's immobility. Finally, above the cave, the colossal bird, blazing like a sun, again opened its wings and lifted its head. Stupefied, unable to move, Adam contemplated the incandescent figure burning without being consumed, until, slowly, without changing its similarity to a magnificent statue, the Phoenix was reduced to a heap of ashes. The fire was out. The man emerged from his state of impotent terror and made his way, hopping back and forth over the charred branches of the fig trees, to the mouth of the cave. Steaming vapor issued from its walls, but the opening was clear. He found Eve, trembling, huddled beneath the spring where only a thread of water was still trickling down.

“It was the Serpent, Adam. She said that now that you had killed, it was appropriate for you to know fire. What did you do?”

“Let's go outside. I will explain everything, but not in here.”

It was late afternoon. The sky was striped with shreds of
pink and purple. Eve's hot skin brushed against his. Adam was pained by what had happened to the Phoenix. They had believed it to be immortal, he thought. The fiery silhouette burned in his memory. Deeply moved, he showed the woman the ashen remains. While he was looking for leaves to clean the soot from her face and body, Eve sat down on some rocks. Her eyes were taking in the cave, the dead fig trees, when she noticed the hand of the wind softly stirring the bird's ashes. It lifted them and let them fall, again and again, as if it were seeking a way to put them in order before it carried them away. The pile of ashes on the rock swirled without dispersing; it changed color, slowly converted into red and gold feathers that as they spun about settled into a form that seemed to lie in the memory of the air. In an instant, the bird's head emerged from the feathers. Rising from ruin, as if recently awakened, the bird shook itself, and as it did its feathers were returned to their original arrangement. Jubilant, comprehending perhaps in that instant the cycle that its nature would repeat throughout eternity, the Phoenix spread its extraordinary wings and with a graceful push and joyful call, mounted into the air. Perplexed, Adam and Eve watched it fuse with the colors of dusk and be lost against the horizon.

“Don't you think that the same will happen to us if we die?”

“I don't know, Eve, I don't know.”

The sun hid. The man and woman took refuge from the night among the rocks, in the open. They had tried to go back inside the cave, but the walls were emitting intense heat and burned their skin when they touched them. From where they were they could see an orange glow spilling from inside. Coals.
Adam put his arms around Eve. Her skin smelled of smoke. That duplicitous Serpent, he thought. Both friend and enemy. It confused him.

“We don't have anything to eat,” said Eve, looking at the charred figs.

“I have something,” said Adam. He got up and went to look for the rabbit he had left in the fork of a nearby tree. He set it before Eve. He awaited her reaction. Where he saw food, she saw a bloody, inert animal. She screamed and covered her eyes.

“It's dead, Adam. Or will it come back to life the way the Phoenix did?”

“No. It's dead.”

She opened her eyes. She touched the flaccid skin, the animal's limp lifelessness; she stared at the opaque pupils.

“This is what you want me to eat? Death?”

“This morning the cat saw a bird. It killed it and ate it. Then Cain caught a rabbit, and he ate that. When I saw him catch another, I took it from him and brought it so we would have it to eat. We will have to kill other animals and eat them if we want to survive. The Serpent told me that. She has eaten mice and deer. We have to eat more than figs. The meat of the rabbit isn't bad. I tasted it.”

“And you believe the Serpent, Adam? You think we have to kill in order to live?” Eve looked at him, incredulous, astounded.

“I know only that as soon as I saw the cat eat the bird, I knew that this is what we have to do. There are many rabbits, Eve.”

Eve tilted her head back, clasping her hands behind her neck in a gesture of desperation.