Leaving the Atocha Station (9 page)

ME: and then the girlfriend jumped in

CYRUS: Well

CYRUS: not at first. But now everyone kind of turned to her. We’d all become one group, somehow. And her boyfriend had changed from teasing her to encouraging her, his arms open, lovingly—it’s fine, I promise, I’ll protect you, etc. We were

ME: how bad is this going to get?

CYRUS: also encouraging her, I think. And laughing and screaming at the cold she jumped in. She was fine at first

ME:!

CYRUS: but as she kind of splashed around—she didn’t really know how to swim, it didn’t seem. I don’t know, she moved somewhat downriver where the current became pretty strong, and she was getting upset

ME: so someone went and helped her?

CYRUS: Things

CYRUS: things got very bad very fast. she went underwater for a second, and when she resurfaced, she was a little farther down and totally panicked

ME: jesus

CYRUS: She was screaming and water was

ME: jesus

CYRUS: getting in her mouth and she was struggling against the current in the wrong way

ME: couldn’t somebody get her

CYRUS: Her boyfriend was trying but there were enough stones and other shit that it was taking awhile. And he wasn’t much of a swimmer either, didn’t know, I don’t think, what to expect from or how to manage the rapids. Jane tried to go

ME: tried to catch her?

CYRUS: Yes. I held her back. As I was holding her back I saw the girlfriend go under again, then reemerge briefly another, I don’t know, ten feet down

ME: fuck

CYRUS: where the rapids were intense, and then she was really swept downriver. So

CYRUS: so Jane and I ran back onto the bank and to the truck and then, yelling something about what we were doing to the other swimmers—the friend was holding the boyfriend back who was now screaming—screaming in a very primal way, you understand—not screaming words. So we drove downriver hoping to get in front of her, to fish her out of the river or something

CYRUS: You there?

ME: i’m here

CYRUS: So we had to return to the main road and then floored it for a little while then jumped out of the truck and rushed back down to the water. We could still hear the boyfriend screaming

ME: but you got in front of her

CYRUS: The river had widened again and then there was some sort of dam, and she went over the dam before we could figure out what to do

ME: she was conscious?

CYRUS: She didn’t seem to be struggling. It was kind of hard to see, or at least it’s hard for me to remember. So we had to get back into the truck and drive farther down the river again—there was no other way

ME: go on

CYRUS: There was no other way

CYRUS: so on the other side of the dam there was a kind of pool—no current. And her body was there. And we rushed into the water and dragged her to the shore

ME: was she breathing

CYRUS: No

ME: so what did you

CYRUS: We laid her on the bank and I gave her or tried to give her mouth to mouth. She didn’t seem, I can’t really say what I mean by this, given that she wasn’t breathing, but she didn’t seem dead. Her white

ME: jesus, man

ME: i don’t even know how to give cpr

CYRUS: shirt, her undershirt, was pulled up over her head. I had to pull it back down over her breasts. Which was somehow embarrassing. She was cut up pretty bad

CYRUS: Neither do I, really. I tried. She kind of, I don’t know, threw up in my mouth

ME: you mean was revived—spit out water—so she was alive

CYRUS: No. There was vomit in her mouth I guess. And then I threw up onto the bank. She was dead

ME: jesus. i am so sorry you

CYRUS: I tried again. I didn’t know what I was doing. Our teeth, I can’t get this out of my mind, I accidentally clicked my teeth against her teeth at some point, like

CYRUS: like in a clumsy kiss or something. Prom. And I kept thinking of course that she had only got in the water because I had got in the water

ME: no way to blame yourself for any of this

CYRUS: And I was also worried that the cpr had killed her, I think I was pressing way too hard on her chest—or that

ME: what is jane doing during all of this

CYRUS: she would have been, at least, revived in better hands

CYRUS: I don’t really know. Helping me I guess

ME: so she was dead

CYRUS: She was dead

ME: fuck, man

ME: what did you do then

CYRUS: We could hear the boyfriend screaming again. Except now I think he was injured too. He was closer. He probably got in the water again and broke an arm or leg or whatever. But he was screaming “kill me” or something from the bank. He wasn’t screaming about his injuries. He knew she was dead

ME: what did you do

CYRUS: We took her body, Jane and I carried her body to the truck and raced toward the pueblo. We were maybe pretending a little to ourselves there was still something to be done, I mean, that fantasy was somewhere in our bodies—she was of course dead. But we, I mean, nobody had a phone

ME: i thought you had a cell phone

CYRUS: Broke a long time ago. So the first place we found that had people, phones, was a roadside restaurant a few minutes before the pueblo. We got out and I managed to scream out what had happened as I pointed to the body and a couple of men from the restaurant rushed out and helped us lay the body there, on the ground. Her eyes were wide open, by the way, and her mouth

ME: jesus

CYRUS: Various people gathered around, and somebody mentioned calling the police, and I guess we managed to communicate that there were others by the river—the injured boyfriend, his friend. A couple of people from the restaurant got in a car and went for them. And an old woman, she brought us some limes

ME: limes?

CYRUS: She brought us two lime wedges and said something about shock and that we should suck them and we did. Someone covered her with a blanket. I saw the pay phones and I had a calling card in the truck and I went to one of the pay phones in a daze. I think I threw up again. But I called my dad, I was desperate to ask him about the cpr, to see if I had maybe killed her or at least missed an opportunity to save her. Something like that. I wasn’t

ME: you did everything you could. i’m so sorry

CYRUS: thinking clearly. And my teeth were chattering and each time they clicked I remembered her teeth

CYRUS: I did get my dad on the phone. Who knows what I sounded like. I was very confused, certainly. Sobbing. Managed to ask about the cpr, if I had done it wrong. He reassured me, although I don’t remember what he said. That nothing was my fault. That she would have already choked on her vomit or something. Not that a psychiatrist knows anything about cpr. I also think he said something about my coming home

ME: none of this is in any way

CYRUS: I got off the phone and went back to the truck. One of the people who worked at the restaurant said we could go so we left

ME: your fault

ME: you didn’t wait for the police?

CYRUS: Fuck no. We just left. We drove back to the apartment in total silence. We had put our clothes back over our swimsuits but were dried off from the heat by the time we got home. Like I said it was in the 80s. But my teeth were still chattering

ME: you didn’t talk about what happened at all?

CYRUS: We did later. Kind of. After we showered, we both realized we hadn’t eaten all day and although I felt sick I felt hungry, really hungry. We went to a little restaurant near our place we always go to. We started

WHICH know I hate but which helped get this taste out of my mouth. We talked about it then

ME: what did she say

CYRUS: The taste is back, by the way

CYRUS: She was shaken up in her way. She said she wished she’d never got in the water. But she also seemed excited. Like we had had a “real” experience

ME: i guess you had

CYRUS: Yeah but I had this sense—this sense that the whole point of the trip for her—to Mexico—was for something like this, something this “real” to happen. I don’t really believe that, but I felt it, and I said something about how she had got some good material for her novel

ME: is she writing a novel

CYRUS: Who knows

ME: and she responded how

CYRUS: She’s probably writing a novel now

CYRUS: She was quiet. I’m sure she was angry/hurt. Then she said something about how this just is the world, that things like this happen, that one can be as cautious as one wants, can waste one’s life being cautious, but that there is no avoiding the reality of death. I remember laughing at the phrase “reality of death” to show I thought it was an embarrassing cliché

ME: have you two made up

CYRUS: No. Yesterday we were both in the apartment reading and smoking but barely talked. We haven’t really spoken to each other today

ME: well, you both probably just need some time, right? i mean, this would shake anybody up

ME: i am really sorry

CYRUS: Yeah

ME: about all of this

CYRUS: Thanks

CYRUS: How is Spain?

INSTEAD OF CONFESSING TO ISABEL THAT MY MOTHER, MY BRILLIANT and unwaveringly supportive mother, was well, that I was a liar of the most disgusting sort, I decided to imply more and more that my father, the gentlest and most generous man I knew, was a thug, a small–time fascist, El Caudillo of his household. Not only did this lie, in my view, draw Isabel’s attention away from whatever discomfort she had regarding the initial dishonesty about my mom, replacing that discomfort with sympathy, but it also served to decrease my guilt; I felt much better about blaspheming both my parents, about distributing my failure as a son between them. And because this lie about my father was comically absurd, because he was the man of all the men I knew most free from any will–to–domination, it felt more like a harmless joke than a morbid tempting of fate or karmic gambling with parental health. I also felt that, in order to avoid any future confusion, I needed to get my stories straight, and so decided to replay the confession I had made to Isabel and Rufina to Teresa, who would then tell Arturo and Rafa, all of whom believed I had, when we first met, recently suffered one of life’s profoundest losses. Surely some part of the mystery I liked to think I held for Teresa derived from the fact that, after my dramatic performance at the party, I made no subsequent reference to my suffering, although suffering could be read into my silences. That I was thousands of miles away from the rest of my family so soon after such a tragedy, although I never specified the timeframe, prepared the ground for my lie about my impossible father, and my new claim that I might not return to the U.S. after the completion of my fellowship furthered my image as exile. At any rate, when the rains and early dark began to give way to warmer, longer days and milder nights, and the accordion player was back in La Plaza Santa Ana and the streets were again alive, I began to see more of Teresa, who did not seem to have a job, although in theory she was employed at the gallery. I would walk to Salamanca after “working” in El Retiro and Teresa would leave the gallery in someone else’s hands and accompany me to movies, bookstores, cafés.

Whenever I was with Teresa, whenever we were talking, I felt our faces engaged in a more substantial and sophisticated conversation than our voices. Her face was formidable; it seemed by turns very young and very old; when she opened her eyes wide, she looked like a child, and when she squinted in concentration, the tiny wrinkles at their outer corners made her seem worldly, wise. Because she could instantly look younger or older, more innocent or experienced than she was, she could parry whatever speech was addressed to her. If you were to accuse her, say, of reading too much into a particular scene in a movie, she would widen her eyes and look at you with an innocence that made you feel guilty of projection; if you accused her of some form of naiveté, her squint would bespeak such expanses of experience that the accusation was instantly turned back upon you. Her eyes could deflect or reflect or ironize, and then her smile, which was wide, would instantly restore a tabula rasa, benevolently forgiving any claim against her.

I believed the dialectical movement of her face, however, was challenged by our particular circumstance; I never spoke English with Teresa, not since the first night of our meeting when my volubility had swelled. I told her that this was to promote my acquisition of Spanish, but it was, in fact, to preserve the possibility of misspeaking or being misunderstood, and to secure and amplify the mystery of that inaugural outburst. I believed my rant on the way to Rafa’s party had impressed her, and I was determined not to ruin it with banalities. With my performance in the car her sole sample of my English, I hoped she would always translate my fragmented Spanish in her head, transforming my halting and semicoherent utterances into the most eloquent English she could imagine. She would not, like Isabel, merely intuit depths, but would actually sound them in her painstakingly mastered second language. Of course she would never arrive at a satisfactory English formulation of whatever my Spanish negatively figured, but this would further preserve the mystique of my powers in my mother tongue. Such conversations would be the counterpoint to her ongoing work with Arturo of translating my poems, work she had almost entirely taken over; there she tried to imagine every possible Spanish correlative to my English, such as it was; here, she tried to extract from my remedial Spanish the poet’s native eloquence.