The Autobiography of Red (19 page)

It is a photograph of two burros grazing on spiky grass in a stubble field.

 

What is it about burros?

 

Geryon is thinking. Except burros there is not much to see out the car window

 

as he and the mother sit

 

waiting in the back seat. The police have taken Ancash and Herakles down the road

 

and vanished into a little adobe house.

 

The burros seek and munch with their long silk ears angled towards the hot sky.

 

Their necks and knobby knees

 

make Geryon sad. No not sad, he decides, but what? Ancash’s mother says a few

 

fast harsh Spanish words

 

out her side of the car. She seems to be stating her mind boldly today, perhaps

 

he will do the same.

 

What is it about burros?
he says aloud.
Guess they’re waiting to inherit the earth,

 

she answers him in English

 

with a little rough laugh that he thinks about all the rest of the day.

 

It is a photograph of a guinea pig lying on her right side on a plate.

 

She is surrounded by cabbage salad and large round slices of yam.

 

Two perfect tiny white teeth

 

project over her blackened lower lip. Her flesh still sizzling from the oven

 

gives off a hot glow and her left eye

 

is looking straight up at Geryon. He taps the flank twice shyly with his fork

 

then sets the utensil down

 

and waits for the meal to be over. Meanwhile Herakles and Ancash and the mother

 

and the four soldiers

 

(who invited them all for lunch) are chopping and chewing with gusto. Geryon

 

studies the room. Noon shadows

 

shift down from a light hole cut in the roof. A big black iron stove still crackles.

 

The floor is covered with mats

 

of woven palm and a few survivor guinea pigs are gamboling about near the stove.

 

Propped on three Inca Kola crates

 

facing the table is the TV.
Jeopardy!
is on, volume low. Four guns rest by the door.

 

Icchantikas is active yes

 

(one of the soldiers is telling Herakles)
you’ll see when you get to Jucu.

 

The town is built into the slope

 

of the volcano—there are holes in the wall you can look through and see the fire.

 

They use them to bake bread.

 

I don’t believe you,
says Herakles. The soldier shrugs. Ancash’s mother looks up.

 

No it’s true,
she says.
Lava bread.

 

Makes you passionate.
A greasy grin passes around the soldiers.

 

What does it mean, Icchantikas?
asks Geryon.

 

Ancash looks at his mother. She says something in Quechua. Ancash turns to Geryon

 

but one of the soldiers interrupts

 

speaking in fast Spanish to Ancash’s mother. She watches the soldier a moment

 

then shoves back her chair.

 

Muchas gracias hombres,
she says.
We go.
In the cooling left eye of the guinea pig

 

they all stand reflected

 

pulling out their chairs and shaking hands. The eye empties.

 

It is a photograph of a man’s naked back, long and bluish.

 

Herakles standing at the window staring out on the dark before dawn.

 

When they made love

 

Geryon liked to touch in slow succession each of the bones of Herakles’ back

 

as it arched away from him into

 

who knows what dark dream of its own, running both hands all the way down

 

from the base of the neck

 

to the end of the spine which he can cause to shiver like a root in the rain.

 

Herakles makes

 

a low sound and moves his head on the pillow, slowly opens his eyes.

 

He starts.

 

Geryon what’s wrong? Jesus I hate it when you cry. What is it?

 

Geryon thinks hard.

 

I once loved you, now I don’t know you at all. He does not say this.

 

I was thinking about time
—he gropes—

 

you know how apart people are in time together and apart at the same time
—stops.

 

Herakles wipes tears from Geryon’s face

 

with one hand.
Can’t you ever just fuck and not think?
Herakles gets out of bed

 

and goes into the bathroom.

 

Then he comes back and stands at the window a long while. By the time he returns

 

to the bed it is getting light.

 

Well Geryon just another Saturday morning me laughing and you crying,

 

he says as he climbs in.

 

Geryon watches him pull the blanket up to his chin.
Just like the old days.

 

Just like the old days,
Geryon says too.

 

It was a photograph just like the old days. Or was it?

 

He slid off the bed quickly. Thorns all around him black and glistening

 

but he passed through unhurt

 

and out the door pulling his overcoat around him as he went. Corridor deserted

 

except for a red
EXIT
sign at the end.

 

Pressing hard on the spring bar of the door he stepped out into a blood-colored dawn.

 

Not the parking lot. He was in the debris

 

of the hotel garden. Ruined roses of every variety paused stiffly on their stalks.

 

Dry blades of winter fennel clicked

 

in the cold air and swung low over the ground shedding feathery gold stuff.

 

What is that smell?

 

Geryon was thinking and then he saw Ancash. At the bottom of the garden on a bench

 

built into a big pine tree. Sitting

 

motionless with knees under his chin and arms folded on his knees. Eyes stayed

 

on Geryon as he crossed the garden,

 

hesitated then sat down on the ground in front of the bench.
’Día,
said Geryon.

 

Ancash regarded him silently.

 

Look as if you didn’t sleep much,
said Geryon.

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Kind of cold out here aren’t you cold just sitting still?

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Maybe we could go get some breakfast.

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Or just walk downtown sure would like some coffee.

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Geryon studied the ground in front of him for a while. Drew a small diagram

 

in the dirt with his finger.

 

Looked up. His eyes met Ancash’s eyes and they both rose at once and Ancash hit

 

Geryon as hard as he could

 

across the face with the flat of his hand. Geryon stumbled backwards and Ancash hit

 

him again with the other hand

 

knocking Geryon to his knees. He’s ambidextrous! thought Geryon with admiration

 

as he scrambled to his feet swinging

 

wildly. He would have landed a punch on the pine tree and broken his hand

 

had Ancash not caught him.

 

They swayed together and balanced. Then Ancash unlaced his arms and stood back.

 

With the front of his shirt

 

he wiped snot and blood from Geryon’s face.
Sit,
he said pushing Geryon to the bench.

 

Put your head back.

 

Geryon sat and leaned his head against the trunk of the tree.

 

Don’t swallow,
said Ancash.

 

Geryon stared up through pine branches at Venus. All the same, he thought, I’d like

 

to punch someone.

 

So,
said Ancash daubing at the bright purple mark on Geryon’s right cheekbone.

 

Geryon waited.

 

You love him?
Geryon thought about that.
In my dreams I do. Your dreams?

 

Dreams of the old days.

 

When you first knew him? Yes, when I—knew him.

 

What about now?

 

Yes—no—I don’t know.
Geryon pressed his hands over his face then let them fall.

 

No it’s not there now.

 

They were quiet awhile then Ancash said,
So.

 

Geryon waited.

 

So what’s it like
—Ancash stopped. He began again.
So what’s it like fucking him now?

 

Degrading,
said Geryon

 

without a pause and saw Ancash recoil from the word.

 

I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that,

 

said Geryon but Ancash was gone across the garden. At the door he turned.

 

Geryon?

 

Yes.

 

There is one thing I want from you.

 

Tell me.

 

Want to see you use those wings.

 

A silence tossed itself across the tall gold heads of the fennel stalks between them.

 

Into this silence burst Herakles.

 

Conchitas!
he cried stepping out the exit door.
Buen’ día!
Then he saw Ancash’s face

 

and looked toward Geryon and paused.

 

Ah,
he said. Geryon was groping in the bottom of his huge coat pocket. Ancash pushed

 

past Herakles. Vanished into the hotel.

 

Herakles looked at Geryon.
Volcano time?
he said. In the photograph the face of

 

Herakles is white. It is the face

 

of an old man. It is a photograph of the future, thought Geryon months later when he

 

was standing in his darkroom

 

looking down at the acid bath and watching likeness come groping out of the bones.