Jeffrey Eugenides - Fresh Complaint

“You,” said Mitchell, still with his eyes closed, “are stoned.”

“You betcha” was Larry’s response. “Which reminds me. We ran out of papers.” He stepped over Mitchell, and the array of aerograms, finished and unfinished, and the tiny New Testament, into his—that is, Larry’s—half of the hut. He crouched and began searching through his bag. Larry’s bag was made of a rainbow-colored burlap. So far, it had never passed through customs without being exhaustively searched. It was the kind of bag that announced, “I am carrying drugs.” Larry found his chillum, removed the stone bowl, and knocked out the ashes.

“Don’t do that on the floor.”

“Relax. They fall right through.” He rubbed his fingers back and forth. “See? All tidy.”

He put the chillum to his mouth to make sure that it was drawing. As he did so he looked sideways at Mitchell. “Do you think you’ll be able to travel soon?”

“I think so.”

“Because we should probably be getting back to Bangkok. I mean, eventually. I’m up for Bali. You up?”

“As soon as I’m up,” said Mitchell.

Larry nodded, once, as though satisfied. He removed the chillum from his mouth and reinserted the bidi. He stood, hunching over beneath the roof, and stared at the floor.

“The mail boat comes tomorrow.”

“What?”

“The mail boat. For your letters.” Larry pushed a few around with his foot. “You want me to mail them for you? You have to go down to the beach.”

“I can do it. I’ll be up tomorrow.”

Larry raised one eyebrow but said nothing. Then he started for the door. “I’ll leave these pills in case you change your mind.”

As soon as he was gone, Mitchell got up. There was no putting it off any longer. He retied his lungi and stepped out on the porch, covering his eyes. He kicked around for his flip-flops. Beyond, he was aware of the beach and the shuffling waves. He came down the steps and started walking. He didn’t look up. He saw only his feet and the sand rolling past. The German woman’s footprints were still visible, along with pieces of litter, shredded packages of Nescafé or balled-up paper napkins that blew from the cook tent. He could smell fish grilling. It didn’t make him hungry.

The outhouse was a shack of corrugated tin. Outside sat a rusted oil drum of water and a small plastic bucket. Mitchell filled the bucket and took it inside. Before closing the door, while there was still light to see, he positioned his feet on the platform to either side of the hole. Then he closed the door and everything became dark. He undid his lungi and pulled it up, hanging the fabric around his neck. Using Asian toilets had made him limber: he could squat for ten minutes without strain. As for the smell, he hardly noticed it anymore. He held the door closed so that no one would barge in on him.

The sheer volume of liquid that rushed out of him still surprised him, but it always came as a relief. He imagined the amoebas being swept away in the flood, swirling down the drain of himself and out of his body. The dysentery had made him intimate with his insides; he had a clear sense of his stomach, of his colon; he felt the smooth muscular piping that constituted him. The combustion began high in his intestines. Then it worked its way along, like an egg swallowed by a snake, expanding, stretching the tissue, until, with a series of shudders, it dropped, and he exploded into water.

He’d been sick not for a week but for thirteen days. He hadn’t said anything to Larry at first. One morning in a guesthouse in Bangkok, Mitchell had awoken with a queasy stomach. Once up and out of his mosquito netting, though, he’d felt better. Then that night after dinner, there’d come a series of taps, like fingers drumming on the inside of his abdomen. The next morning the diarrhea started. That was no big deal. He’d had it before in India, but it had gone away after a few days. This didn’t. Instead, it got worse, sending him to the bathroom a few times after every meal. Soon he started to feel fatigued. He got dizzy when he stood up. His stomach burned after eating. But he kept on traveling. He didn’t think it was anything serious. From Bangkok, he and Larry took a bus to the coast, where they boarded a ferry to the island. The boat puttered into the small cove, shutting off its engine in the shallow water. They had to wade to shore. Just that—jumping in—had confirmed something. The sloshing of the sea mimicked the sloshing in Mitchell’s gut. As soon as they got settled, Mitchell had begun to fast. For a week now he’d consumed nothing but black tea, leaving the hut only for the outhouse. Coming out one day, he’d run into the German woman and had persuaded her to start fasting, too. Otherwise, he lay on his mat, thinking and writing letters home.

Greetings from paradise. Larry and I are currently staying on a tropical island in the Gulf of Siam (check the world atlas). We have our own hut right on the beach, for which we pay the princely sum of five dollars per night. This island hasn’t been discovered yet so there’s almost nobody here. He went on, describing the island (or as much as he could glimpse through the bamboo), but soon returned to more important preoccupations. Eastern religion teaches that all matter is illusory. That includes everything, our house, every one of Dad’s suits, even Mom’s plant hangers—all maya , according to the Buddha. That category also includes, of course, the body. One of the reasons I decided to take this grand tour was that our frame of reference back in Detroit seemed a little cramped. And there are a few things I’ve come to believe in. And to test. One of which is that we can control our bodies with our minds. They have monks in Tibet who can mentally regulate their physiologies. They play a game called “melting snowballs.” They put a snowball in one hand and then meditate, sending all their internal heat to that hand. The one who melts the snowball fastest wins.

From time to time, he stopped writing to sit with his eyes closed, as though waiting for inspiration. And that was exactly how he’d been sitting two months earlier—eyes closed, spine straight, head lifted, nose somehow alert—when the ringing started. It had happened in a pale green Indian hotel room in Mahabalipuram. Mitchell had been sitting on his bed, in the half-lotus position. His inflexible left, Western knee stuck way up in the air. Larry was off exploring the streets. Mitchell was all alone. He hadn’t even been waiting for anything to happen. He was just sitting there, trying to meditate, his mind wandering to all sorts of things. For instance, he was thinking about his old girlfriend, Christine Woodhouse, and her amazing red pubic hair, which he’d never get to see again. He was thinking about food. He was hoping they had something in this town besides idli sambar . Every so often he’d become aware of how much his mind was wandering, and then he’d try to direct it back to his breathing. Then, sometime in the middle of all this, when he least expected it, when he’d stopped even trying or waiting for anything to happen (which was exactly when all the mystics said it would happen), Mitchell’s ears had begun to ring. Very softly. It wasn’t an unfamiliar ringing. In fact, he recognized it. He could remember standing in the front yard one day as a little kid and suddenly hearing this ringing in his ears, and asking his older brothers, “Do you hear that ringing?” They said they didn’t but knew what he was talking about. In the pale green hotel room, after almost twenty years, Mitchell heard it again. He thought maybe this ringing was what they meant by the Cosmic Om. Or the music of the spheres. He kept trying to hear it after that. Wherever he went, he listened for the ringing, and after a while he got pretty good at hearing it. He heard it in the middle of Sudder Street in Calcutta, with cabs honking and street urchins shouting for baksheesh. He heard it on the train up to Chiang Mai. It was the sound of the universal energy, of all the atoms linking up to create the colors before his eyes. It had been right there the whole time. All he had to do was wake up and listen to it.