Carlos Fuentes - Distant Relations

“Capital of Nigeria?”

“Lagos.”

“Capital of Anglo-Egyptian Sudan?”

“Khartoum, Khartoum.”

“Let’s pretend that you’re Gordon and I’m the Mahdi.”

“Evil Mahdi!”

“Valiant Gordon!”

The boys laughed and then Branly heard the onomatopoeic sounds with which children imitate an adult epic, their voices simulating cannon fire and the charge of horse brigades. Branly, still grasping the curtain, had a fleeting memory of his own charades in a time when memories of the colonial adventures of General Gordon were fresh in newsprint and conversations. Finally, he peered from the window and saw the dark head of Victor Heredia, but not that of his young French friend, for André was wearing a sailor cap and — all my friend could see from his perspective — a sailor suit as well, a sky-blue suit of heavy linen trimmed in white, with ankle-length trousers.

With dusk came a fine, steady rain. For several hours Branly sat at his window contemplating the woods. My friend felt that in the same way the moon slowly ascended from the familiar garden, from secret moisture between the oaks and birches rising after a long summer’s absence to celebrate the return of the abundance of autumn when the woods are sovereigns of their moribund bounty, in the same way the real sounds of the landscape he was observing with such mournful and protracted delight were born in him.

The crows that are harbingers of night over the Île de France flew high overhead; below, a seething mass of invisible creatures released from the moist sand a sacred perfume that overcame the intolerable novelty of a house encased in hide. That powerful natural effluence, Branly mused, was an implicit rejection of the other anomaly of this lonely, leathery manor house: the dead leaves piled beneath the leafy late-summer bowers of the oak trees.

Branly thought of his town house on the Avenue de Saxe and of the sand in which his sea pine grew, lending in the very heart of Paris a touch of seascape to his garden. He smiles, remembering the scene from Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou in which the heroine opens her door on the sixth floor of a Parisian apartment house and steps directly onto the beach: Cabourg, sea, sand.

Now the scent of the moist earth of the Clos des Renards had the same effect, and my friend, a man who eagerly anticipates beauty, imagined the morning to come: the moist grass, the boughs wet with dew and rain, glistening with infinite pearls outside the window he would open when he awakened, and he would breathe deeply, grateful once again to be alive. How many nights had he delivered himself to sleep patiently resigned never to greet the dawn?

The serenity of the vista was ruined by an all too obvious proof of the indolent neglect of the master of the house. Branly’s Citroën had been left abandoned against the oak that had interrupted his blind and careening flight two — or was it three? — nights ago. He tried to capture the idyll ruthlessly interrupted by an incongruous automobile, not unlike a Kurt Schwitters painting, another depiction of juxtaposed umbrellas and sewing machines set, not on an operating table, but in the middle of a garden designed by the heirs to Le Nôtre, which, as Branly is telling me now, smiling, almost playful in his allusion, is as if the flight to Varennes had been accomplished aboard a helicopter that lifted off from the Petit Trianon.

No less grating, no less disfiguring for having been hidden, was the last thing to catch his eye as he surveyed the area between the end of the avenue where the Citroën — in a manner of speaking — lay between leafy oak trees and the verge of the avenue of dry leaves, the graveled lane along which Etienne had first driven Branly and the young Heredia to this house, and the garden, properly speaking, with its precise disposition of shrubs, pansies, and greensward among arabesques of artichokes and rosebushes, whose geometry, gradually revealed in this first persistent rain of the coming autumn, was sundered by a long, deep scar, a knife slash through this rational and most perfect of gardens, an eruption of savage forest in a space designed to negate it: from the fallen leaves, across the gravel, through grass and shrubs, the rain revealed, as if in developer solution, an indecent trough, a cruel, oblique swath carved across the face of the garden, a garden disfigured by something resembling the track of a mysterious, lurking, nocturnal beast.

The color and texture of this scar were those of a match burn on human flesh — black, white, and gray. Branly’s eyes sought the birch trees, the striated silver of their bark, and, among the tree trunks, the figures of the two boys. This time they were not there, unless they were hidden in the mist.

He shook his head. The crows soared. He massaged his temples. Night fell as he asked himself: How to describe the shadow of a dream? The insistence of the dripping shower drowned out the fine, expiring rain.

Heredia turned on the light, and Branly clapped his hands over bedazzled eyes. He wondered how long his host had been standing there in the darkness, observing him observe the garden, the rain, and the scar in the garden, revealed by the rain. Not long, he concluded immediately. Peculiar to Heredia — Branly is saying this November afternoon in the empty, darkened dining room of the Automobile Club, where only he and I remain, and we remain thanks to the respect in which my friend is held in this establishment — was his ability immediately to dispel serene contemplation, good humor, spontaneity of sentiments, and to make anyone who shared with him an hour, or a room, feel self-conscious, if not guilty.

After his host turned on the light, he picked up the tray he had set on a chair. He said, as he put it down, this time on my friend’s lap, that his guest would not complain today, he’d see, a delicious cassoulet, no leftovers from some earlier meal, eh? don’t you believe it. Branly did not reply at once. Though his eyes never wavered from Heredia’s, pale as the bark of the white birch trees, he settled himself in the bed before affirming that of course the hot meal must be the work of Madame; he was happy to know that she had returned and would take charge of the kitchen. Heredia must permit him to state with some frankness — Branly figuratively wiped his lips before beginning to eat — that the food today had not been, how should one say, umh, up to the standards of a Spanish innkeeper, or even of a thatched hut in the Antilles, not even … But surely Heredia would understand what he was trying to say: how could he suppose that his guest, during a day in which, astonishingly, his host did not once appear — how could he suppose that his guest would guess there was a plate of cold cuts for him in a dumbwaiter.

“Didn’t you get enough?” Heredia asked.

“I have eaten less under other circumstances,” was Branly’s reply, as once again he ignored Heredia’s impertinence. “That is not the point,” he continued. “It was the lack of any warning. Had I known last evening … You might have informed me.”

“Well, the fact is, you found the food. You’ll know where to find it from now on.”

Branly savored with pleasure a portion of sauce-soaked goose before adding: “Does that mean I may not expect to see you during the day, M. Heredia?”

“I told you. I get up late. I go to bed late.”

“Are you a vampire?” asked Branly with his best worldly smile, not looking at Heredia, but concentrating on carefully spearing with his fork the green beans swimming in the deep dish of the cassoulet.

Heredia glanced at my friend from the corner of his eye and then did an extraordinary thing: he walked to the washbasin, took down the oval mirror, and carried it back to Branly’s bed. There he bent over, holding the mirror in both hands so that its oval reflected both the host and the guest.