Rudolph Wurlitzer - Slow Fade

THE DAY IS A MONTAGE FULL OF SOFT DISSOLVES. . the enormous blazing sun climbing to its zenith. . the car penetrating farther into the interior, the tape deck blasting out The Talking Heads, Dylan, and the Clash, passing women and children swaying through undulating waves of heat, laundry and earthen pots balanced on their heads. . That evening they drive through another village of mud huts strangled in heat and poverty and disease. Beyond some paddy fields and mango trees they see flashes of color and activity. A festival is going on, and they drive over the narrow sandy road and park near an ancient stone reservoir, its crumbling tiers descending to a shallow pool of green slime. A large crowd from the neighboring villages wanders about the reservoir watching snake charmers, acrobats, puppet acts, and singers. The soft light has a melancholy effect and the festival seems part of a dream. Jim and Lacey are stared at as if they are visitors from outer space until finally they flee, pursued by a crowd of children. In the safety of the car they drive until they reach an empty field, the dying sun spread out on the horizon in a display of raw umber and vermilion too exaggerated to film.

EXTERIOR — NIGHT. . They prepare dinner, cooling soup and beans on the propane stove and spreading out canned ham and bread on the flimsy card table they unfold from the trunk of the car. Jim opens up a jar of caviar and uncorks a bottle of warm champagne while Lacey lights a candle and places it in the middle of the table. They eat in silence. Halfway through the meal, more than a little drunk, Lacey asks: “Do you think our marriage has a chance?”. .“Not too much of a chance,” he admits. “We’re not honest enough with each other, for one thing.”. .“You’re not going to play that old tune?” she asks angrily. . “I don’t want to. Believe me.” He boils water for coffee, tipping over a chair. . She won’t let it rest. “What do you mean, not honest enough? How can you say that after all we’ve gone through on this trip?”. . Something lets go inside him and he says what he’s thinking. “This trip is a Band-Aid. There are areas it will never cover.”. . She opens up a bottle of bourbon. “Like what? Give me an example.”. . He sits down and gives her an example. “Like sex. We’ve become mechanical with each other.”. . She considers that. “What else?”. .“I can’t stand your compulsions and the obscene amount of time you spend indulging them. And sometimes I’m not too crazy about your smell and the way you nip at me all the time and the silly little ways you choose to distract yourself from taking anything too seriously.”. .“What do you mean, my smell?”. .“You get rank from time to time.”. .“Are you finished?” she asks evenly. . “No, but go ahead.”. .“For openers, you’re a creep for sabotaging this evening and starting something like this. I was even having a good time and actually feeling positive about us. But you always manage to pull the rug out from such moments because you can’t stand any kind of intimacy and will do anything to deflect it. You complain that I’m distracted but you’re paralyzed and the way you embrace your paralysis is totally demoralizing.”. . Shocked by her own intensity, she stops and they sit silently, gathering up energy for a final assault. Night has fallen swiftly, almost brutally, and the candle on the table flickers and hesitates. He stands and walks over to her, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to slug her. “Go ahead,” she says defiantly as he jerks her to her feet, bending her backwards and biting her neck. As she struggles against him he kisses her. She gives in too easily and this dampens him somewhat, but he gets beyond that and throws her to the ground. She shrugs herself out of her pants and fumbles around in a suitcase. “What are you doing?” he asks, taken back. . “Looking for my diaphragm.”. . Enraged he throws her down for real. “It’s either right now or I get in the car and leave you here,” he explains, ripping away the rest of her clothes. . “Oh, God, fuck me,” she moans. . In a fury he mounts her from the rear and tries to do just that. . As they plunge on, the moon rises over them, the car and the paddy field visible as well as a crowd of spectators. Jim notices them first. “Darling,” he says, imitating Cary Grant as he slowly withdraws. “Our enthusiasm seems to have drawn a crowd.” Lacey looks up and screams. . She and Jim make a run for the car. .

INTERIOR — NIGHT. . Locking the doors, Jim throws the car into reverse, then jolts it forward, sending a shower of sand over the crowd. They find the main road and drive through the night. Lacey is hysterical, unable to stop sobbing. A shape looms before them and they swerve, missing a water buffalo. Jim slows, then speeds up again. Despite himself, he laughs, drowning out Lacey’s sobs. “Well, I mean, after all,” he says, and then they are both laughing uncontrollably. .

THE FOLLOWING DAY. . finds them continuing on as before; the same dusty plains, mud villages, hollow-eyed children. They are sober and chastened, the Chrysler having become a mixed blessing, drawing attention everywhere even as it protects them. They pass through a small city where Jim wants to stay for the night, but Lacey implores him to keep going and so they roll on, the outskirts of the city looking as if a famine has recently swept through. . A few miles later a stone punctures the radiator and the car comes to a halt in a cloud of hissing steam. There is no sign of life except for a thin line of smoke in the distance. Lacey bursts into tears. . Jim shakes her. “This is no time to freak out. I’ll walk toward the smoke until I find someone.” Afraid to be alone, she decides to go with him and they lock the car and start off.

EXTERIOR — DAY. . The ground is full of short spiky cactus and piles of smooth boulders. Lacey, who is walking ahead, stumbles and falls. . As if in a dream, Jim watches a cobra sway up out of the dead grass, its tongue tasting the air as it slides toward Lacey, who is sitting with her legs crossed, holding her ankle. For a brief second she controls her breathing before her fear overwhelms her, her head beginning to shake. “Oh, God, please,” she moans. As if in answer, the snake strikes, depositing its venom into her outstretched hand and in a long whipping motion disappearing into the dead grass. . Jim and Lacey sit watching each other. A hawk circles far above. A cricket chirps. . “I’m dead,” Lacey whispers. “How odd.”. . Jim kneels before her and tries to suck the poison out of her hand. . “You have too many cavities,” she says as she slips into shock. . He spits out what his mouth has collected. “I saw it in a movie. William Holden, I think. In Africa.”. .“Too late,” she whispers. “Hold me. It’s into my heart. The poison. Oh, please.”. . He breaks then, sobbing as he holds her in his arms. . She stiffens, eyes imploring him. But he can do nothing, only cradle her as the pain envelops her and the breathing becomes harsh and ragged and finally stops altogether. . He sits through the afternoon and evening, unmoving, unseeing, holding her rigid in his arms while behind him a collection of children break the car window and begin to strip the car of its possessions.

TWO YEARS later Walker sat underneath an elm tree at the end of a quiet residential street in Albany. He had been sitting for most of the day opposite Byron’s apartment, the top half of a simple two-story blue and white clapboard house. He had gotten the address from the directory office at the local college where Byron taught an elementary course in linguistic theory. When Byron had not appeared by late afternoon, Walker finally rang the doorbell. No one was home. He walked around the house to the back, where a small dark-haired woman in a blue nylon jogging suit was pulling up carrots from a vegetable garden. He asked where he might find Byron.