Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

Meanwhile, the American Skip Sands sat out front on the concrete porch, looking at a book; in checkered short-pants and a white T-shirt, and rubber zoris on his feet. Apparently undisturbed by the screams.

As they left, Kathy introduced Edith to the American. He started to get up, but Edith sat beside him, smoothing her skirt. “What’s the book?” Edith asked. “A secret code?”

“Nope.”

“What. Greek?”

“Marcus Aurelius.”

“You can read it?”

“To Himself. Generally translated Meditations.”

“A linguist. You are a linguist?”

“It’s just for practice. I have an English translation at the hotel.” “Castro’s? God, I wouldn’t stay there,” Edith said. “I’m taking the

four o’clock bus out of here.” “Mr. Castro’s roof has holes in it, but the next hotel is far, far away.” “All alone?” Edith was a married woman, and middle-aged, or she’d

never have been flirting with him.

He smiled, and Kathy suddenly wanted to kick him in the side — wake him up—in the softness below the ribs. To disturb the good humor in his bright American face.

“Can I see?” Kathy said. His book was very cheap and plain, printed by the Catholic University Press. She handed it back. “Are you a Catholic?”

“Midwestern Irish Catholic. That’s a mixed-up mixture, we like to

say.” “Kansas, you said, right?” “Clements, Kansas. How about you?” “Winnipeg, Manitoba. Or the country outside there. On the same lat

itude as Kansas.” “Longitude.” “Okay. We’re right due north of you.” “But different countries,” Edith said. “Different worlds,” Kathy said. Here they were, two weary wives, both

crowding him. “Come along, then,” she said, and pulled him up by his hand. They began walking toward Kathy’s street. “So you are from the midwestern United States?” Edith said. ‘Tes, right, Kansas.” Kathy said, “So is my husband. Springfield, Illinois.” “Ah.” “He’s missing at the moment.” “I know, I heard. The mayor told me.” Edith said, “The mayor told you—who else!” “Emeterio tells everyone everything,” Kathy said. “That’s how he

finds things out. The more he talks, the more people tell him. Were you waiting to see me?” “Well, in fact, I was,” he admitted, “but I’ve waited too long. I’ve gotta run.

“Run!” Edith said. “That’s not at all a very Filipino thing to do.” After he’d left them, Edith said, “He didn’t realize I was still with you. He wanted to see you alone.”

Around four that afternoon, as they waited for Edith’s bus out of town, the two women spied the American strolling among the market stalls in his Bermuda shorts, on his sunburned legs, with a hairy brown coconut in his hand. “I’m looking for someone to whack this open for me,” he said.

The market square took up a full city block ringed with thatched kiosks, its interior beaten bare. They walked its borders seeking someone to deal with the visitor’s coconut. The bus arrived, chaos descended, the passengers hoisted their sacks and herded their children and swung their flapping, upside-down chickens by the talons. “The driver has a bolo, I’m sure,” Edith said. But Skip found a bolo-wielding vendor who topped the coconut expertly, raised it as if to drink, and offered it back to the American. Skip held it out—”Anybody thirsty?” Both women laughed. He tried the milk. Edith said, “For goodness’ sake, dump that out, man. It’s going to turn your stomach.” Skip emptied it onto the ground and let the vendor crack the fruit into quarters.

Edith had some words with the driver and then came back to them. “I made him wash the headlights. They don’t wash the headlights. It gets dark and they drive as if they had a blindfold because of so much mud.” She began her goodbyes to Kathy, and her thanks, and took a long time winding up her visit. She offered her hand to Skip Sands, and he held her fingertips awkwardly. “Thank you so much,” Edith said. “I think you’ll be an inspiration to Damulog.” There was something arch and improper in her tone.

Edith carried a gigantic multicolored straw bag with a hemp clasp. She went off swinging it, walking flat-footed in her sandals, her butt rolling like a carabao’s in her silk skirt. Good. Gone. All afternoon Kathy had felt in her neck and shoulders a tenseness, a readiness to shrug off the weight of this woman’s company. Each day’s end stole the light from her heart, then came the night’s sorrowing madness, waking, weeping, thinking, reading about Hell.

On the other hand the American, spreading out his white hankie for

her on a mildewed bench, seemed pointless, stupid, soothing. He said, “Voulez-vous parlez Français?” T m sorry?—Oh, no, we don’t do that in Manitoba. We’re not those kind of Canadians. Are you really some kind of linguist?”

“Just as a hobby. I’m pretty sure a real linguist could do a whole life’s work down here. As far as I can find out, nobody’s tried to study the Mindanao dialects in any kind of organized way.”

He picked up a slab of his coconut. The ants had found it. He blew them off and pried a chunk from it with the blade of a dark blue Boy Scouts of America pocketknife.

“Your work is tough,” he said. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “I misjudged the nature of the whole proposi

tion.” “Did you?” “The depth of it, yes, and the seriousness.” She wanted to cry out to him to take stock of himself. “Well, I just meant you have to deal with a lot of people.” “Once you get among the heathen, it all changes. It changes a lot. It

gets a lot clearer, a lot more vivid, it gets vividly clear. Oh, well,” she said,

“it’s the kind of thing that gets confused when you talk about it.” “I guess it would be.” “Then let’s not talk about it. Do you mind if I write down a few

thoughts sometime and pass them along to you? On paper?” He said, “Sure.” “And what about you? How is your work going?” “It’s more of a holiday.” “What’s Del Monte’s interest here? I wouldn’t think these Maguin

danao plains would grow many pineapples. Too much flooding.” “I’m on vacation. I’m just touring.” “So you arrive without any explanation at all. Just a lost ambassador.” “Well, yes, I’d see it as maybe an ambassadorial kind of opportunity, if

fine folks like you weren’t already doing a much better job of represent

ing us.” “Representing us who, Mr. Sands?” “The United States, Mrs. Jones.” “I’m Canadian. I represent the Gospel.”

“Well, so does the United States.” “Have you read a book called The Ugly American?” He said, “Why would I want to read a book like that?” She stared at him. “Aah, okay, I’ve read The Ugly American” he said. “I think it’s non

sense. Self-flagellation is getting to be the vogue. I don’t buy it.” “And The Quiet American?” “I’ve read The Quiet American, too.”—And that one, she noticed, he

didn’t label nonsense. She said, “We Westerners have many blessings. A freer will. We’re

free from certain …” She stalled in her thoughts. “We have rights. Liberty. Democracy.” “That’s not what I mean. I don’t know how to say it. There are ques

tions about free will.” She trembled to ask him now if he’d perhaps read

John Calvin … No. Even the question was an abyss. “Are you feeling okay?” “Mr. Sands,” she said, “do you know Christ?” “I’m Catholic.” “Yes. But do you know Christ?” “Well,” he said, “not in the way I think you mean.” “Neither do I.” To this he said nothing. “I thought I knew Christ,” she said, “but I was entirely mistaken.” She noticed he sat very still when he had nothing to say. “We’re not all crazy here, you know,” she said.—Another one he had