Джойс Оутс: Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars

Hugo dictates the prenuptial contract, stark in its simplicity, less than a page in length, and the secretary types it. The notary public will affix her seal.

“ Señora? —please sign.”

A new document to sign. Jessalyn obeys. It is all very formal, very proper and “legal”—though financial matters, and the talk that surrounds them, are the death of the soul and she is feeling just slightly dispirited, on this day when she should be so happy.

Out on the avenue Jessalyn tells Hugo in sudden passion that she hopes they live a long, long time together and that they die at exactly the same moment, so neither will have to deal with the other’s estate.

Hugo laughs, startled. “Don’t think of such morbid things, darling. That isn’t like you.”

“But I always think of such things,” Jessalyn says, slipping her arm through his, “—don’t you know me at all?”

NEXT MORNINGin their airy white hotel room overlooking the Pacific Ocean Hugo plaits her hair: “For the first time, darling Jessalyn, as your husband.”

Brushing the shoulder-length white hair, parting it in the center of her head, carefully braiding the strands together. Hugo is utterly absorbed, as in a trance of oblivion. Jessalyn leans her forehead against his shoulder feeling too weak, too deeply moved to speak. If Hugo plaits the hair too tight, Jessalyn does not register the fleeting pain.

“ Mi hermosa esposa, I love so much.”

“My dear husband, I love so much. ”

They cannot possibly survive, Jessalyn thinks. Almost, she can envision the high white ceiling of the hotel cracking, collapsing. An earthquake?—does Guayaquil have earthquakes?

Expecting then, for such is Jessalyn’s morbidity, that something terrible will happen to them on the drive to the airport or if not then, on the seven-hundred-mile flight west to Galápagos Islands National Park in the Pacific Ocean.

To the airstrip at Baltra Island where with other “eco-travelers” they board the Esmeralda, a brilliantly white cruise ship holding one hundred passengers.

Eight days in the Galápagos! It will be the adventure of Jessalyn’s life.

For weeks Jessalyn has been reading books Hugo has provided her with such titles as Galápagos: Enchanted Islands and Galápagos: Endangered Species but she is still not fully prepared for the beauty and rawness of the region, or the physical arduousness required of tourists; she is dismayed by the wave-rocked dinghies that bear passengers from the Esmeralda to the islands in the Gulf of Chiriquí early each morning, and often involve “wet” landings—jumping out of the dinghy into the surf.

Nearly turning an ankle on one of her leaps onto a rock-strewn beach with other dinghy passengers. Oh!— the shock runs through her body, unaccustomed to such physical exertion.

Absorbed in his camera settings Hugo has gone ahead up the beach and another American tourist helps her regain her balance.

Ma’am? Are you all right?

Yes thank you. I am—all right.

Didn’t sprain your ankle, did you? You’re sure?

Oh yes. I am sure!

In a bulky orange life vest, in a long-sleeved white mosquito-resistant shirt, khaki shorts to the knee, the rubberized hiking sandals that tug like weights on her feet. In dark glasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat without which she would be blinded and helpless as a mollusk in the blinding tropical sun. Her neatly and practicably plaited hair will not be a distraction in the wind and she wears a backpack that Hugo has purchased for her. Hugo insists that she carry her own bottle of water on the island excursions, as he will carry his.

Hugo has a way of scolding her, if affectionately. Tugging at her braid. “Remember to drink plenty of water, mi esposa . I can’t always be watching you.”

Each morning they awaken early in their small spartan cabin in the Esmeralda. Each morning Jessalyn raises the blind to stare out the single horizontal window at darkened waters overtaken within minutes by an explosion of astonishing light, of indescribable hues. Always the ship is rocking, off-balance. Jessalyn has taken seasickness pills, that seem to have had some effect. At breakfast she has little appetite but is impressed to see how Hugo eats, with much zest.

Her heart is suffused with tenderness for the man who reaches for her in the night, in his sleep. Slipping his heavy warm arm over her as if to secure her. Though it is difficult to sleep beside him, he sleeps so deeply, his breathing is so deep and sonorous, while Jessalyn feels as if she is floating like froth on the surface of sleep, easily awakened.

Hugo buries his face in her neck. He calls her dear, darling. He calls her mi amada esposa—my loving wife. Jessalyn wonders if, in his deepest sleep, her husband knows who she is; if he confuses her with other women, as he might confuse himself with the other, younger man he’d once been.

How we sift through ourselves, with others. Clasping at hands that turn transparent, that dissolve in our touch. Crying out No! Wait! Don’t leave me, I can’t live without you —and in the next instant they are gone, and we remain, alive.

There is no housekeeping for their cabin—no maids to clean. Jessalyn who cannot abide messiness takes care to straighten the bedclothes, hang up Hugo’s clothes flung across the bed, left atop a bureau. She takes care to hang damp towels neatly in the bathroom the size of a telephone booth, a narrow stall crudely hidden behind strips of translucent plastic. She cleans out the sink with wadded tissues and cleans the mirror, which Hugo never fails to leave splattered. It is awkward, such intimacy. In a weak moment Jessalyn thinks— But why did I want to get married again? I was learning to be happy, alone.

In the cabin they are always in each other’s way! Hugo says, laughing, “I thought you were over there, darling, and here you are— here. ”

Jessalyn says, “Are you sure there isn’t more than one of you? Every time I turn around you are looming. ”

And always the ship is rocking, night and day. Always seeming about to settle, then rising again, lifting and lowering, off-balance. Except that it varies in its force and rhythms the ceaseless motion would be comforting.

Hugo seems scarcely to notice even the rougher rocking. Jessalyn is aware of little else.

It is the adventure of my life. What remains of my life.

Of course—I am happy. I am alive.

Each morning passengers disembark from the Esmeralda in wave-buffeted dinghies quaintly named for Galápagos creatures— Sea Lion, Tortoise, Dolphin, Iguana, Frigate, Albatross, Pelican, Cormorant, Howler Monkey, Boobie . Like children at camp, or inmates in an institution, they line up dutifully to be issued safety vests and walking sticks. In the water the dinghies lurch, careen drunkenly. Suddenly you can’t see the sky, for the choppy sea surrounds you. Passengers clutch at the edges of the dinghy with white-knuckled fists hoping not to look terrified. Jessalyn tries to laugh, she is so—breathless! Telling herself that there is no actual danger, Hugo would not have brought her to a place of danger, for he adores her.

Those fins in the water?—the tour guide points, and the dinghy passengers stare at the waves, trying to discern quick-darting dark fins.

Sharks. But probably baby sharks.

Some lift their cameras and cell phones, to take pictures. Baby sharks!

Are there often fatal accidents in the Galápagos, on these expeditions?—one of the more assertive passengers asks the tour guide; and the guide, a dark-skinned man in his early forties, looking as if he were part Indian and part Asian, says with a courteous smile that there are few accidents and virtually none that are fatal, if people follow safety rules.