Conrad Aiken - A Heart for the Gods of Mexico

And the indifferent violence of this night she would herself, also — gratefully, and with delight — have praised. Just the sort of fruitful and unforeseen counterpoint, nature’s wild multiplicity, which she had always passionately loved! Thunder, and a marimba band — what could be better? Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? And the lightning, too.… Once, in the night, after hours of vivid sleeplessness — he had lost all sense of time — he got up and went to the window to watch the lightning. So continuous had it become that in its light he could watch the advance of a ragged black edge of cloud right across the sky: the whole sky was quivering with it: and against this palpitant radiance came unceasingly the fierce downward stroke of vermilion or violet. As for the marimba band — it was unremittingly merciless. All night long, over and over again, the same two or three tunes, coming in sudden bursts through the lashed and drenched jungle of the garden, hot and quick, like flashes of sound; dying away for a little, amid a confusion of stampings and laughter, or sinking in a calculated languor, only to be once again savagely revived. He would know those tunes for the rest of his life. And henceforth, they would belong to Noni.

At daybreak, after the rain had stopped, he heard Josefina’s cough in the garden, her slow footsteps on the gravel path, the sharp slap of the screen door. Water began to rush loudly along the irrigation channel just outside the window — he could smell, too, the unwholesome dankness of it — and that maddening bird, the one which Hambo called the jitter bird, began his everlasting repetitive hypnotic phwee-phwee-phwee-phwee- tink , phwee-phwee-phwee-phwee- tink , lost in the top of one of those tall dark trees. In no time at all, then, it was light; Josefina was cautiously sweeping the verandah; the tap of a stick on the tiles announced Hambo.… He took his clothes to the bathroom and dressed.

When he emerged on to the verandah, it was to face a world which overnight had been brilliantly re-created: everything flashed and sparkled: in the dazzling east, once more visible, the great volcano sunned its shoulders of ice. He sat on the verandah parapet, watched a brown lizard proceeding along the path below him in a series of short straight dashes, and then, apparently alarmed, scurry back to his hole in a single continuous rush. The morning was still — the wind had dropped — the banana leaves hung limp and unstirring. He noticed that the lower leaves, the older ones, were ragged, split in parallel fringes, or fingers — they had a longer knowledge of the wind; the upper and younger leaves were still smooth and in one piece. And that scarlet dragonfly — it had a favorite observation post, it returned always to one rose-tree tip, and sat there always facing exactly the same way, toward the swimming pool. Hambo’s stick tapped behind him, and Hambo was saying gently:

“Good morning!”

“Good morning!”

“I don’t know whether you would care to join me; I was just going for a little turn down the road, towards the barranca .”

“Yes, I’d like to.”

“It’s the coolest time of day, and the nicest.…”

They were silent, a little embarrassed, as they passed the gardener’s shed, the little lily-covered tree, the hedge of hibiscus, the bamboo grove. Turning to the left as they emerged from the drive, they stood aside for a moment to allow a small herd of goats to pass — five goats, one sheep, and a boy. The heavy smell hung in the air after they had gone. He said, awkwardly:

“This is very unlucky for you — platitudinous, I’m afraid, but true.”

“Nonsense, Blomberg. I’m only too glad if I can be of any help. As soon as the post office is open, we’ll buzz down and send off your wire. Not much else we can do till then.”

“No.”

“I suppose your further plans you can’t, as yet, know. Neither you nor Gil.”

“Personally, I think I shall go right back. But first I’ll find out what Gil wants — if he needs me, and wants to stay here, of course I’ll stick around. One of those things it’s not too easy to find out! I suspect he would like to stay here alone with you — but he may feel shy about saying so. Once I feel sure about it, I’ll shove off. Perhaps today.”

“Yes. I see. I can understand that.”

“Not much point in it!”

“No.”

They were silent again; he noticed for the second time the bright yellow little flower by the gutter’s edge, candid, wide open — it reminded him of something else — yes, it was like the periwinkle. And that little blue flag — he hadn’t seen it since his childhood. Brilliance everywhere — as they turned a bend in the road, and looked downward into the extravagant richness of the valley, with its cornfields, its terraced groves of papayas and bananas, and the morning sunlight already hot as honey over everything, he couldn’t help, for just an instant, thinking it was all an outrage. Brilliant, yes, but meaningless! As meaningless as a tomb. Would Gil want to stay and face that—? He found himself reflecting that nothing of this could really be discussed with Gil — nothing at all. Years must pass before that could happen, if indeed it ever could happen. Probably never. The realities must be concealed, Gil must be protected.

A tiny donkey came up the muddy road toward them, almost completely hidden under its burden of grass, head downward, walking with neat quick little feet. Hambo gestured with his stick, pointing ahead, where below them lay the little stone bridge in a clump of trees.

“That’s the barranca , there,” he said. “Where Cortez crossed. Shall we go down and smoke a morning pipe? Have you got your pipe?”

“Yes — let’s have a morning pipe.”

“Right! But watch your step, it’s slippery.”

He led the way down the narrowing path, and Blomberg followed.… That absurd figure, with the forked stick — and such a damned good fellow—! He began shaking his head from side to side, slowly, as he took out his pipe; it was all too much for him, too much altogether. He wanted to laugh at Hambo — wanted to laugh out of pure misery. “And, Christ,” he thought, patting his pocket to see whether he had any matches, “Christ, but I’m a long way from home!”

Conrad Aiken (1889–1973) was an American poet, novelist, and short story author, and one of the most acclaimed writers of the twentieth century. His numerous honors include the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Award for Poetry, the Bollingen Prize, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters Gold Medal. Born in Savannah, Georgia, Aiken was orphaned at a young age and was raised by his great-great-aunt in Massachusetts. He attended Harvard University with T. S. Eliot and was a contributing editor to the influential literary journal the Dial , where he befriended Ezra Pound.

Aiken published more than fifty works of poetry, fiction, and criticism, including the novels Blue Voyage, Great Circle, King Coffin, A Heart for the Gods of Mexico , and Conversation , and the widely anthologized short stories “Silent Snow, Secret Snow” and “Mr. Arcularis.” He played a key role in establishing Emily Dickinson’s status as a major American poet, mentored a young Malcolm Lowry, and served as the US poet laureate from 1950 to 1952. Aiken returned to Savannah eleven years before his death; the epitaph on his tombstone in Bonaventure Cemetery reads: Cosmos Mariner, Destination Unknown .