I’m sorry—
Geryon’s heart stopped. The man was Herakles. After all these years—he picks
a day when my face is puffy!
XXXIII. FAST-FORWARD
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That was a shocker, they agreed over coffee at Café Mitwelt later the same day.
————
Geryon couldn’t decide which was more odd—
to be sitting across the table from a grown-up Herakles or to hear himself using
expressions like “a shocker.”
And what about this young man with black eyebrows who sat on Herakles’ left.
They do have a language, Ancash was saying.
Herakles had explained that he and Ancash were traveling around South America
together recording volcanoes.
It’s for a movie, Herakles added. A nature film? Not exactly. A documentary
on Emily Dickinson.
Of course, said Geryon. He was trying to fit this Herakles onto the one he knew.
“On My Volcano Grows the Grass,”
Herakles went on, is one of her poems. Yes I know, said Geryon, I like that poem,
I like the way she
refuses to rhyme sod with God. Ancash meanwhile was taking a tape recorder
out of his pocket.
He slipped a tape into it and offered the earphones to Geryon. Listen to this, he said.
It’s Mount Pinatubo in the Philippines.
We were there last winter. Geryon put the earphones on. Heard a hoarse animal
spraying pain from the back of its throat.
Then heavy irregular bumping sounds like tractor tires rolling downhill.
Herakles was watching.
Do you hear the rain? he said. Rain? Geryon adjusted the earphones. The sound
was hot as a color inside.
It was monsoon season, said Herakles, volcanic ash and fire were mixing in midair
with the rain. We saw villagers
racing downhill and a black wall of hot mud behind them twenty meters high,
that’s what you hear on the tape.
It sort of rustles as it moves because it’s full of boiling chunks of solid rock.
Geryon listened to the boiling rocks.
He also heard broken sounds like glassware snapping which he realized were
human cries and then gunshots.
Gunshots? he asked. They had to send the army in, said Herakles. Even with
lava coming down the hills at
ninety kilometers some people didn’t want to leave their homes—Oh here
listen, Ancash interrupted.
He was fast-forwarding the tape then restarted it. Listen to this. Geryon listened.
Heard again the ripe animal growl.
But then came some solid thuds like melons hitting the ground. He looked at Ancash.
Up high the air gets so hot it burns
the wings off birds—they just fall. Ancash stopped. He and Geryon were looking
straight into each other’s eyes.
At the word wings something passed between them like a vibration.
Ancash was fast-forwarding again.
About here—I think, yes—is the part from Japan. Listen it’s a tsunami—
a hundred kilometers from crest to crest
when it hit the beach. We saw fishing boats carried inland as far as the next village.
Geryon listened to water destroying
a beach in Japan. Ancash was talking of continental plates. It’s worst at the edges
of ocean trenches, where one
continental plate sinks under another. Aftershocks can go on for years.
I know, said Geryon. Herakles’ gaze
on him was like a gold tongue. Magma rising. Beg your pardon? said Ancash.
But Geryon was taking the earphones off
and reaching for the belt of his coat. Got to go. The effort it took to pull himself
away from Herakles’ eyes
could have been measured on the scale devised by Richter. Call us
we’re at the City Hotel, said Herakles.
The Richter scale has neither a minimum nor a maximum threshold.
Everything depends on
the sensitivity of the seismograph. Sure okay, said Geryon, and threw himself
out the door.
XXXIV. HARRODS
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Geryon sat in his hotel room on the end of the bed staring at the blank TV screen.
————
It was seven a.m. Total agitation possessed him. He had held off phoning Herakles
for two days. Even now he was not
looking at the telephone (which he had placed in the bottom of his sock drawer).
He was not
thinking about the two of them in their hotel room on the other side of Plaza de Mayo.
He was not
remembering how Herakles liked to make love early in the morning like a sleepy bear
taking the lid off a jar of honey— Geryon
got up suddenly and went into the bathroom. Removed his overcoat and turned on
the shower. Stood under cold water
for a minute and a half while a fragment of Emily Dickinson chased around in his head.
I never have
taken a
peach in my
Hand so late
in the Year.…
Why a peach? he was wondering when from deep in its cave of socks the telephone rang. Geryon dove for it.
Geryon? That you? Hungry? said Herakles’ voice. So an hour later he found himself
sitting across the table from Ancash
amid the morning carnival of Café Mitwelt. Herakles had gone for a newspaper.
Ancash sat very straight,
a man as beautiful as a live feather. Your name—what does it mean, is it Spanish?
No it is a Quechua word. Quechua?
Quechua is spoken in the Andes. It is one of the oldest indigenous languages of Peru.
You’re from Peru?
From Huaraz. Where is that? Huaraz is in the mountains north of Lima.
You were born there?
No, Huaraz is the town of my mother. I was born in Lima. My father was a priest
who wanted to become a bishop so
my mother took me back to the mountains. Ancash smiled. As Herakles would say,
Such is life in the tropics.
Herakles appeared, ruffling Geryon’s hair as he came past. Who me?
he said sitting down.
But Geryon was looking at Ancash. Is she still there in Huaraz your mother?
No. The terrorists were blowing up cars
and TV stations in that part of the mountains last winter. She got angry.
Death is stupid, she said and went back to Lima.
Does she like Lima? No one likes Lima. But how does she live? Is she alone?
Not really. She cooks for
a couple of rich people five days a week—some gringo anthropologist from the States
and his wife.
The guy is paying her to teach him Quechua. He lets her live on the roof of his house.
The roof? In Lima they use everything.
Quechua? I know some Quechua, Herakles put in brightly. Ancash gave him a raw look.
Herakles continued,
It’s a song but I don’t know the music just the words maybe I’ll make up the music.
He started to sing. His voice rose
and fell around the strange syllables like a child’s. Geryon watched him uneasily.
The voice flowed out like a fragrance
released in rain.
Cupi checa cupi checa
cupi checa cupi checa
apacheta runa sapan
cupi checa
in ancash puru
cupi chec
in sillutambo
cupi checa
cupi checa.
When he finished Herakles grinned at Geryon and said, The “cupi checa” song.
Ancash taught it to me.
Want to know what the words mean? Geryon merely nodded. Cupi checa,
Herakles began,
that means, right left right left— Ancash’s chair which had tilted backward
on two legs came crashing forward.
Let’s do Quechua lessons another time, I want to get to the post office before noon.
Soon they were out on the street
walking fast along Avenida Bolívar with a hard wind strumming their bodies,
Herakles jumping ahead like a dog
smelling everything and pointing at objects in the shops. Ancash and Geryon
came behind.
Aren’t you cold? said Geryon to Ancash who had no coat on. No, said Ancash.
Then he looked sideways at Geryon.
Well actually yes. He smiled. Geryon would have liked to wrap his coat around
this feather man. They walked on
bent against the wind. A winter sun had thrown its bleak wares on the sky
and people going past
looked dazzled. Two women in furs came towards them swaying on their heels
like big gold foxes. No—
they are men, Geryon saw as they passed. Ancash was staring too. The foxes
disappeared into the crowd.
Ancash and Geryon walked on. Now a hunger was walking with them. That song
Herakles sang, Geryon said,
I heard your name in the middle of it—in ancash puru—is that right?
You have a good ear, said Ancash.
What does it mean? said Geryon. Ancash hesitated. Hard to translate. Ancash
is something like—
But Herakles whirled towards them waving his arms. Here! he cried pointing
at a very large department store
with deep red awnings. Harrods of London said the brass letters over the door.
Herakles had
vanished through the revolving door. Geryon and Ancash followed. Then stopped.
Inside Harrods life was at pause.
In a numb gray twilight salesgirls floated like survivors of a wreck. There were no
customers. The aisles smelled of tea.
Deep in the display cases a few chill objects lay stranded on dusty sateen.
Lumps of English air exhaled
from biscuit tins and moved aimlessly about the room causing sudden faded spots.
One very brightly lit case held
clocks and watches all furiously ticking, all registering quarter past six.
Geryon saw a head moving
up the escalator. Come on, he said to Ancash. He always knows where to find
the bathrooms. Ancash nodded.
At the top of the escalator they made their way around a pyramid of jellied tongue
and rubber boots and there was Herakles
on the other side of the store waving wildly. Show you something! Over here!
They would discuss for days after
what they had seen against the back wall of the second floor of Harrods.
Except for tongue and boots
the second floor is virtually deserted. But hovering in shadow this presence:
a circus carousel with six full-sized
The lion and the white pony are still
upright and foaming forward. The zebra, elephant, tiger, and black bear lie
toppled from harness, gazing skyward.
It’s a nursery, said Herakles. It’s the etymology of Argentina, said Ancash.
Geryon was kneeling down beside the zebra.
Want to try stealing the tiger? Looks like it’s loose, said Herakles.
No one answered.
Ancash was watching Geryon. He knelt down too. Geryon was memorizing
the zebra so he could make
a photograph later. “Time Lapse.” He touched his fingertips to the silk
of the eyelashes each one set
individually into its wooden sprocket in the painted eyelid above a burning eye.
Made in Germany I bet, said Ancash,
look at the workmanship.
Geryon turned to Ancash as if remembering who he was. Can I photograph you later?
Geryon said.
Just then a tiny refracted Herakles appeared in the staring glass of the eyeball.
Standing above them Herakles said,
Ancash I want to take the tiger to your mother. Especially if we’ll be there
for her birthday—
perfect gift! What’s the word for tiger in Quechua? You told me once but I forgot.
Tezca, said Ancash getting to his feet.
Tezca that’s it Tezca the tiger god. But he has another name doesn’t he?
Many names—
Herakles what are you doing? Herakles was hoisting the tiger from the floor.
With a pocketknife he began cutting
at the thick leather reins which still bound the tiger to its circus habits.
Okay Herakles suppose we do
get it out of Harrods—Ancash spoke reasonably—what about the airport?
Does it strike you
Aeroperu may object to a life-sized wooden circus animal boarding their plane?
Don’t be irreverent, Herakles panted,
he’s not a wooden circus animal he’s Tezca the tiger god. He can go on as baggage.
Baggage?
We’ll wrap him in a gun bag lots of people take guns to Peru.
Ancash sat down on the edge of the carousel
resting his arms on his knees. Ancash watched Herakles.
Geryon watched Ancash.
He was in an inward fury—So they’re off to Peru leaving me here without
a backward glance—when a dull clank
came down on a shuddering sound. Harrods went dark. Geryon heard
a low voice say, He always knows where to find the fusebox.
Alarms went off all over the store and Herakles ran up and then the three of them
were hoisting the tiger onto his shoulders
and heading for the escalator. Vamos hombres! yelled Herakles. And so
they went to Peru.
XXXV. GLADYS
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Not only was he very hungry but much more humiliating—
————
12,000 meters above the mountains that divide Argentina from Chile
with their long white gouges tracing
the red sandstone like a meringue pie—Geryon felt himself becoming aroused.
He was sitting in between Herakles and Ancash.
The plane was cold and they had an Aeroperu blanket thrown over
the three of them. Geryon was trying to read.
He had not realized until he found himself stranded in it high above the Andes
halfway to Lima that the novel he’d bought
in the Buenos Aires airport was pornographic. It made him furious with himself