“Listen to this,” she said. “It’s about bullfighting, about a matador named Pedro Romero, who is fighting a bull to impress a woman.” She spent a moment finding the right page, then read aloud, enunciating carefully.
“ ‘Never once did he look up. He made it stronger that way, and did it for himself, too, as well as for her. Because he did not look up to ask if it pleased he did it all for himself inside, and it strengthened him, and yet he did it for her, too. But he did not do it for her at any loss to himself. He gained by it all through the afternoon.’ ”
She finished and looked hard at Meloux, in a way that made him uncomfortable. “He is killing the bull for her. For himself, too, yes, but it is also for her. Does that make sense?”
Henry tried to think about it, but his brain was too full. Full of the young woman—her smell that was clean and flowerlike, her eyes that were like black bullets, the bones that fiercely shaped her face, the notes that made her voice sing. Her nearness, too, their knees almost touching.
“It’s by a man named Ernest Hemingway,” she went on. “Have you heard of him?”
Henry hadn’t. But he wished he had.
“What I wonder is, do men really believe that that kind of brutality is impressive to a woman?”
Henry stared at her, feeling dumb as a cow.
“It takes place in Spain and in Paris, a city in France. I was there last summer. It’s a fine place, but...” She stopped and her eyes went to the window at the front of the plane. “I like it here much better. I think what people build can be very beautiful, but what God builds goes beyond beauty. You stand outside Notre Dame, say, and you marvel at the accomplishment, but you can’t really connect. It’s artificial, do you see? It’s only a representation of something. Spirit, holiness, maybe even God. But it’s not the thing itself. Out here, it’s all there before you, around you. You’re steeped in it, the real thing. Spirit. Holiness. God.”
She was Lima’s daughter. Henry could see traces of the father in her—the slight shadow of the skin, the black hair, the slender nose— but Henry thought her mother must have been terribly beautiful. She didn’t speak like Lima. There wasn’t the odd roll to her language. She sounded little different from the whites Henry had known all his life. He wondered about that.
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “Sometimes I go on and on. You’re tired, I’m sure. You probably want to sleep.”
Henry wasn’t tired, and he liked hearing her talk. But he felt tense and awkward and had a pressing need to escape for a while.
“Yes, I am tired,” he said. He closed his eyes.
He did, in fact, sleep. He woke as he heard the engine throttled back and felt the plane descending. They landed on a lake surrounded by forest, and Wellington guided the plane to shore, where a small cabin and dock had been built. The men got out, then Maria and Henry. A scruffy man who looked Indian in his features greeted Wellington, and they talked briefly, then set about refueling the plane from a metal barrel. Maria spoke to her father, who pointed toward an outhouse near the cabin. Henry walked into the woods and relieved himself. In a few minutes, they were in the air again.
It was late afternoon by the time they finally glided to rest on the shore of an immense lake contained on three sides by steep ridges. They unloaded the equipment and set up their tents. There was one for each of them. Lima and Wellington set up their own tents, located next to each other. Henry put up Maria’s. She asked for it to he as far from her father as possible because she said he snored terribly. Henry erected his own tent a bit away from the others. By the time he’d finished, the treetops had punctured the sun, and it was sinking fast. Henry canvassed the area for wood and quickly built a fire. Wellington opened a big tin of soup from the supplies that Lima had brought and heated it directly on the coals. Shortly after dark they all crawled into their tents.
Henry lay awake that night, and though he was in the middle of a vast Canadian wilderness, the sounds he heard were as familiar to him as his own breathing. The chirr of crickets and tree frogs. The creak of branches stirred by the wind. The lap of the lake against the shoreline. The smell was like home, evergreen pitch and clean water. But he was as far from home as he’d ever been, and he felt it. This was not like the government boarding school where the trees were spare and the land was flat and cultivated and smelled of manure. This was a different distance. He had the sense that he’d embarked on a long journey, without any idea of his destination.
TWENTY-FIVE
At first there was routine to the days.
After breakfast, Wellington and Lima took off with their packs full of instruments. Sometimes they used the collapsible boat they’d brought in the plane, which they called a Folbot; sometimes they struck out on foot. Always they headed toward the ridges. Usually they were gone until late afternoon, often until almost dark.
Henry’s principal job was to feed the expedition and see to the safety of the camp—and Maria. Henry didn’t wonder that Lima trusted him to be alone with his daughter. He understood clearly that Lima thought of him as little better than a stock animal—a horse or an ox, say—something to be worked hard, put up for the night, and forgotten. That his daughter might look at Henry in a different way probably never occurred to Lima. That was fine with Henry. On the plane he’d been intrigued by the young woman. When he discovered that she was his responsibility, he was no happier with the arrangement than she. Lima forbade her leaving camp unless Henry accompanied her. And Henry was forbidden to leave her alone. He was eager to explore the area and to hunt game, but when she walked in the forest, Maria made more racket than a wounded moose. Henry hated taking her with him. For several days he confined himself to camp. He dug three pit toilets—one for the white men, one for Maria, and one for himself—and constructed rudimentary seating for each using a sturdy section of limb lashed to supporting Y branches. He built a shelter suitable to eat under when it rained. Much of the rest of his time was passed fishing for walleye and trout from the lake. Maria spent the bulk of her time reading or writing in her journal and looking bored or unhappy.
“I’m sick of fish,” she declared on the fourth day, after her father and Wellington had left. “And I’m sick of sitting.” She squatted on a flat rock, half hidden by leatherleaf, at the edge of the water, and she looked across the lake at the tallest ridge. “I’m hiking up there today.”
“There are wolves,” Henry said.
It was true. He’d heard the howl of a pack at night. Mostly, though, he said it to scare her.
“Wolves don’t hunt in the day. And they won’t attack unless they believe you’re sick or infirm.”
“You read that in one of your books?”
“As a matter of fact.”
Henry had his hands in a bucket full of leeches he’d collected for fishing. “If they’re hungry, wolves will attack a bull moose in broad daylight. They’ll tear it apart.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Henry shrugged.
“I’m going.” She put down the book she’d been reading and stood up.
“I’m not ready to go,” he said.
“I don’t care.” She stomped off, following the shoreline.
Henry sighed and waited. When she was out of sight, he took up his rifle and followed, keeping himself hidden.
Henry expected her to tire quickly, but he was surprised by her endurance. The lake snaked for more than two miles to the west and Maria followed the shoreline at a steady pace. She stopped several times to drink from small streams and once to relieve herself. Henry looked away. By noon she’d reached the base of the ridge. She paused for a while, taking the measure of the height and looking, Henry supposed, for the best route up. Finally she began her ascent.
Henry gave her a little head start, then slung his rifle over his shoulder and started up himself. He stayed a couple of hundred yards west of her and downslope, keeping to the scrub jack pines and black spruce whose roots dug tenaciously into the cracks in the rock. The
bare stone often had a thin skin of slippery green-gold lichen, making the climb more treacherous. The crest of the ridge was a good three hundred feet above the lake. Maria clambered up quickly and steadily. Between his own climbing and his tracking of Maria, Henry had his hands full.
In twenty minutes, Henry neared the top. Maria wasn’t far below and he pushed hard to be there ahead of her. He positioned himself in a copse of aspen whose leaves in that early autumn were gold as new doubloons. Maria stood on a jut of gray rock, smiling in the sunshine, looking at the scene below her. The ridges that cupped the lake lay at the meeting of two topographies. South, the land was folded in a series of rugged hills; north, the forest ran flat all the way to the horizon. The deep ravines of the hills were lined with ragged outcrops that erupted from the earth like fractured bone through flesh. It reminded Henry of Noopiming, the woods that Woodrow had taught him to love.
Maybe it was the beauty of the scene and the way it lightened his heart, or maybe it was because he saw that Maria had been moved by it, too; whatever the reason, he found himself walking toward her, purposely making just enough noise that she would hear. She turned and did not look happy.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“What I’m paid to do.”
“You followed me. I should have known.”
He wanted to say something to her, something soothing, but the words wouldn’t come. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I’ll wait below.” He turned away.
“No,” she said to his back. Then more gently, “Stay.”
They stood together, for a long time silent, drinking in the magnificence of what lay before them.
“Why don’t you want me with you when you go into the woods?” Maria asked.
“You make too much noise. You scare the game.”
“I don’t mean to. You could teach me how to be quiet. I learn quickly.”
He liked the sound of her voice. It reminded him of water pushed by wind.
“Why did you come?” he asked.
Instead of answering she said, “Do you have family?”
“My parents are gone. Two sisters are in school in Wisconsin.”
“I’ve heard my father and Leonard talk about someone named Woodrow.”
“My uncle. He is gone, too.”
She nodded, and her eyes rested on the deep green that reached to the horizon. “My mother died when I was a little girl. Since then I’ve lived in boarding schools, mostly in the States.”
“I know about boarding schools,” Henry said.
“Nuns.” Maria made a sour face, and Henry laughed. “You don’t do that much,” she told him.
“What?”
“Laugh.”
He thought about it. Woodrow could make him laugh. Since his uncle had passed away, Henry hadn’t felt like laughing.
She sat down on the rock and hugged her knees. Henry sat down and laid his rifle on the ground.
She said, “They’re hunting gold, you know.”
“I know.”
“Leonard is a geologist. He knows where to look, but he doesn’t have the money to prospect. My father foots the bill. They met in a casino in Havana. My father was probably throwing away money, as usual. He loves to gamble. I’m sure that’s part of the attraction of looking for gold. They’ve found it twice already. First in Australia, but it turned out not to be a very rich strike. Then again in South America, but they lost that claim somehow. They won’t talk about it. Anyway, I thought maybe if I came with him this time, it might be a chance to get to know him.”
Henry didn’t like her father and couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to know him better. Family made a difference, he supposed.
“I should be in college, a place called Bennington. It’s in Vermont. My second year there. But I have no interest in it. Not right now.”
“What now?” Henry heard himself asking.
She smiled and it made him burn with happiness. She opened her arms. “This. Something that’s not Paris or New York or Havana. Something ... transcendent.”
Henry didn’t know what the word meant, hut her voice told him and he understood.
Her face glistened with a sheen of sweat from the hike and the climb. Henry’s body was damp, too. The wind pushed over the ridge and fanned him cool. Maria’s hair rippled like black water, and she closed her eyes.
“Would you like to hunt with me?” Henry asked.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen an animal killed?”
“In Cuba once. I watched a pig slaughtered for roast.”
“To your eyes it might not be pretty.”
“I can take it. What will you hunt?”
“We passed through a meadow on our way here. I saw rabbit droppings.”
She stood eagerly. “Hasenpfeffer for dinner?”
Henry looked up at her dumbly.
“Fancy roast rabbit,” she said.
“I don’t know about fancy.” He smiled and rose beside her.
They returned to camp in the early afternoon with a fat, dead snowshoe rabbit in hand. Its coat was dark brown. Henry had explained to Maria that in winter, the fur would turn soft white to match the snow. He set about the skinning and cleaning and quartering, and Maria did not turn away. When he’d finished, he made a fire, settled a pot of water at the edge, and put the cut-up rabbit in to stew.
Maria said, “I’m going for a swim. Come with me?”
Henry laughed, thinking she was joking. The nights were cold and the lake would be like ice.
“All right then.” She disappeared into her tent and came out a few minutes later dressed in shorts and a man’s white undershirt. Her feet were bare, and Henry saw that her toes were painted red. “Last chance,” she said.
Henry shook his head. “You’ll be out fast enough.”
“Think so?”
She dashed toward the lake and dove in. She disappeared for a long time. Henry left the fire and ran to the rocky shore. He was about to go in after her when she burst through the surface and began stroking evenly away. He watched her, admiring how smoothly she moved through the water, leaving a wake like a comet’s tail.
Henry went back to the fire and cut onions and carrots and potatoes to add to the stew. All the while he kept an eye on Maria. She stayed a long time in water Henry knew would make his own muscles cramp.
Finally she returned to shore and climbed from the lake. Strands of her black hair clung to her cheeks. Beneath the thin wet cotton of her undershirt her skin was visible and pink. The dark areolas of her breasts were like eyes behind a veil.
Henry looked away, but not before she caught him looking and not before she smiled.
TWENTY-SIX
Henry couldn’t sleep. He lay in his tent staring up at canvas that was drenched in silver moonlight. It wasn’t the canvas he was seeing. It was Maria, stepping soft and pink from the lake. He didn’t understand what was happening to him or the way he felt. Strong, but also very weak. Full of fire and at the same time ice. Hard in every muscle but yielding deep inside. He’d never felt anything like this, not even during his brief courtship of Dilsey.
He threw back his blanket and stepped into the night. The ground was cool against his bare soles. The four tents had been arranged in a semicircle around the campfire. He crossed to Maria’s tent, his shadow crawling up the canvas. He longed to see her, even a glimpse, and he considered pulling her tent flap aside just for a moment.
But he was afraid.
Instead, he walked to the lake. The water was silver fire. The ridges on the far side stood gray and ghostly against the black southern sky. Henry glanced back at the camp, then quietly undressed. He stepped into the lake. The cold hammered his legs, but he pushed on, farther and deeper. He wanted the icy water to kill the fire that wouldn’t stop burning in him. He let out his breath and sank toward a place where the moonlight didn’t reach.
He felt a disturbance of the water and came up quickly. He looked toward shore and saw her slend
er figure slipping into the lake. He wasn’t certain, but he thought she was naked. She swam toward him, her face a pale, beautiful bubble. Henry stared at her, too amazed to speak. He felt the loop of her arms around him and the press of her warm body. She kissed him, her lips the softest touch he’d ever known.
“You’re freezing,” she said. “Come with me.”
Out of the water and in the moonlight, her naked skin was jeweled with shining droplets that rolled down the line of her spine, along the curve of her buttocks, and fell from her like pearls off a broken string. She stooped and gathered her clothing and his and led him to her tent. She drew aside the flap and slipped inside. Henry hesitated. Her hand appeared, beckoning him in. He followed.
Her sleeping bag was open. She lay on it in the silver-green light of the moonlit canvas. She reached out and took his hand and drew him down to her.
“Let me warm you,” she murmured.
She rolled on top of him, blanketing him with her own body, her breasts against his chest, her thighs cupping his. She kissed him again, and he grew hard and kissed her back. Her lips broke away and drifted across his cheek, his neck, his chest.
“Maria,” he whispered, desperate and grateful.
She put her finger to his mouth. “Shhhh. No noise.”
She pushed herself up to straddle him and looked deeply into his eyes. Her own eyes were full of silver-green fire. She moved ever so slightly, and he was surprised and amazed to find himself inside her, a place warmer and more welcoming than he’d ever imagined. He grasped her hips and tried to push deeper, but she laid a hand on his chest and shook her head.
She leaned to his ear and whispered, “Let me.” She kissed him for a long time.
The first time was over quickly, and Henry wasn’t sure if he’d done things right. He’d been divided, worrying about what he was doing with Maria and worrying about whether the white men would hear. But Maria smiled and snuggled into his arms and whispered he was wonderful, and like magic he was ready again. This time he did not worry about the white men.