coming here plenty and I never yet see nobody in that hut.” They drove on, the man shouting back, “Doh ’fraid, follow us, we going for a swim.”
And so we drove on and the field ended. Suddenly the forest was right up against us. Dark trees met the road now. Out of the blue, Zain asked, “What about Jonathan? Are you in touch with him?”
“Jonathan?” I asked, surprised.
“The little boy—well, he’d be a young man now, I suppose—the child you were bringing up with that English woman. Was her name India?”
“She and I haven’t spoken in some years,” I said. “India did not want him and me to have contact.”
“Yes, you told me that in one of your letters long ago. But that is still so? It must be so hard on you. But he’s no longer a child, so what does it matter now?”
She was, of course, right. I shrugged and said with finality, “I guess it’s complicated.”
She let the matter rest and we carried forward in silence, but an unease washed over me; I felt suddenly ungainly, my body ill-formed. As if she sensed this, Zain put her hand out and rubbed my knee.
Thankfully, the road soon ended and we were at a parking area. A few men, women and children milled about. Before us, beyond the paved area, was the perpendicular rise of the mountain. Stepping out of the car, I looked up to see the mountain’s top and almost lost my balance. The face of the mountain, I saw, was embroidered with an infinite variety of textured shapes and shades of dark green vegetal tentacles waving out from the face of the wall, linked together by nets of wild philodendron vines. It was frightening, to be so suddenly and unexpectedly halted by the forest of the Northern Range, and this added to the sense of danger I felt about Zain and me, two women from “nice” families, being out here on our own, so late in theevening. On the other side of the parking lot, through a row of cedar trees, was a narrow view to the sea. The light on the open water was startling. It was still bright light—daylight—out there.
We found a stairway and made our way down—Zain in her low heels, and I in my runners, feeling as usual like some deformed-yet-loved thing in her presence. People were hurrying past us. “Come on,” she said, picking up speed, skipping down the steep stairs. We arrived at a bay where small waves formed tightly and then broke. The man and the woman who had spoken to us from their car were already standing in the water, the woman in a dress, the skirt of which she had tightly gathered around and knotted in front of her, the man in navy blue pants that reached his knees, the hem of the pants wet from the leaping water.
We stood close enough that the man called out, “You make it in time to see the sun.”
Zain answered back in her usual quick fashion, “Yes, you know how to give directions.”
His wife had been grinning, but at Zain’s retort her lips tightened.
The man said, “Well, it was a straight road, no turn-offs, you can’t get lost even if you tried.”
Zain answered, “You know how long I trying to get lost, and I just can’t get lost? Is a good while I trying, man.”
The woman turned away, and the man, his smile forced now, looked quizzically at Zain. He glanced at me, he looked back at Zain, and then turned his back to us.
Out ahead, Peninsula de Paria, a flirtatious finger of neighbouring Venezuela, pointed directly at beautiful Macqueripe Bay, sprawled across much of the horizon save for a slip into which the sun would soon drop on an open horizon line. Several people had cameras at the ready. Neither Zain nor I had carried a camera. No photographs of us together, come to think of it, had ever been taken. She and I stood side by side watching. We didn’t speak. As Zain gazed out at the horizon, I wondered what the moment meant to her. It occurred to me that I could think of it as magical, and make a promise, a wish, a commitment, but I turned instead to watch a woman and two
And so we drove on and the field ended. Suddenly the forest was right up against us. Dark trees met the road now. Out of the blue, Zain asked, “What about Jonathan? Are you in touch with him?”
“Jonathan?” I asked, surprised.
“The little boy—well, he’d be a young man now, I suppose—the child you were bringing up with that English woman. Was her name India?”
“She and I haven’t spoken in some years,” I said. “India did not want him and me to have contact.”
“Yes, you told me that in one of your letters long ago. But that is still so? It must be so hard on you. But he’s no longer a child, so what does it matter now?”
She was, of course, right. I shrugged and said with finality, “I guess it’s complicated.”
She let the matter rest and we carried forward in silence, but an unease washed over me; I felt suddenly ungainly, my body ill-formed. As if she sensed this, Zain put her hand out and rubbed my knee.
Thankfully, the road soon ended and we were at a parking area. A few men, women and children milled about. Before us, beyond the paved area, was the perpendicular rise of the mountain. Stepping out of the car, I looked up to see the mountain’s top and almost lost my balance. The face of the mountain, I saw, was embroidered with an infinite variety of textured shapes and shades of dark green vegetal tentacles waving out from the face of the wall, linked together by nets of wild philodendron vines. It was frightening, to be so suddenly and unexpectedly halted by the forest of the Northern Range, and this added to the sense of danger I felt about Zain and me, two women from “nice” families, being out here on our own, so late in theevening. On the other side of the parking lot, through a row of cedar trees, was a narrow view to the sea. The light on the open water was startling. It was still bright light—daylight—out there.
We found a stairway and made our way down—Zain in her low heels, and I in my runners, feeling as usual like some deformed-yet-loved thing in her presence. People were hurrying past us. “Come on,” she said, picking up speed, skipping down the steep stairs. We arrived at a bay where small waves formed tightly and then broke. The man and the woman who had spoken to us from their car were already standing in the water, the woman in a dress, the skirt of which she had tightly gathered around and knotted in front of her, the man in navy blue pants that reached his knees, the hem of the pants wet from the leaping water.
We stood close enough that the man called out, “You make it in time to see the sun.”
Zain answered back in her usual quick fashion, “Yes, you know how to give directions.”
His wife had been grinning, but at Zain’s retort her lips tightened.
The man said, “Well, it was a straight road, no turn-offs, you can’t get lost even if you tried.”
Zain answered, “You know how long I trying to get lost, and I just can’t get lost? Is a good while I trying, man.”
The woman turned away, and the man, his smile forced now, looked quizzically at Zain. He glanced at me, he looked back at Zain, and then turned his back to us.
Out ahead, Peninsula de Paria, a flirtatious finger of neighbouring Venezuela, pointed directly at beautiful Macqueripe Bay, sprawled across much of the horizon save for a slip into which the sun would soon drop on an open horizon line. Several people had cameras at the ready. Neither Zain nor I had carried a camera. No photographs of us together, come to think of it, had ever been taken. She and I stood side by side watching. We didn’t speak. As Zain gazed out at the horizon, I wondered what the moment meant to her. It occurred to me that I could think of it as magical, and make a promise, a wish, a commitment, but I turned instead to watch a woman and two
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