What Had Become of Us by Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer Page B

rot, knowing that the other would compensate. We ate together every night — we called these meals homemade primitives — stews or omelettes, spaghetti. Once we dumped osso bucco unceremoniously on the table, no plates or cutlery, salad scattered in the centre. We ate like that to alleviate the banality of life and because it made us laugh. We drank plonk directly out of the bottle and laughed and laughed.
    Erwin’s death precipitated a personality gap in Pieter, of course, a void which initially filled with sorrow. I believe that death became a strange life force in our relationship. The actions of our daily lives were a direct result of our sadness; we were affected, I say touched, by that ghost of loss.
    He’s not coming back, I said.
    I don’t expect it, either.
    But you wish.
    He said, There is a crooner song Erwin and I used to sing — I piss like before in the sink/ I sleep with my clothes on/ what a lousy life.
    So, you don’t even wish it.
    It’s like this, I think, he said as he sat down on a fallen tree trunk, which bounced like a park toy. I don’t expect it, and I don’t wish it. It’s over. But still a part of me looks over my shoulder and recognizes him in other people, as if he has scattered — little atoms and molecules seeking a place in this stranger’s hair colour, that one’s glint of the eye. He has become a series of lost pieces.
    I took a swig from Pieter’s thermos. It was not coffee. The wine was bitter at first, its sweetness hidden within this cold unhappiness. I took comfort in Pieter, in his body — his handsome face which was vaguely flattened out, his high cheekbones; he was older in appearance than in reality. The muscles in his back extended up into his convex neck, giving his head a look of stability. His hair was golden in the diffused Flemish light. His lips had a curving sensuality. Weather had given his forehead a furrow of concern; he had an elegant body curving into natural muscles, his penis a fascinating exclamation mark.
    He had been working the forests across Belgium for more than ten years. We sat quietly there on the lopped branch for some time beside a line of Stihl chainsaws, a can of oil, a can of gasoline. I wondered about it, about the atomic dispersal of Erwin. The arc of Pieter’s penis, had it changed, shifted from left to right, lightened slightly in hue? There were still parts of his body unexplored. I made a mental note to slow down, take my time about it. A waft of gasoline blew past on the wind, sweet.
    When’s the crane supposed to be here?
    By noon.
    Do you have a plan?
    It’s going to be a day from hell, I can tell you.
    As far as the eye could see, not a tree was left standing. The wreckage hung limp from upturned root systems or snapped right off. The jagged, splintered wood was a pale, sap-shiny yellow. I climbed down into a crater, the negative space where the roots of a tree had been. The earth beneath was muddy. I lifted my boots, pumped the squelching mess and enjoyed the sensation of suction resistance.
    If you cut off the stem now, I’ll be buried alive.
    Come out.
    Come in and see what it feels like.
    No, Adriana.
    I looked up into the gnarled mess of roots and earth. Larvae wriggled back in. Little shards of coloured glass, old detritus reflected the sun back at me.
    Hey, look at this.
    It’s an old landfill, a dump, that’s all.
    Look, there’s a road for little creatures here, along the roots and between them, coming up along the surface.
    What do you see in these worms? Anything hopeful?
    What could be more hopeful than death and decay? Do me a favour and cut off that damn stem. I won’t feel a thing.
    Pieter said, I have work to do.
    The trees had swayed in the autumn breeze just one week before. The leaves had just begun to react to the lessening light, to turn yellow and brown and to fall. Small animals had hoarded food here. Children had played in this