Dreams of Bread and Fire (5 page)

He paused before answering. “I’m in love.” There was not a trace of guilt in his voice.

“You asshole.” Ani slammed down the phone. Her face bunched up as she squeezed back the tears. I will not, I will not, I will not cry.

She crawled back to her room and let the heavy air plaster her to the bed. She couldn’t lift her arm to turn on the lamp after dusk fell. When she woke in the middle of the night, rain was drumming on the skylight windows. There was no radio in her room, no television, no telephone, just the ticking of the wind-up alarm clock and the desolate rain. She moved to the couch, wrapping herself in a blanket. She opened a novel but read the same page six times without understanding it. She stretched out on the couch and stared up at the ceiling.

When the alarm went off, Ani dragged herself to the shower, too tired to care about the puddles she left on the tile floor. In the mirror her eyes were hollow and there were purple smudges beneath them. At least she didn’t have to face the Bartons this morning. She had told Tacey she needed the morning off to go to the police prefecture for her
carte de séjour.

She rushed to meet Michael at a café on the rue de Rivoli at 7
A.M.
He was living in the same district and needed to get his permit from the police as well. As she silently sipped her tisane across the table from him, Ani was grateful for the company and for the fact that she didn’t know Michael well enough to have to tell him anything. She watched him stir sugar into his espresso with a tiny spoon.

By the time they reached the police station there were about fifteen people ahead of them, and the line snaked longer behind as the minutes passed. Ani pushed up the collar on her coat against the cold and shifted from leg to leg. Michael turned his body, standing in front of her to block the wind. Finally at 9
A.M.
the doors opened and they filed inside.

A man from the Ivory Coast, who was just ahead of Ani in line, was subjected to long hostile questioning. From a distance of six paces, Ani couldn’t quite make out the words, but the pantomime of the white officer’s disdain and the black man’s attempt to maintain his dignity brought a taste of bile to the back of Ani’s throat.

I considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold the tears of
such as were
oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors
there was
power; but they had no comforter.

Ecclesiastes. That was the Preacher for you. Worrying about comforting the oppressor as well.

The cop glanced at Ani’s student identification card, flipped through her passport, and waved her away. He followed the same procedure with Michael.

Ani returned to her room, put on a flannel nightgown, and climbed into bed. She pitched across an ocean of dreams and woke up a few hours later with a throbbing headache. She stared vacantly through the skylight at a rectangle of blue with strolling fleece. Then it became a blank screen onto which she projected scenes from the past.

In Yosemite the cold skies were blue. Asa had paid for Ani to fly out and meet him for Thanksgiving one term when they were both on leave from school. They had hiked the Mist Trail toward Vernal Fall. Asa climbed steadily up the stairs ahead of Ani, and she panted behind him like an asthmatic mountain goat. They passed several other hikers, but that late in the season the park had few visitors. After the first hour Ani silently cursed with every footfall. Onion head, she thought, taking a line from Baba’s book, the donkey is following the ass yet again.

The next day in Tuolumne Meadows after a breakfast of trail mix, rye bread, and reconstituted dehydrated eggs, Asa suggested they try some peyote.

What is peyote? Ani asked.

Holding out some dried, furry things the color of thistles gone to seed, Asa said, Native American shamans used these in their rituals. They can bring on fantastic visions.

Ani watched him doubtfully as he wedged a bud between two apricots and handed it to her.

She spat the first mouthful on the ground. It tasted vile.

Don’t waste good shit, Ani. Do you know how much I paid for these?

I don’t care how much you paid for them. I’ll vomit if I eat that.

Sure, everybody throws up. Then you get the high.

Forget it, Asa, she stated.

Not to be dissuaded, he brewed some peyote tea and added honey.

It will go down easy like this, he assured her.

Ani choked down a quarter cup and then he drained the rest.

Now what happens? Ani asked.

Let’s hike up that ridge. Looks like we’d get a great view from there.

Twenty minutes later they sat on an outcropping of stone with their legs dangling over the side. Most of the trees were bare except for some distant pines. The moss on the rocks around them gave off a pulsing light.

Do you see that? Ani asked.

What?

The light coming out of the moss. It’s neon.

He crowed with delight. You’re tripping, little girl.

His laugh unnerved her. Also being called little girl. She saw two small horns sprout from his sandy head, and there was an unsettling glint in his eyes.

Asa lay on his back, saying dreamily, I can feel the life spirit surging through the trees and rocks. If God is anywhere He’s here in the mountains, the trees, and the earth on this very spot. I’m glad you’re here with me, Ani, to share this.

An emerald lizard lashed its tail in Ani’s skull. The night before, he had confessed to her that he slept with several women while on the valley floor before Ani had arrived. There should be a punishment for that kind of betrayal. She scrambled on top of Asa and sat on his stomach, pinning his hands to the rock.

With her face six inches from his, she asked, Asa Willard, will you marry me?

Fear flickered through his blue-faceted eyes, and she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. The devil had taken her to the high mountains and tempted her with power. Ani realized that if Asa jumped up suddenly she might fall from the ledge. She laughed and climbed off him.

He sat up, rubbing his forehead. Ani, you shouldn’t fuck with me like that when we’re tripping. It’s dangerous.

Sorry, Ani said.

He talked slowly. You know sometimes I love you . . . but sometimes . . . I’m not sure if I’m in love with you.

What’s the difference? she asked, sensing a kind of sophistry.

He explained. Being in love means projecting yourself into the future with that person—you know, marriage and kids and the whole thing.

The lizard flicked its small split tongue.

Ani said, Don’t worry, Asa Willard. I wouldn’t marry you. You’ve done so many drugs our children would be mutants.

Ani observed with interest as his face flooded with hurt.

Asa asked, How can you say that? Don’t you take our relationship seriously? Someday I want to marry you. I’m in love with you, Ani.

“I’m in love with you, Ani,” she mimicked out loud in her Paris garret. “What a lame-brained weasel he is,” she said to no one. He played her like a yo-yo on a string. But who gave him the string?

After Asa had graduated from college he went to India. Ani was in New Hampshire, holed up in a senior fellowship office with her books while Asa was trekking in Nepal and Kashmir. Before he left he told her they should leave things open, not make any promises. He suggested that she should expand her sexual horizons. She suspected his motive was to keep himself free to fuck any woman that came across his path. But, as with all his recommendations—read the books on his top-ten list, learn to do a pull-up, lose a few pounds, and try this or that drug—she had taken this one on as well.

During the third week of the term, there was a knock on Ani’s office door in the library. She assumed it was her friend Elena but opened to find a tall thin guy in a blue work shirt and loose jeans. A shock of straight black hair covered his forehead.

Sorry to disturb you. Do you by any chance have a pencil sharpener in there? he asked.

No, Ani said, but there’s one on the windowsill in the main room.

Thanks. He ducked his head as he retreated.

Two minutes later there was another knock.

Didn’t introduce myself, he said, extending his hand. I’m Will Jeffers. My office is next door.

She shook his hand. Ani Silver.

What’s your project? he asked.

Feminist literary theory, she said.

So you’re a feminist?

She smiled. At least in theory.

What does that mean?

There’s an old saying:
Between talking and doing there are mountains and valleys.
What are you working on?

I’m writing a manuscript of poems.

What kind? Ani asked.

You know contemporary poetry?

Some.

New York School kind of stuff.

Ashbery?

Chattier, more narrative. Along the lines of O’Hara with the Snyder nature thing thrown in.

A few minutes later, Ani and Will were standing in line in the snack bar sliding plastic trays along the silver counter. Ani had taken a yogurt and a fruit salad. She was on a diet. When they got to the register Will drew a wad of crumpled ones from his pocket. He handed them to the cashier, who smoothed and counted them. The cashier told him he was sixty-five cents short. After he rummaged in his pockets, producing only another quarter, Ani gave him a dollar.

Where are you from? Ani asked.

He pushed his hair off his forehead. Connecticut. Stuffy suburb with more country clubs than grocery stores. My family owns a greeting card company. American Cornucopia. Heard of it?

Ani liked the warmth of his smile. She asked, Cards with nature scenes on them and poems that don’t rhyme?

That’s right. Hallmark cards have end rhymes and ours don’t. My dad employs a freelance staff of starving poets. I started writing ditties when I was nine.

Precocious kid, Ani said.

When I began to read real poetry, I felt sick about the crap on those cards. Haven’t had a thing to do with the company since I was fifteen.

Does it influence your writing?

It’s like this, he said. When I finish a poem I ask myself, Could this be an American Cornucopia greeting? If I answer, Not in a million years, I’m happy.

As they walked back to the library, Ani noticed a dull coin embedded in the dirt. She bent to pick it up.

What’s that? Will asked.

A penny, Ani answered.

Lucky penny?

Ani explained. Picking it up might not bring you luck, but not picking it up will definitely give you
bad
luck.

Will laughed. Where did you get that idea?

My Old World grandmother. She believes in omens and curses. When I was nine she caught me and a friend playing with a Ouija board and almost had a heart attack. She told me that Satan was the power that moved the indicator. She said she knew a girl in the old country who was possessed by demons and threw herself into the ocean. She didn’t want me to end up like that.

Demons, huh?

Ani shrugged. There’s a lot of magical thinking in our house. When I was little I believed that Satan was hiding in the sheets at the foot of my bed and my guardian angel slept behind the headboard.

Will said, I thought my shoes turned into crocodiles in the dark. Just the usual.

Ani and Will closed themselves into their separate offices. Ani had just settled into her chair when there was a quiet knock.

Sorry to bother you again. Will hesitated. I have a question.

Yeah? Ani asked.

Are you engaged in some type of serious situation, or could we go out on an ostensible date this Saturday night?

Ani paused. There is a boyfriend, but at the moment he’s in India. We’ve left things open. What about you?

I’ve been seeing someone for three weeks, but I like you better.

What if you meet someone you like better than me three weeks from now?

He grinned. Not likely.

The next day as Ani was crossing the campus she heard someone calling her name. From the backseat of an aging station wagon taxi Will beckoned, then opened the door.

Hop in, he said.

Where are we going? Ani asked, as the car pulled into traffic.

Where are you taking us, Eugene? Will questioned the heavy-set, balding driver as they moved down the hill toward the Connecticut River.

Well, Eugene answered deliberately, see, it’s like this. I thought we’d go by my son Dell’s farm. Take a look-see at the cows. I know you like those cows, William. They are very poetical. Then my wife Wanda will be giving us some tea and Vanilla Wafers, if that suits you and your lady friend there.

Sounds good, Eugene. Sounds very good, Will replied.

This one’s better looking than the one you brought last time, William, I can tell you that, Eugene said, winking at Ani in the rearview mirror. What’s her name?