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A rotten thought passes through my mind as I see where this is leading, and I know that my thought is far rottener than his. It is something I learned from a strange old woman I once worked with who did not look like an old woman.
I finish my tea and raise my eyes. He is smiling.
“I will make us some more tea,” I say.
I see that the top button of my shirt comes undone while I am bent partly away from him. Then I lean forward with his cup and take a deep breath.
“You would consider not reporting me to the authorities?”
“I might,” he says. “I think your story is probably true. And even if it is not, you would not take the risk of transporting anything now that I know about you.”
“I really want to finish this trip,” I say, blinking a few extra times. “I would do anything not to be sent back now.”
He takes hold of my hand.
“I am glad you said that, Maryushka,” he replies. “I am lonely, and you are still a fine-looking woman.”
“You think so?”
“I always thought so, even that day you bashed in my teeth.”
“Sorry about that. It was strictly business, you know.”
His hand moves to my shoulder.
“Of course. They looked better when they were fixed than they had before, anyway.”
He moves over and sits beside me.
“I have dreamed of doing this many times,” he tells me, as he unfastens the rest of the buttons on my shirt and unbuckles my belt.
He rubs my belly softly. It is not an unpleasant feeling. It has been a long time.
Soon we are fully undressed. He takes his time, and when he is ready I welcome him between my legs. All right, Boris. I give the ride, you take the fall. I could almost feel a little guilty about it. You are gentler than I’d thought you would be. I commence the proper breathing pattern, deep and slow. I focus my attention on my hara and his, only inches away. I feel our energies, dreamlike and warm, moving. Soon, I direct their flow. He feels it only as pleasure, perhaps more draining than usual. When he has done, though . . .
“You said you had some problem?” he inquires in that masculine coital magnanimity generally forgotten a few minutes afterward. “If it is something I could help you with, I have a few days off, here and there. I like you, Maryushka.”
“It’s something I have to do myself. Thanks anyway.”
I continue the process.
Later, as I dress myself, he lies there looking up at me.
“I must be getting old, Maryushka,” he reflects. “You have tired me. I feel I could sleep for a week.”
“That sounds about right,” I say. “A week and you should be feeling fine again.”
“I do not understand . . .”
“You’ve been working too hard, I’m sure. That conference . . .”
He nods.
“You are probably right. You are not really involved . . . ?”
“I am really not involved.”
“Good.”
I clean the pot and my cups. I restore them to my pack.
“Would you be so kind as to move, Boris dear? I’ll be needing the poncho very soon, I think.”
“Of course.”
He rises slowly and passes it to me. He begins dressing. His breathing is heavy.
“Where are you going from here?”
“Mishima-goe,” I say, “for another view of my mountain.”
He shakes his head. He finishes dressing and seats himself on the ground, his back against a treetrunk. He finds his flask and takes a swallow. He extends it then.
“Would you care for some?”
“Thank you, no. I must be on my way.”
I retrieve my staff. When I look at him again, he smiles faintly, ruefully.
“You take a lot out of a man, Maryushka.”
“I had to,” I say.
I move off. I will hike twenty miles today, I am certain. The rain begins to descend before I am out of the grove; leaves rustle like the wings of bats.
11. Mt. Fujifrom Mishima-goe
Sunlight. Clean air. The print shows a big cryptameria tree, Fuji looming behind it, crowned with smoke. There is no smoke today, but I have located a big cryptameria and positioned myself so that it cuts Fuji’s shoulder to the left of the cone. There are a few clouds, not so popcorny as Hokusai’s smoke (he shrugs at this), and they will have to do.
My stolen ki still sustains me, though the medication is working now beneath it. Like a transplanted organ, my body will soon reject the borrowed energy. By then, though, the drugs should be covering for me.
In the meantime, the scene and the print are close to each other. It is a lovely spring day. Birds are singing, butterflies stitch the air in zigzag patterns; I can almost hear the growth of plants beneath the soil. The world smells fresh and new. I am no longer being followed. Hello to life again.
I regard the huge old tree and listen for its echoes down the ages: Yggdrasil, the Golden Bough, the Yule tree, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, the Bo beneath which Lord Gautama found his soul and lost it. . . .
I move forward to run my hand along its rough bark.
From that position I am suddenly given a new view of the valley below. The fields look like raked sand, the hills like rocks, Fuji a boulder. It is a garden, perfectly laid out. . . .
Later I notice that the sun has moved. I have been standing here for hours. My small illumination beneath a great tree. Older than my humanity, I do not know what I can do for it in return.
Stooping suddenly, I pick up one of its cones. A tiny thing, for such a giant. It is barely the size of my little fingernail. Delicately incised, as if sculpted by fairies.
I put it in my pocket. I will plant it somewhere along my way.
I retreat then, for I hear the sound of approaching bells and I am not yet ready for humanity to break my mood. But there was a small i
I will still be strong tomorrow.
12. Mt. Fuji from Lake Kawaguchi
Reflections.
This is one of my favorite prints in the series: Fuji as seen from across the lake and reflected within it. There are green hills at either hand, a small village upon the far shore, a single small boat in sight upon the water. The most fascinating feature of the print is that the reflection of Fuji is not the same as the original; its position is wrong, its slope is wrong, it is snow-capped and the surface view of Fuji itself is not.
I sit in the small boat I have rented, looking back. The sky is slightly hazy, which is good. No glare to spoil the reflection. The town is no longer as quaint as in the print, and it has grown. But I am not concerned with details of this sort. Fuji is reflected more perfectly in my viewing, but the doubling is still a fascinating phenomenon for me.
Interesting, too . . . In the print the village is not reflected, nor is there an image of the boat in the water. The only reflection is Fuji’s. There is no sign of humanity.
I see the reflected buildings near the water’s edge. And my mind is stirred by other images than those Hokusai would have known. Of course drowned R’lyeh occurs to me, but the place and the day are too idyllic. It fades from mind almost immediately, to be replaced by sunken Ys, whose bells still toll the hours beneath the sea. And Selma Lagerloffs Nils Holgersson, the tale of the shipwrecked sailor who finds himself in a sunken city at the bottom of the sea—a place drowned to punish its greedy, arrogant inhabitants, who still go about their business of cheating each other, though they are all of them dead. They wear rich, old-fashioned clothes and conduct their business as they once did above in this strange land beneath the waves. The sailor is drawn to them, but he knows that he must not be discovered or he will be turned into one of them, never to return to the earth, to see the sun. I suppose I think of this old children’s story because I understand now how the sailor must have felt. My discovery, too, could result in a transformation I do not desire.