Keys of Babylon Read online

  There was a doctor I filmed. He took us to view the terrible twins. These had just been born and lay together in an incubator. Something was wrong with them and they weren’t going to live. They looked like two halves of a walnut.

  In my experience, the doctor said, they are unique.

  I remember their wizened faces. Ugly as cicadas. Whatever their illnesses, we thought uranium was responsible. When we arrived home we offered the footage to all the news channels but nobody wanted to know. The parents lived north of Basra. That was where Prettyboy and his mates had been chucking DU around.

  There is an intercom buzz. Mohammed’s lunch is arriving. Steak and salad from a local restaurant. A quiver of frites.

  I hold out my hand.

  Extraordinary to meet you again, I say, but his attention is on the food. The silent screen shows cricket now. Sachin Tendulkar in blue and orange is batting for the Mumbai Indians.

  Yes, goodbye, says Mohammed.

  In the lift I look at myself. I’ve forgotten to shave again. I decide to have a drink. Yes, I’ll go to The Nightjar. I need to think about things. And there’s an article I have to write.

  In Goliath’s country

  Her Honda makes the turning and she drops down slowly into Black Canyon City. But what she remembers today, for no reason she can understand, is something that happened further up the highway.

  Somebody had told her there was work in Flagstaff. Boomtown. So what was there to lose? She shared a room with a deaf woman. There was no air con. The office where she cleaned held a thousand desks and every time she clocked on she wondered what the desk people did all day in their miles of metal and glass. Crunch paper? Spill coffee? There were famished flies in the double glazing.

  Years of night shifts had brought her down. Daylight sleep meant lethargy. And the TV was on all the time. Bonanza in the mornings, I Love Lucy any time. You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent. Maybe that was why people went to work, fleeing to their desk islands and the Aqua Chill cooler. The deaf girl would sit and goggle, eating peanuts and drinking milk, a yellow mash in her mouth. With the money she’d saved, Maria decided to try north of Phoenix.

  The bus had dropped her at the railway station. She had stood outside and waited for the line to clear, for that Santa Fe with its mile of iron carriages to go wherever it was going. She had looked at each freight car as it passed. Each a casket. A coffin. Sealed tight as an airplane hold. No riding that. No way.

  There was a man looking at her from the platform. Blue and white bandanna, dark glasses. She could see his body through the singlet. He was old but he was fit. Or so he might think.

  The next day she was sweeping the pine needles off his floor while he made the Impala roar through a cloud of sawdust. They had slept on a mattress in the back and in the morning he had cooked onions and eggs together in a skillet. She used Pillsbury sweet bread to soak up the grease.

  Be back round five, he had said. Adios.

  And she had kept sweeping because there was nothing else she knew how to do in that place. When he came home she was still there. Her choice.

  The house was a shack above a new lot being cut into the trees. Juniper, pinot pines. Early on, when he wasn’t there, she would walk out as far as she dared, climbing a hill in the forest where there were slabs of moss-covered rock with seams of crystal in it. She watched the lizards there, walked higher and stared out at the tops of the hills. All green. All smoking. Each hill with its rocks, its lizards.

  Don’t get lost, he had told her once. There’s fifty miles of it outside. Lion territory.

  From the rock she watched the jays, blue and black. Their voices reminded her of the travellers who had raised their puppet theatre one weekend in her home village. Mad voices. Whiny, stupid voices. She and Juan and the other children pointed at the shapes of the ventriloquists through the curtain. But how people had laughed at the puppets’ cruelties.

  She had thought the jays couldn’t see her but maybe they could. How dazzling they seemed. Jays in their jewels. Such crowns they wore. But they were thieves, weren’t they, the jays? The greatest of thieves. And out there in the forest were fifty miles of thieves and robbers. Of silent lions. On her fingers the pine needles had smelled of orange peel.

  Thirty years ago? Close enough. Thirty years ago, she’d been standing on the station. A man regarding her. She had felt his eyes. Yes, thirty years of feeling eyes upon her. Thirty years waiting for the knock. The man was still staring. What did the bandanna mean? The leather vest? The Santa Fe passed and there were the empty rails.

  He was dark as adobe, this staring man. But still an American. And she had sighed. Flagstaff was higher than six thousand feet, the signs said. It would be cold. There would be snow. Deep snow covering the red pine dust. Star-shaped lion footprints coming out of the rocks. Over the crossing she could see a sign for the Lumberjack Café.

  Looks like you could do with a drink, the man had said. Poco aqua?

  Yes, she had replied. I’m thirsty. Because by then if she knew anything at all she knew there was no turning back. And beyond Flagstaff there was nowhere. Or nowhere big enough to get lost and still survive.

  What she’s driving is a powder-blue Civic with red primer patches. Up in Flagstaff it would have rusted through by now, but, as she always said, Phoenix was bone dry. Not as dry as where she came from, but getting there.

  A woman she knows in the nursing home had told her she should fly. ‘Not to go nowhere. Just to see the swimming pools.’

  Apparently landing and taking off in Phoenix was some experience. A thousand, ten thousand swimming pools were strung out like Zuni turquoise. Like jays’ feathers in the dust.

  She’d never asked Frank what he was doing at the rail station. Old man had he been? Sort of. If the Luckies hadn’t killed him, he’d be seventy now. Lean and red with a little pot belly.

  And now it was her turn to be fifty. Only a little younger than the man who had picked her up on the platform. She could remember him pouring iced water in the Lumberjack and buying hotcakes, the syrup in a little jug. That night he left a spot of bloody drool on their shared pillow, his rifle standing in the corner.

  Of course, she hadn’t loved him. But there were times when she thought she might. Down in Cottonwood once they had danced to a bar band and some boy at the counter made a remark. Wetback, was it? She knew the word but had never heard it said. Not like that. And never about her. Maybe it was went back? Yes, that was it.

  With dignity, Frank had told her they were leaving. Going home to the house in the trees. That there was no point. Let this one go, he said. They had other troubles to meet.

  Yes, she had loved him then. His silver hair and a different bandanna. Kate, the bar owner, stayed silent and watched them go. The familiar betrayal. Yet what was Frank but a man looking around that bar and noticing, maybe for the first time, how the world had changed. And making the best of it. Facing it with the courage he could muster. Because when a man’s time has gone that’s all a man can do.

  The young drinker had smiled at the room with both elbows on the bar. The stance that meant he owned it now. Owned the time. And Frank, humiliated in his heart but not in hers, coughed as they drove north. How their shadows had swung when at last the oil lantern was lit, the darknesses full of coyotes yapping and some kids driving pickups down the loggers’ road.

  She had all those years in that cabin and each day the black and white TV flickered in the kitchen. The Osmonds. Richard Nixon. And the Cardinals, the Cardinals who played all the time, and one day were miraculously red.

  Hey Maria?

  Hey, she said.

  Buenos dias.

  Hey, she said again.

  No rest for the wicked.

  I’m not that wicked.

  You on afternoons all week?

  Yes.

  It’s not so bad.

  No.

  They say it’ll hit 100 today.

  Oh boy.
>
  See you inside.

  Okay.

  The Sunset was one of the smaller nursing homes in that part of the state. It had been bulldozed out of the hillside south of Black Canyon City, and yes, the evenings could be spectacular, black shapes of the saguaros against the orange sky, and then the town lights pricking the rapid nightfall.

  Maria had worked there ten years, starting one year after the Sunset opened. Long enough for the home to get comfortable with itself, the rules to relax.

  Finding the job had been easy. She was on time for the interview and said yes to every question. Welcome to the Sunset, the man had said. We’d like you to start soon. And remember. No chilli in the chilli con carne. Our clients don’t go for the spicy. So the Sunset doesn’t do the spicy. Set menu always.

  And he’d laughed. Then she laughed too.

  For the first six months she worked in the kitchen and learned to do everything. How to keep the mashed potatoes and meatloaf warm. How to ensure the rice pudding wasn’t wasted. Yoghurts were the problem. The staff waited till the tops started to bulge. Then waited one more day. Then disposed. It was her job to see all the wasted food ended up in the aluminium wheelie that was collected every other day.

  But it wasn’t her job, she considered, to stop staff pilfering. So she always turned a blind eye. To fit in, she took a little herself. But only apple sauce. Only salad leaves. Maybe some of those tomatillos that no one ate. Little green strangers.

  Yeah, no chilli, the head chef had said when she started. No cinnamon. No nutmeg. And he’d smiled a bitter little smile. No cilantro. No garlic.

  That first day he had told her to stand on a chair. Then he ran his hands up her skirt. Up and down the cool insides of her thighs. While he did this she regarded the bald patch on his head. The greasy comb-over.

  Thanks, he had said, eventually.

  You’re welcome, she said.

  He never touched her again.

  Then there was another interview. This took place in a corridor, everybody standing up. Again she said yes, yes, except to the query about using the defibrillator. Don’t worry about that, the man had said. Nothing to it.

  Now she taps in the entrance code and uses the antiseptic rub by the door. Really she knows she’s not supposed to wear her uniform outside, but all the staff ignore that, and she starts clearing away the lunches.

  Afternoons are pretty good. There are already some visitors in and the edge has been taken off the day. Off the residents too. There is a sprinkling in the television lounge, but most are already in their rooms. Doing what they do. Which is mostly sleeping. Or crying. Yes a lot of them cry. But then, she would too, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t anybody cry who wound up in the Sunset, watching that big fiery sky? Ending up. Ending up in BCC. Which was nowhere, everybody knew that. A scattered town on the way from somewhere to somewhere else. Ribs and a Corona in the Badass BBQ? French toast at the Amish Kitchen? Then what? You’d move on. Past the saguaros. Move away.

  No, of course she wouldn’t cry. Ending up at the Sunset was a Hollywood dream. The Sunset was one thousand dollars a week. She couldn’t have afforded one hundred. Fifty. Ending up was something she never thought about, like winning the lottery or UFOs in the desert. Ending up was nothing to do with her.

  On her way back from the dining room she notes the bell in 42 has been ringing for some time.

  Everything all right? she asks, entering.

  He’d like to urinate, says a tall, bald man, gesturing at another man in a wheelchair. We’ve been ringing for ten minutes.

  Of course, she says.

  While she pulls the old man’s tracksuit bottoms down and puts the plastic bottle in position, the bald man goes into the corridor.

  Never seen his father piss, she thinks. Never seen his father’s sweet little, dead little cock. Kind of mauve colour. Like a jalepeno.

  The spurt is rank and dark and there’s not much of it.

  Hey Larry, she says. I keep telling you to drink water. And you keep not drinking water.

  She pulls his pants up. Drinking’s good. Water’s good for the kidneys. Flush all those nasty poisons away.

  On the television screen is a freeze-framed DVD image. She has to look at it. For some reason it jumps into life. There’s a soundtrack too, a tune she likes, ‘The Breeze and I’ played on a Wurlitzer organ.

  Her mother had sung it to the family, using the Spanish words. All about far-away Spain. About Andalucia, mythical kingdom.

  Maria had once sung it for Frank who had smiled and danced her round the room. Before even Frank’s era of course. He told her he remembered Caterina Valente and the new English lyrics on every radio station in the country. But Frank was no dreamer. He played driving music. Little Feat and the Allman Brothers were his choice, the house in the trees awash with that tuneless guitar squall. Frank catalogued the songs on the tape cards, his writing too big for the spaces. Strange that. She’d never thought him a man who made lists. But it passed the time, she assumed. She recalled the old Impala pulling up in the slush, ‘Dixie Chicken’ playing until the engine died. Frank always liked the rock stars who died young. That Lowell George. Poor Greg Allman, coming off his motorcycle. He spoke about them as if they were role models, though he was an older man, a grey-haired caretaker dressed like an outlaw. Tongue between his teeth, making his lists.

  He doesn’t urinate enough, does he? said the bald man.

  Urinate, she thought. Why not say micturate? Why not pull your own father’s jogging bottoms up just one time. And weep for his yellow loins.

  Larry was eighty-five. He complained about his pants. About them rucking and twisting. Or coming down. About something he called sting ring. About not being able to take a crap. Yes, pissing and shitting. That’s what it came to in the end. In the ending-up type of end. The real end. Which was no type of end she could imagine for herself. Because ending up cost money.

  Maria smiles. Mr Chernowski, your father has good bladder and bowel control. But he doesn’t drink because he feels the bottle is an indignity. He tries to avoid it. But a bottle’s better than a catheter.

  She turns to the television.

  Where’s that? she asks.

  Oh, little treat for Dad, says the son. Our premiere. Folks in the office clubbed up for my retirement present. Bought Mrs Chernowski and me a weekend in Rocky Point. We took some film so dad could see where we were.

  Rocky Point?

  In Mex. Sorry, Mexico way. About an eight-hour drive from here. We stopped in Gila Bend for lunch and were there by early evening. Went through a place called Why. Stopped the car and took pictures by the sign. Why not? ha ha. But there was nothing there. Then we crossed at Sonoita. Bad roads at the other end. Dogs with no hair. But what can you expect.

  Maria watches the film. Mr and Mrs Chernowski are on a promenade. The Sea of Cortez is violet behind them. There are palm trees, pelicans perched on bushels of kelp, an old man with a machete cutting mangoes into flower shapes. Mrs Chernowski is holding her mango flower to her face, and now Mr Chernowski is choosing an oystershell at a fish stall and the stall holder smiling and opening the shell with a stiletto and squirting sauce over the oyster and Mr Chernowski saying no, no, don’t make it hot, I get heartburn. Phew, I can’t eat that.

  There are fishing boats in a harbour. A low stone posada with the couple outside, a panorama of the town from some high place.

  We put the organ music on because it’s my father’s favourite, explains Chernowski. Polka too, he likes a good polka. Hey, look, this is the next morning.

  The Chernowskis are at breakfast in a bar called Mickey’s. A beaming man has brought plates of eggs and bacon and glasses of orange juice, plus two small bottles, to the table. The camera homes in on these. They say ‘Mickey’s Tequila’.

  Yes, that’s Mickey, says Chernowski. He served us himself. Speciality of the house, Mickey said. Free tequila with your breakfast. Mrs Chernowski looked at me, she said Jacob, you even sniff that stuff you’ll be inebriat
ed. And I bet she would have been right. Oh yes. The people on the next table asked if we were going to drink it. No way, we said. So we passed it over. Phew, it just vanished. And at that time in the morning. Takes all sorts but you need to keep your wits about you down there. Yip, there’s Mickey. What a ham. You just wouldn’t believe how cheap it was. Look at those sunny sides now.

  You’re retiring? she asks.

  Well, that’s the idea. I’ll be a retiree. Funny word. Moving up to Anthem, out of the city. I could keep going of course. In accounts, experience pays. Everybody tells me that. But they’re always changing the software. Like, why? And Mrs Chernowski says she wants me home. Says it’s a long day on her own, though she has her magazines.

  Anthem’s nice they say.

  Well, yes. The great outdoors. And the golf’s going to be good I suppose. I’ve actually played the Ironwood. Well, first nine. Six. Company’s paying the membership for three years, which is a fantastic deal. But you know sometimes I just stroll around and can’t believe it’s so green. Everywhere else burned off, but the course like the Garden of Eden. And those red birds flying about.

  Would you take Larry, I mean your father there? He might enjoy an outing.

  Chernowski smiles. In theory, fine. I’d love to. But even in his new wheelchair, even with those straps, he slips down, and with my hernia, you know, it’s hard to make him comfortable. I get this shooting pain. And there’s the bottle business. What if he needs to go?

  The son looks old. His glasses are pebble-lensed. Maria thinks he’s Jewish, but maybe he’s too tall. Are there tall Jews? Even here in the room, the room smelling of his father’s piss and pine-scented disinfectant, he’s stooping. She notices the waste bin is overflowing with tissues, and opens the second window.

  Okay, says Chernowski. And sits down. I’ll come clean. Truth is, golf’s not really my bag, as they used to say. It’s tougher than it looks. And it takes so long, phew, out in that sun. Then there’s a drink at the clubhouse. Those nibbles they lay on, they’re to die for. But then I’d never want lunch, would I? And all the time there’s Mrs Chernowski fretting at home, thinking I’m in an accident. I got blindsided once on Buckeye and she’s never forgotten it.