Shimmering coastline, high cliffs, pink trees with down instead of leaves. And who will explain to me how Antilia was lost? And who will explain howthese continents came to rise from the sea? They were ancient already, and fully populated.
“Sailing out into the nowhere,” Azar said, “and finding land. It must have been like walking on the moon.”
“It was like there was no moon, and we walked on it anyway.”
Later we went for a walk. We wanted to talk things over.
“Has he mentioned this woman again?” I said. “Anna Gloria?”
“He knows that she’s out there somewhere. He’s very confident.”
“He seems confident in a general way too. Happy with his choices.”
“The old man looking for love,” he said. “Five hundred years of solitude. It’s not really the story I want to tell. It’s too tidy for the movie, almost. It’s hardly a credible metaphor.”
“And where do you suppose he’s from? He’s probably from Indianapolis or something. My great-uncle was happily married, living in St. Louis, and then he made a bio-rhythm chart that told him to abandon his family. Now he lives in San Francisco and eats a whole head of garlic every day.”
Azar would have none of this. “Remember that my position is I believe him.”
“You believe him?”
“Every word.”
There were two parakeets having a shrieking argument in a date palm next door, but they quieted down as we went by. They looked down at us with sweet cartoon faces.
I said, “Come back to earth here for a second, would you?”
“I will not.”
“Just for a second. Just listen to me. If not for me, then for the sake of the movie. Don’t you think it’s best to project a good-natured skepticism? I emphasize good-natured. We want to be generous and high-hearted without being stubbornly credulous.”
“I’ve already explained to you about my kombucha epiphany,” said Azar. “I’m trying to carry this understanding into the rest of mylife. We’re raised up from little kids to doubt everything. Sidelong glances. Smirking. When there’s a miracle we roll our eyes. But not me. Not anymore. I’m drinking kombucha and appreciating the magic in life.”
“But you admit that the story is not easy to believe.”
“I don’t care if he says he’s Robinson Crusoe.”
“He says that he’s Daniel Defoe.”
“We’re going to cure ourselves of cynicism, that’s the important thing. If we make a bad movie, what do we care? Are you suddenly very exacting about movies? Maybe we should also cure ourselves of good taste.”
Something evil had happened in my head by the time we returned. I sat quietly at the table while Azar set the camera up.
“You understand what a camera is?” he said. “You’re not worried about the camera?”
“Of course he knows what a camera is!” I said.
“I know in principle that there’s nothing to be frightened of,” said the ancient mariner. He looked warily at the camera. “I know in principle it’s just magnetism or whatever it is.”
He seemed to forget it was there, however. Soon he had yet another extraordinary admission to make.
“You might be interested to know that I killed Magellan. I might as well say so. I beat him to death with a cuirass in the surf off Mactan.”
Azar wouldn’t look at me. He nodded earnestly.
“Over the years you do sometimes have to kill people,” I said, trying to imitate the ancient mariner’s casual style. “I myself have killed a few.”
He leaned back and folded his hands over his belly. “I’ve killed a tremendous number. Turks, mostly. Turks beyond counting.”
“I poisoned my master when I was a slave in Jamaica,” I said. “There’s no harm in admitting these things now.”
Azar gave me a nasty look.
“I killed the conquistador Gonzalo de Castellana,” said the ancient mariner.
“You see how nice it is to get it off your chest? I killed a prison camp guard in Australia.”
“He’s never killed anyone,” Azar said.
“Sailing out into the nowhere,” Azar said, “and finding land. It must have been like walking on the moon.”
“It was like there was no moon, and we walked on it anyway.”
Later we went for a walk. We wanted to talk things over.
“Has he mentioned this woman again?” I said. “Anna Gloria?”
“He knows that she’s out there somewhere. He’s very confident.”
“He seems confident in a general way too. Happy with his choices.”
“The old man looking for love,” he said. “Five hundred years of solitude. It’s not really the story I want to tell. It’s too tidy for the movie, almost. It’s hardly a credible metaphor.”
“And where do you suppose he’s from? He’s probably from Indianapolis or something. My great-uncle was happily married, living in St. Louis, and then he made a bio-rhythm chart that told him to abandon his family. Now he lives in San Francisco and eats a whole head of garlic every day.”
Azar would have none of this. “Remember that my position is I believe him.”
“You believe him?”
“Every word.”
There were two parakeets having a shrieking argument in a date palm next door, but they quieted down as we went by. They looked down at us with sweet cartoon faces.
I said, “Come back to earth here for a second, would you?”
“I will not.”
“Just for a second. Just listen to me. If not for me, then for the sake of the movie. Don’t you think it’s best to project a good-natured skepticism? I emphasize good-natured. We want to be generous and high-hearted without being stubbornly credulous.”
“I’ve already explained to you about my kombucha epiphany,” said Azar. “I’m trying to carry this understanding into the rest of mylife. We’re raised up from little kids to doubt everything. Sidelong glances. Smirking. When there’s a miracle we roll our eyes. But not me. Not anymore. I’m drinking kombucha and appreciating the magic in life.”
“But you admit that the story is not easy to believe.”
“I don’t care if he says he’s Robinson Crusoe.”
“He says that he’s Daniel Defoe.”
“We’re going to cure ourselves of cynicism, that’s the important thing. If we make a bad movie, what do we care? Are you suddenly very exacting about movies? Maybe we should also cure ourselves of good taste.”
Something evil had happened in my head by the time we returned. I sat quietly at the table while Azar set the camera up.
“You understand what a camera is?” he said. “You’re not worried about the camera?”
“Of course he knows what a camera is!” I said.
“I know in principle that there’s nothing to be frightened of,” said the ancient mariner. He looked warily at the camera. “I know in principle it’s just magnetism or whatever it is.”
He seemed to forget it was there, however. Soon he had yet another extraordinary admission to make.
“You might be interested to know that I killed Magellan. I might as well say so. I beat him to death with a cuirass in the surf off Mactan.”
Azar wouldn’t look at me. He nodded earnestly.
“Over the years you do sometimes have to kill people,” I said, trying to imitate the ancient mariner’s casual style. “I myself have killed a few.”
He leaned back and folded his hands over his belly. “I’ve killed a tremendous number. Turks, mostly. Turks beyond counting.”
“I poisoned my master when I was a slave in Jamaica,” I said. “There’s no harm in admitting these things now.”
Azar gave me a nasty look.
“I killed the conquistador Gonzalo de Castellana,” said the ancient mariner.
“You see how nice it is to get it off your chest? I killed a prison camp guard in Australia.”
“He’s never killed anyone,” Azar said.
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