Read Online Perla by Carolina de Robertis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carolina de Robertis
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down, the machine began again and the Lord is with you everything seared with light and o ye of little faith his skin burst open in gashes of pain and thy will be done he screamed and screamed but not to God, God wouldn’t hear him, He was gone, He was on the side of the captors and their will was now His will: or else, far worse, the captors had stolen God out of his heaven and torn him slowly apart on their machines, and if it was so, then God was truly lost, God Himself was a desaparecido .
She smokes a cigarette. It grows dark. He hears a dog bark, then silence, then a passing car. He hauls his attention back into the room; he is not on that machine; he is deeply relieved to be here instead of there. The more memories come, the more his mind feels cut open, wounded, and the more he looks to this house to hold him, even though this place is not entirely safe—he knows this, he can feel it, this house has its own specters. But he has a chance here, a chance at—what? At accomplishing what he came for, a purpose he still doesn’t know, but whose presence he senses, afloat on the air, vague and as yet unseen. There is a purpose. He needs to be here, in this particular house, with the turtle and the windows and the woman. That much of his knowing he’s pieced together, that many shards in place. He sits on his haunches, forward on the floor, like a dog. The rug on the floor is moist as a sponge from all his drippings. Leaning into it is like leaning into underwater mud, or into coral. There is a dangerous voluptuousness to coral, a cradling quality that lulls and surrounds you at the same time. The sofa glowers at him for soiling the rug, look what you’ve done, you are not welcome, intruder! drencher of rugs! Its pillowsflare like a beast about to pounce, he is almost afraid, it is large and could easily crush him, but it has not moved since she walked in and sat on it, pinning it down, reinforcing its function, dominating it without a word. She has showered and her hair is different, glistening, heavy with wetness. It shines in the lamplight, and the lamplight fills his consciousness (it does not lacerate him like the sun, it does not shoot as quickly, these are duller blades of light that cut in slowly), his consciousness is clear and open, and everything is this now, this moment, watching the young woman smoke a cigarette. He can’t stop staring at her. He feels the heavy presence of her mind.
What are you thinking about? he asks.
Nothing.
What kind of nothing?
Same as usual.
I want to know more. He is surprised by the force in his own voice. For the first time he hears longing in his voice.
You’re talkative all of a sudden.
I’m waking up, he says, and even as he says it the waking unfurls further, there is more room inside him.
I see.
Little by little.
The turtle crawls in from the kitchen. He goes to her. He rests his shell against her naked ankle.
How is it? Being awake?
It makes my head hurt.
The memories?
No, memories don’t hurt. I just see them. What’s painful is the sun.
I don’t understand.
The turtle yawns his mouth open and closes it, snap. The eyes don’t blink. He wants to shake the turtle, without knowing why.
It doesn’t matter, he says.
At least you can talk now.
Yes.
Were you gone a long time?
Yes. I think so. More or less.
You were kidnapped?
Yes.
And you died?
Yes.
She lights another cigarette and taps the arm of the sofa with her lighter, as if bored, as if killing time with little questions. Do you remember what happened in between?
Almost.
And it doesn’t hurt to remember?
Not like sunlight. Not like thirst.
You want more water?
Please.
She leaves for the kitchen and comes back with a large blue jug.
Thank you, he says.
Take your time.
He takes his time. Water pliant between his jaws, coruscating, brilliant in his throat. Water sturdy and enduring, the liquid flesh of the world. He eats and eats and she is watching, silent in her faint haze of
She smokes a cigarette. It grows dark. He hears a dog bark, then silence, then a passing car. He hauls his attention back into the room; he is not on that machine; he is deeply relieved to be here instead of there. The more memories come, the more his mind feels cut open, wounded, and the more he looks to this house to hold him, even though this place is not entirely safe—he knows this, he can feel it, this house has its own specters. But he has a chance here, a chance at—what? At accomplishing what he came for, a purpose he still doesn’t know, but whose presence he senses, afloat on the air, vague and as yet unseen. There is a purpose. He needs to be here, in this particular house, with the turtle and the windows and the woman. That much of his knowing he’s pieced together, that many shards in place. He sits on his haunches, forward on the floor, like a dog. The rug on the floor is moist as a sponge from all his drippings. Leaning into it is like leaning into underwater mud, or into coral. There is a dangerous voluptuousness to coral, a cradling quality that lulls and surrounds you at the same time. The sofa glowers at him for soiling the rug, look what you’ve done, you are not welcome, intruder! drencher of rugs! Its pillowsflare like a beast about to pounce, he is almost afraid, it is large and could easily crush him, but it has not moved since she walked in and sat on it, pinning it down, reinforcing its function, dominating it without a word. She has showered and her hair is different, glistening, heavy with wetness. It shines in the lamplight, and the lamplight fills his consciousness (it does not lacerate him like the sun, it does not shoot as quickly, these are duller blades of light that cut in slowly), his consciousness is clear and open, and everything is this now, this moment, watching the young woman smoke a cigarette. He can’t stop staring at her. He feels the heavy presence of her mind.
What are you thinking about? he asks.
Nothing.
What kind of nothing?
Same as usual.
I want to know more. He is surprised by the force in his own voice. For the first time he hears longing in his voice.
You’re talkative all of a sudden.
I’m waking up, he says, and even as he says it the waking unfurls further, there is more room inside him.
I see.
Little by little.
The turtle crawls in from the kitchen. He goes to her. He rests his shell against her naked ankle.
How is it? Being awake?
It makes my head hurt.
The memories?
No, memories don’t hurt. I just see them. What’s painful is the sun.
I don’t understand.
The turtle yawns his mouth open and closes it, snap. The eyes don’t blink. He wants to shake the turtle, without knowing why.
It doesn’t matter, he says.
At least you can talk now.
Yes.
Were you gone a long time?
Yes. I think so. More or less.
You were kidnapped?
Yes.
And you died?
Yes.
She lights another cigarette and taps the arm of the sofa with her lighter, as if bored, as if killing time with little questions. Do you remember what happened in between?
Almost.
And it doesn’t hurt to remember?
Not like sunlight. Not like thirst.
You want more water?
Please.
She leaves for the kitchen and comes back with a large blue jug.
Thank you, he says.
Take your time.
He takes his time. Water pliant between his jaws, coruscating, brilliant in his throat. Water sturdy and enduring, the liquid flesh of the world. He eats and eats and she is watching, silent in her faint haze of
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