Butterfly Stories Part 22

8.

He picked up the newspaper and read b.l.o.o.d.y Clash in Cambodia.

9.

It was lunch hour at the Time-Life Plaza and he lurked among the people squeezing b.a.l.l.s of aluminum foil in their hands, sitting on the edge of the pool whose row of fountain-foams resembled the heads of asparagus. He was waiting for an editor from Asia Today to come outside. Maybe the editor would give him a job. Businessmen in amazing shoes strode past cigarette b.u.t.ts, and golden monograms glittered on their heels. The businesswomen in "burgundy" dress suits - the standard color -dangled their high heels. Then the editor from Asia Today came out, and he looked into the editor's face while the editor looked into his face and he saw that there was no sense in even asking.

10.

The funny thing was that he couldn't feel anything wrong inside him yet. He thought he looked great. The doctor said that right now he was only HIV positive. It would be two to six years before he developed ARC, which was to say an AIDS-related condition, which was to say being sick, and then once he got sick enough they would be able to note down in his medical records that he had AIDS. It was easy to believe that the virus wasn't doing anything yet, but of course it had already begun wearing him down moment by moment, like a river undercutting its banks. When he was in Phnom Penh the Tonle Sap had been rising, so people were laying down mounds of fresh dirt with shovels, walking on them, smoothing them out. A little boy was swimming beside his porch. It happened every monsoon season, they said. The air smelled like fish. There were crowds. A woman was wading from one house to the next. Serious crowds with spades tamped down the levee.

11.

The photographer called him and said: Well, I just heard from your friend Sien. That disco's finished. They closed it down.

What happened to the girls?

The girls? Probably in some f.u.c.king concentration camp. I'd say you better kiss off any chance you had of finding Vanna again. Sien's out of it. He doesn't want to get involved anymore. You better go to Thailand and shop around. There are thousands like her. It's too bad, though. That disco was GREAT! And I feel sorry for those poor girls . . .

What do you think Vanna would have done if I'd been able to get her home? What would she have done when I first took her through my front door?

Remember when you asked me that before? I told you she would s.h.i.+t in her pants, man! She would have loved you so much for your money! She would have never ever left you . . .

Well, thanks for saying that.

Oh, that's all right, the photographer said.

12.

He woke up and had a sore throat.

13.

He picked up the newspaper and read Cambodia and did not read anymore. He went to bed in the night-sodden house and dreamed that Vanna was screaming with terror, stretching out her arms to him, waiting for him to come and get her while she was still alive ... *

* Witness's testimony: "In the society built up by the Pol Pot-Ieng Sary clique there was no prost.i.tution (a good mark to their credit). There a man was not allowed to have two wives. If a married man or married woman had a lover, the couple would incur death."

14.

Berkeley was like Seattle, the same white fog, hills of trees, angry-looking boys and girls storming into the record store, people in rainbow-colored backpacks clicking ca.s.sette cases restlessly, skateboarders, students ambling and loitering, girls wandering in a dream of ice cream, boys and girls coming out of the record store exchanging complicitous looks, as if they'd just jerked each other off, because they'd BOUGHT things, hairy-legged wiry boys in shorts, daypacks, luna-green bike helmets, a ponytailed man in earth shoes wiggling his b.u.t.t against the railing, a professor grinning like Fu Manchu as he strolled, arms behind his back, discoursing to his prettiest pupil, black boys in backwards hats walking and eating pizza, then of course the long-haired fathers who carried their babies on their backs.

Well, I don't know, the editor was saying. I'm not really familiar with your politics. I guess we could maybe work something out. I'd have to put it up to the group. The fact that you're a white male kind of makes me uneasy.

Tell the group that my grandmother was a Seneca Indian, the husband lied cunningly.

Oh, now that's cool. Actually I can kind of see the resemblance.

In the end they commissioned him to do an article on the AIDS ward. The group had even chosen the t.i.tle: "The Bordello of Pain. " - Because the outrage that we feel for these victims is the same outrage that we feel for women whose bodies are exploited by unmediated prost.i.tution! a girl explained.

The husband didn't care. It was five hundred bucks. Like any prost.i.tute, he had to get along somehow.

15.

Armed with his myriad press cards, he entered the Bordello of Pain. Skeletons that had not yet died surrounded him like a traffic jam in an afternoon thunderstorm, glistening cars creeping all the way to the horizon; a long crooked verticality of lightning, then thunder close enough to make the car jump . . . Five hundred bucks. He asked them each what drugs they were taking, how they'd contracted the disease, what message they wanted to give the world. Five hundred bucks. Some were calm and one was happy and all the rest were angry fearful people who wanted to blame someone because they were dying. The one who was happy chuckled and beckoned him and whispered: I see the same death in your eyes. - Skinny arms and legs thinned second by second in front of him. A lady coughed. She couldn't eat anymore. How skinny she was! A skeleton scuttled screaming underneath a bed; a lady said: That's where she always goes to cry. - A lady smiled at him and whispered: Thank you so much for coming here. You're so patient and quiet with me that I almost feel that you're one of us . . . - A lady said to him: I guess what I want to tell the world is that when you know you're dying your choices seem to fall away. There's only one thing left to do. Whatever's the most important thing, that's what you do. That's all you have time for . . .

Vanna's husband whirled upon her. - And for you, he said to her in a very low voice, what's the most important thing?

She smiled and took his hand. - Love, she said.

Death isn't sad; it's Being itself. Death is the founder of consciousness, and therefore of political awareness.

Paul Virilio and Sylvere Lotringer.

Pure War (1983).

1.

In foggy gra.s.sless moon-dips of gloom under spreading trees, he made up his mind to defy the embargoes on wife and life that had been set upon him; clambering down to grey smooth-packed dirt gashed deep by the fingernails of floods, he ducked under the last tree and came out onto the hill-swollen coast that was wild with gra.s.s and poison oak and weed pods and the last blue flowers of the season. Fog horns blew ragged and strange against the chilly breeze. Digging in his heels, he descended a wall of eroded dirt headlong to the beach, riding down the raking wounds his haste scored in the earth, rus.h.i.+ng down like the powdered soil that crumbled out of his tracks. The sand was wet. Between waves he climbed up a boulder that became an island every minute or two; he stood watching the sea-lurch, chalk-grey and cold, come to cover the other bird-dunged rocks. Ma.s.ses of foam near sh.o.r.e highlighted the dark stone teeth. Farther out, there was nothing to see but grey grey sea, grey sky; he breathed the smell of rotten kelp . . . All doubt was scoured away as he swore to himself that he'd find her. He dreamed of the jungle almost every night now. He was going to her. That was what he promised himself. And as soon as he became his own witness - impossible to unoath anything now -he felt relief and exaltation, standing on that bemusseled black boulder, ocean foaming around him like beer, slapping up and spraying him ... A white and grey gull perched beside him, seemingly one-legged. Rocks jutted up tirelessly in the surf.

2.

He stood on a steep slope of scree and broken gla.s.s in worn-out shoes, fog scudding and rippling down the low waves of sage and Scotch broom (poison oak a warning among them with its bright red leaves). Suddenly the fog turned blue. It must be thinning, he thought. The bluish-greyish-white purity of fog caressed the hill's rounded swelling; the gra.s.s-tips wove gently; the flower-stalks whipped back and forth as if on strings; the bushes shuddered . . .

3.

He was back at the Hotel 38. The ragged chain of light that hung down the door-edge kept flickering whenever someone pa.s.sed by. Sometimes it flickered quickly, sometimes slowly. Sometimes the light changed to darkness, and then he knew that someone was standing outside listening.

4.

He washed his clothes, and the next morning they were still wet. He had to travel. He packed them in a plastic bag and they got hot and steamy. That evening he hung them out to dry. In the morning they were still wet. He packed them into the plastic bag. In the evening they were mildewed. He thought: Is that how people smell when they're dead?

5.

At the restaurant where the pigtailed girl in the green T-s.h.i.+rt that said HONEY stood cleaning her knife, the proprietor chopped meat and then the girl took her knife outside to talk with a girl who wore a gold chain around her neck, and a man wheeled a cart slowly down the alley and blue smoke drifted from three pa.s.sing motorcycles and a wide white car rolled gently by. Peering down his nose into thick spectacles, the proprietor, bulging his chest out, put a hand on his hip and gazed placidly at the world. The girl came in, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and cleared away a table. A couple sat at another table. The woman slid her foot easily out of the sandals, bent like a bird, and sucked up c.o.ke through her straw. The man reached into the dish and put more on his plate. The proprietor crossed his hands against his back and jiggled his b.u.t.tocks to the radio song. Vanna's husband ate pork. The girl was pretty, but he remembered his wife in the reddish-brown luminescence of everything, the old teak woodwork in the hotel room glossy reddish-brown like the back of some beetle, the cabinet a redder shade of brown, some different wood maybe or just the light, then her standing there with slightly raised shoulders against the cabinet not quite smiling at him in the crimson dress and blouse with the long gold stripes down it; her arms and hands and gentle slender fingers were more chocolaty like the puddles on the Battambang road, so thick-brown they were almost orange, but her face, though partaking of brown, was much paler with a moony lemony delicacy especially where the sunlight was touching her on cheekbones and chin and sweet soft throat and between her eyes where he used to nose-kiss her to make her laugh; and her dark hair and eyes were much more intense than the brownish-black cabinet-darkness just behind her, her hair and eyes a positive negativity of perfect black! She stood with her fingers half-open and her face turned almost completely toward him, not quite, and this was his wife now and forever, her belly not entirely flat as with the younger girls, her cheekbones a little too sharp for easy beauty. A single earring caught light like a maddening crystal; she seemed to wear somebody's soul from her ear. No other soul, though; the other ear was hidden by her unguent-sweetened hair . . . And he thought: Soon she'll take her shower and I'll take my shower and we'll lie side by side in the blessed darkness and I'll put my arm around her and put my head on her heart as she cradles my head and I'll listen to her heart getting slower and slower and slower . . .

6.

As the hot night faded, Joy and Oy and Noi and Pukki now probably faking their last o.r.g.a.s.m, he sat in second cla.s.s, waiting for the train to take him to the border. On the far side of the tracks, where sarongs hung over cubicles made of corrugated siding, a young woman with long black hair prayed her hands down her face. Beside her, an old lady got to her feet and hobbled barefoot, bent half over under a burden of water. A third woman, whose age seemed in between that of the other two, began to prepare rice. When it was steaming, the young woman began to chop or ma.s.sage something unknown behind the metal wall, and all at once the black night sky turned morning grey, the train honked sourly, and they began to slide into the new day whose trains and buildings, still cool, mysterious, almost pure, would not fail soon to set about their own solitary routines. His window pa.s.sed wet grey walls to which laundry clung like spiderwebs. Fire cans seethed orange beside a brown ca.n.a.l; siding-roofed houses crowded under a gracious tree, sweating a smell of smoke. An illuminated train shot by the other window, occluding the morning-clouded sky. In the dark leaf-roofed alleys, boys bicycled out, balancing ice sacks on their handlebars.

7.