THE PAST IN THE GRASS
He disentangled his body from hers. Above the low bed, the
rotating blades of the ceiling fan dragged the air in circles. He held her hand
to stop her nuzzling, to keep her connected but at an arm’s length. The empty
feeling seeped in. Her breathing slowed and he slipped out.
The morning bleated around him in a song of herds and dust
and chains of jasmine. He walked to his bike and took off for
Bagan. White cows ambled by mares on the side of the road. Thin women walked in
the opposite direction, balancing massive roped-up branches on their heads. The
smell of earth inhabited his nostrils, the sun eased over his face, the wind
stroked his hair and he forgot about her. Freed from thought he relaxed into
sensation. The monsoon had intensified the landscape: trees bloomed everywhere,
half-submerged in pools of water where leaves and sky met in curdled
reflections. In the stark sunlight everything looked too vivid to be real. He
felt he was riding through a photograph.
Glancing around, he parked in the high grass about a mile
away from the temple. He carried his shoes. There was no one. The temple rose
before him. Hall waited there.
Barefoot, he entered the cool shadows, climbed the steep
steps and paused beneath an arch, “I need to give you something.” Standing
close enough to see the sweat on Hall’s brow, he looked into his eyes,
searching for a reason to stop. He reached out and struck the man. Hall lost
consciousness. He gripped Hall’s neck, pressing on the stun spot, before
rolling the limp body over the edge to fall from the temple into the grass.
Shoes in hand, he walked back to the motorcycle,
remembering the times he had let himself be crushed. The prostration was over.
-a short story by Margo
Fortuny, with photographs taken in Burma.
