Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand: A Novel of Adam and Eve (6 page)

W
HEN THEY WERE AGAIN WITHIN SIGHT OF THE
precipice and the distant mystery of the enclosed Garden, Adam surrendered once more to the weakness of tears. If he had been an animal, he would have howled with pain as he stood before that mirage whose inexplicable beauty was a constant flame in his memory. Internally he struggled to silence his reproaches against the woman, the Serpent, and Elokim. It did little good to rationalize, or to talk with her; in his innermost being he could not ease the weight of having been dislodged from that place where he had been created to exist as the most special and happy of creatures.

He watched Eve walk along, occasionally stopping at some flowering bushes to smell the blossoms. He noticed that her skin was darker, golden, as if somehow she had managed to preserve the glow of Paradise. He caught up with her. They should not go too close to the precipice, he said. They didn't want the fire to lash out at them again and force them to retreat.

They walked to a prudent distance from the abyss, one toward the east and the other toward the west. The plants that during the cataclysm had been torn from the fertile soil of the Garden were taking root in the red earth, refusing to perish. As they went, they encountered in their path high grasses, brush, plants with saw-toothed, spiny leaves that tore at their legs, making it difficult for them to pass. They learned the poison of the ants and the bite of gnats and mosquitoes. Eve talked to the insects, telling them to obey and leave her and Adam in peace. After realizing that this had no effect, Adam just kept going, swiping right and left. They saw rabbits, pheasants, squirrels, and mice that instead of approaching when they called fled in fear. In the distance, Adam heard the howling of wolves and pictured them cringing, far away. He wondered if the ones he had encountered might have met others like them, already experienced in living outside the confines of the Garden. He missed the lions with their golden manes, the giraffe with its long neck and sweet eyes, the magnificent phoenix, and, of course, his strong, clever dog, always obedient to his wishes.

“Cain,” he called. “Cain.”

Late that afternoon, he found Cain. The dog was playing with a coyote, unaware of the man who was looking for him. When he saw Adam, Cain pricked up his ears and ran up to lick the man's hands. Adam knelt down and hugged him. The man was as happy as the dog when he knew he was recognized. The coyote observed them for a moment. It seemed to be about to join in their games, but instead it turned and disappeared into the brush. Eve smiled when she saw the man rolling on the ground with Cain. She and the cat had never
played like that. The cat never treated her like another cat; in contrast, Cain was jumping and playing as if Adam were another dog.

It wasn't easy for Eve when finally she found the cat. She called to it with sweet words, trying to persuade it to come down from the tree where it was crouched, skittish and mewing pitiably. Eve spat into her hand to offer it liquid for its dry mouth. The animal came to her very slowly, moving deliberately along a low branch, but after she scratched its back, it came down out of the tree and rubbed against her legs.

Accompanied by the dog and the cat, the man and woman started back toward the cave. Adam went first. He would throw a piece of wood and the dog would pick it up and come running back to give it to him. Adam was smiling. Eve had not seen him smile since the fire had driven them from the Garden. He was moving along confidently, sure he was on the right course. She admired his sense of direction. He didn't use his nose like the dog. He held out an arm, looked along it, frowned, and seemed to know which way to go. His back was very broad. Maybe that was what gave him better orientation. The landscape confused her. The plain was so vast. She looked at the cat, trotting at her side with its light steps. Although they didn't speak, the animals were a comfort against the abandonment and the solitude. They disappeared at times into the undergrowth, but came when they were called.

They walked a long time. Eve's body felt heavier and heavier, and the hollow that since morning had been growling in her stomach began to hurt. She imagined a small animal scratching inside her, chewing on her. She had never felt anything like that. She looked at Adam out of the corner of her
eye; he, too, was walking slowly. The sky was changing color, filling with clouds whose rims had turned magenta and pink. She heard a kind of bellow. She turned. Adam was doubled over, clutching his stomach.

“Do you feel hollow inside? Does it hurt?”

“This is hunger, Eve.”

“What shall we do?”

“I don't know.”

“The cave is still some distance away. Mine hurts, too. I don't want to walk any farther.”

“Let's look for a tree. We'll sit down.”

They looked for a tree they could rest against. They had to walk quite a way to find one. On the plain, trees were sparse, small. The palm trees, on the other hand, went straight up, slim, with long branches scurrying from the wind. Finally they found a comfortable position on the ground. The dog and cat curled up beside them. Hunger, like fatigue, had arrived suddenly. Lethargic, Adam fell asleep. Eve watched day turning into evening. The darkness seemed soft this time, a dense fog enveloping everything. After a while her eyes could make out the silhouettes of everything near them. That soothed her. She heard whistling, the cries of sad birds, harsh and indescribable sounds. She observed that the darkness of the sky was sprinkled with holes that let light through. She wondered if it was through them that the white petals, which had once been their food, had fallen. This memory, combined with the one of forbidden figs she had tasted, thickened her saliva and cramped her stomach. Adam remembered he had heard the voice condemning them to grasses and thorns. Eve patted the
earth around her, pulled some blades of grass, chewed them. The bland, slightly bitter taste depressed her. She regretted eating the fruit, acting so sure of herself, so defiant in the Garden. She wondered if everything she had so longed to know would turn out to be worth the pain. Knowledge and freedom were of so little use in quieting hunger, she thought. If she had been more docile, would Elokim have left them in the Garden? Why had he acted so offended if it was all part of his plan? Perhaps Elokim confused the worlds he had created and forgot the designs he imposed on them. She had to be ingenuous to think that when she ate of the fruit the perverse or adventurous sense of all this would be revealed to her.

Adam woke beneath the red sky of dawn. This time it did not cause him anguish, it enlivened him. He decided that he preferred day to night. A few steps from the tree they had taken shelter beneath, he saw other trees, with green fruit. He left Eve sleeping and went to one tree. He touched a fruit, then picked it. Pears, he thought. His mouth filled with saliva. He gave one to the dog. He watched him bite it. He saw the juice of the fruit dripping from its jaws. He pulled off another. He did not complete the move to put it in his mouth. He threw it as far away as he could. The dog ran after it. Adam buried his face in his hands. He smelled the fragrance of the pear on his fingers. No! he exclaimed, overwhelmed by a sudden fear that was stronger than hunger. The scent of the fruit had left him dazed. He could not take the risk, he told himself. If Elokim became enraged again, Adam did not even want to imagine what punishment he would impose on them this time. Fruit
was dangerous. Its flesh was filled with Elokim's rage. If they ate fruit, he would cast them even farther away. They would never be able to return to the Garden.

He woke Eve. She smelled the aroma of the pear on his hands.

“What is that smell, Adam? Have you eaten?”

He showed her the pear. But he hadn't eaten it, he said. Neither he nor she should eat the pears.

Eve jumped up. She ran to the tree. He followed.

“He forbade us to eat the fruit from a certain tree, Adam, not all trees.”

“He forbade us to eat of one tree and he cast us out of the Garden so we would not eat of the other. I tell you, we must not eat fruits. They are dangerous. We
cannot
take that risk again, Eve.”

Incredulous, she stared at him. Hunger was gnawing at her innards. The fragrance of the pears so tantalizingly near made it impossible for her to think. She reached out to take one. Adam stopped her. The dog began to bark.

“You can't force me not to eat.”

“Look at us, Eve, alone, hungry, abandoned. What other disastrous move of yours do you want me to share?”

Eve felt her face and chest burn. Filled with rage and frustration, she contained her desire to throw herself on Adam. The strength of that reaction frightened her. Shamed, confused, she started running. She ran and ran. In the light, cool morning breeze she regained her calm. Adam ran after her. “Where are you going? Why are you running?” he shouted.

She stopped.

“It makes me furious that every time you want me to obey you, you remind me that I ate the fruit.”

“When I lose hope I can't help it,” he said.

“Eating it was your decision.”

“Yes, but it was you who offered the fruit to me. You ate first.”

“I didn't know what would happen. You didn't know either.”

“We knew that we might die.”

“That wasn't what happened.”

“It didn't happen at that instant, but we will die.”

“You've seen that Elokim didn't let us die. Don't you believe that our coming to know each other was worth the grief? And the taste of the fig? And the cool of the water?”

“And hunger? And pain?”

“We wouldn't be hungry if you would stop being afraid.”

They started back toward the mountain that held their cave. A shadow was circling over their heads. Adam looked up. After an instant's blindness from looking toward the sun, he saw against the light blue of afternoon the sumptuous plumage of his favorite bird, its immense orange and gold wings, the small head crowned by an intense blue panache. It was the Phoenix.

“The Phoenix was the only one of the animals that didn't eat from the Tree of Knowledge,” exclaimed Eve. “I'm sure that it goes in and out of the Garden without being stopped by the fire.”

Adam wondered if it could be a sign. Perhaps the Phoenix would carry them back to the Garden, flying over the precipice. With that possibility he was swamped by a wave of
laughter and levity. He wanted to jump up and down, wave his arms. On one occasion before the woman arrived, the bird had carried him to the sea. It had set him down on the water, and Adam had seen the languid, buoyant creatures that dwelled there. He named the swordfish, the whale, the shark, the manta rays and dolphins, the schools of sardines, the seashells and starfish. He had observed the warm abysses and the mouths that served as vents for vapor from suboceanic fires. Luminous fish had accompanied him on an exploration, and for the first time he had intuited darkness. It was this intuition of a world without light that his memory had evoked during the first night of darkness in his lifetime. He was remembering the small, colorful fish he associated with Eve's toes just when the bird descended, stirring a placid breeze and depositing two figs before her. Then it took off, directing its beak and its wings toward the Garden of Eden.

Eve picked up the figs. Just seeing them filled her mouth with the anticipated flavor of the juice and the flesh of the fruit. Quick as the cat, Adam took them from her hands.

“No, Eve, I told you no fruits. Most of all, figs.”

He clutched the figs in his hands. His eyes followed the course of the Phoenix. As he watched it leave without carrying them back to the Garden, he was paralyzed with disappointment.

“I am really, really hungry,” said Eve, frightened. “We must eat, Adam. We have to eat.”

“I am as hungry as you, but our misfortune gives me pause.”

“But the bird brought these, Adam. The Other must have sent them.”

“We don't know that, Eve. I thought that the Phoenix would carry us back. But these figs—we don't know, Eve, if this is another trick,” he said stubbornly. “We still don't know if the Other is for us or against us.”

Silenced by Adam's blindness and stubbornness, Eve swallowed her tears, tasting the salt in her dry mouth.

“Please, Adam. Don't throw away the figs. Keep them.”

Adam buried them at the entrance to the cave. He dug the earth with the help of a sharp rock. Under the starry night, Eve persisted in her attempts to make him stop. There are two, Adam. Give me one. She did not persuade him. They lay down to sleep without speaking, without touching, each thinking of the other's harsh judgment. Her hunger made her picture the fig deteriorating in the earth, food that could be in her mouth lost through the man's intransigence, his cruelty. He was cruel when he forced her to watch as he buried the fruit; more so because he had decided for both of them. He had acted as if her words had no weight, no sound, as if he didn't hear them. And she and her words were one. Not to hear her was to make her nonexistent, to leave her completely alone.

He was aware that he hadn't listened to her. Listening to her made him weak, muddled his intentions. She had too much confidence in herself, and he no longer knew in what, or in whom, to have faith. On the other hand, he knew that he needed her. He missed her warmth, her body.

She was awakened by his hand seeking a refuge. Timidly, he touched her side, hoping she would grant him some way by which he could ease his hand beneath her and enfold her in his arms. At night, Adam always hugged her to him, her back against his chest. Feeling the man searching for her in the
darkness aroused her tenderness. The memory of her rage was not enough to make her push him away. She let Adam's arm rest across her breast and pressed close to him. She was cold. The cave was cool and protecting by day, but at night it lost its soul. They had to produce their own heat, snuggling against each other. Silently, she settled into his arms. He whispered into her ear that the next day he would take her to the sea.