The Laughing Falcon (54 page)

Another smile, and a change of subject: “You didn’t happen to see the sunset tonight?”

“I was driving; I could only glance at it. Why?”

A shrug – he seemed disappointed. “Just wondering. Do I dare ask how long you’re planning to stay?”

“As long as it takes.”

“To do what?”

She wasn’t sure. As long as it takes to write, to heal, to love? “I’d like to finish my manuscript here, assuming that’s humanly possible. I was coming unravelled with guilt – I never truly thanked you. I didn’t respond when you … I mean, I … I really wish you’d got my letter.”

“Where would you like to set up?”

“Any chance of getting my old room back?”

“Hundred per cent chance.”

“Dull razor?” She lightly caressed the cut and he jumped slightly at her touch. “How did you get title to this place?”

“Made Elmer Jericho an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

She took his hand, led him to the living room, began unpacking bulky items: printer, hiking boots, her bird guide. Slack withdrew, stood by a window, watching the rain gurgle down a drainpipe chain. “I’m still trying to come to grips with this,” he said.

“Let’s just see what … you know, what works out. I didn’t make a return reservation.”

He seemed unable to react to that for several moments, then caught her yawning. “Maybe neither of us are used to being up this late. We can fix up the other bedroom for you for now.” Something began to loosen in him, he was starting to talk: she enjoyed his anxious way of jabbering. “Not sure if I’ll be able to sleep, though; maybe I’ll finish that poem. Dedicated to you; it’s about a bird lover, the woman who is a heron in her mind … That’s how I see you.”

“How appropriate – I’ve lost my fear of flying.”

“That never made sense to me. Maybe you just had a fear of flying out of control, of not being grounded.” He paused, seemed to be judging his words. “And maybe you took the cure with a heavy dose of Halcón.”

A fear of being in love: of not being grounded, a fear of crashing afterwards – Maggie wondered if that was what it all came down to? La Brava Schneider, obsessed with the intricacies of human affection: for all her mature life she had stood petrified at the edge of the cliff. She was finally beginning to realize that the machinery of love was beyond understanding: how it can engulf you at one moment, or sneak upon you across time and distance.
Love is a flower that unfurls unseen in the tropical night
.

“That the first time you were ever in love?”

“Yes. Still recovering.” She smiled. “Cold turkey.”

“Give it time.”

She stood. “Come here, Jacques.”

He took a few tentative steps toward her. She put her arms around his neck, studied those deep, sad green eyes. “Jacques — I do like that name.” She stroked his hair; he had kept it short, salt-and-red-pepper, slightly curly. As tall as she was, she still had to raise herself on her toes to kiss him; it was a novel experience.

We search the hours for solitude,

the quiet of herons in their sleep,

a fisher on the wing who falls

into the waves in search of silver

or a woman making her way through mist

in early morning, delicate as water.

We search for this, a small stone

in the tide, a broken shell, a crab

so still we think it prays, its claws

raised to our hands as if

what we wait for is return.

What do we do with our hours?

We reach for what comes to us

in quiet. There is in us a need

for silence. Look at the woman

who is heron in her mind.

She has made of life a silence.

See how she holds all her life

in her eyes. She walks among stones.

Far from her in the tidal reach

birds rise into the light.

Who goes to her but herself?

What she has held is hers and hers

alone: to watch the quiet of herons,

a kingfisher falling from all the sky

there is upon this quiet

she gives only to herself, a beach

whose medicine is hers and hers alone.

I owe an incalculable debt to Mario Carazo, lawyer, lover of literature, and
buen amigo
, for scanning the manuscript so thoroughly for linguistic error. My long-time Quepos friends, Roger Connors and Milo and Tey Bekins, offered advice and inspiration. Modesto and Fran Watson toured me through the Tortuguero waterways and refreshed my memory ofthat beautiful and fragile area of Costa Rica. Melvin Bejarano served as my kayak guide down the Whitewaters of the Savegre and Naranjo rivers, and guided me as well through common Ticoisms of the lingua franca. The late Donald Melton, a Quepos archaeologist, was a wealth of historical information.

In a more general sense, I am in debt to all my friends in Costa Rica, Tico and gringo, for having inspired much of the story and many of the characters who inhabit these pages. As well, I am obliged to Brian Brett and Ann Ireland for their comments and to Tekla Deverell for her tireless in-house editing.

The poem is by Patrick Lane, and will not be found in his many award-winning collections of verse. As a matter of literary and ecological interest, its inclusion came about this way: several years ago, Patrick pledged to dedicate a poem to the winner of an auction to raise funds for a critical marshland area on Pender Island, known as Medicine Beach. My winning bid was presented to Tekla as a gift. Patrick (his image of her was as a heron) completed its composition at our home, on the very keyboard upon which I am, finally, typing the last period.