The Sacred Beasts (6 page)

Stunned, she walked into the many tunnels and crevices of the
fractured ice, watching the whirlwind of fluctuating blue colors. “There is a
blue light mentioned in
The Tibetan Book of the Dead
,” she finally said.
“A fabulous cosmic blue comes to the soul shortly after death. It is described
as so startling that a soul unprepared by meditation chooses the much duller
white light beside it, moving away from the expanse of the universe into the
constriction and pain of rebirth. I think I have just seen that blue light.”

She said that to me; we shared it, a beauty transcendent of birth,
life. Even this light of cosmic power and beauty she betrayed, or am I just
raving to myself? Does it mean, rather, that she was planning for her own death
even then? It could be, and it could be I have been raving long enough in front
of this tombstone. I showed her animals, mountains, colors, trees, my life, my
love. She reciprocated and turned them into her own world of art. We found
worlds of beauty and mystery together here, twice over. Love, imagination and
the apprehension of beauty are the soil of our best human faculties, perhaps
the only ones that undo our violence, carelessness, and greed. Goodbye my
greatest, deepest love, most beautiful of all; the one for whom these animals,
mountains, colors, trees almost seemed designed.
Almost
. . . and I see
my next sculptures—one for the beautiful things she betrayed; another for the
excessive, scoured and contorted, monstrous nature of the earth’s beauties,
animate and inanimate; and more, more still, until a picture appears, an image,
the only answer I will ever have of why she had to die.

My walk home was empty of dark thoughts and full of unexpected
delight in planning for my next creation. “Mediocrity” was huge, metallic,
uncontrollable. The new sculpture must evoke the beautiful things I gave Katia
and she could not embrace. My material must therefore be subtle, flexible, and
delicate. At once, I envision an enormous montage of strange forms rising up
over my lawn; they are made of old yogurt containers and plastic bottles glued
together. These I cut and fashion as my material. I will paint their exteriors
in fabulous colors and give them surface designs like the skin of the
Argentinean frog, flowers like the gloriously pink pendant coicopihue. Other
portions will be shaped like the contorted landforms swept by the
Mara,
and some will reflect the varied blue tones of Patagonian glaciers. Together, a
jungle of colorful shapes, a riot of coalescent strangeness will rise up over
my acreage, a land of the purest eccentricity mirroring my own, the end of the
world. I close my eyes in pleasure at the vision of this creature.

Well, it’s another trip to the dump and the Aussie’s tribulations.
I will give my cases of whisky to that deserving notable and he will think his
old mum’s risen from her grave to deliver his heart’s delight. I can haul the
plastic away in my truck—no further visits to the Sooty Crane. A bark of
laughter suddenly erupts from me. My sanity’s back and with it, a new draught
of puzzlement and wonder. Who will come peering into my oddity next?

When I arrive at the dump, my two cases of whisky riding
congenially in the passenger seat, the Aussie is nowhere to be found. At last I
find him deep inside the building, sitting at a bent, begrimed metal table behind
crates of refuse, his eyes red and swollen with tears. Perhaps the boy and I
have both been disappointed in love. I haul my first case of whisky to the
rescue, loudly thumping it down on the table before him and grinning like
blazes. “I need sterile plastic cups and bottles of all kinds,” I say kindly
and add, “I have another case of whisky in my truck.” I depart immediately so
that he has a moment to get himself under control. As I thump the second case
down, he has completely lost his mind, and tears of joy are streaming down his
cheeks.

“Oh,
mum
,” he can barely utter. “Y’
should
’na. Y’
jus’
should
’na.”

“I’m only handing my rotgut to you. It’s no gift and needs no
thanks.” He completely refuses to accept the implications of this.

“Oh, but ther’s mod-i-rytion,” he offers in opposition. “Ye kan be
sure I drink mod-i-rytely.

“Only you know the truth, mate.” My moral duty ends here and he,
with his bleary-teary eyes, huge red cheeks and drinker’s paunch, is too
plainly delighted to have absorbed it.

“Wha’ ye need agin’, mum?”

“Plastic yogurt cups, pliable plastic bottles and containers of
all kinds, lots and lots, hundreds, things I can cut and shape with a scissors
and glue. Can you get them sterile since I’m technically hauling away another
hazard?”

“Oh, we sterilize here, yes, that we do . . . how to pack . . .
I’ll think it through. Ye come back tomorra’.”

“I’ll do that, mate. Take it easy on the rotgut,” I say and I’m
off.

At home, I take out a pad of large, yellow-lined sheets of paper
I’ve previously used for mapping and sit on my porch, spending the afternoon
drawing my new imaginary beasts. At sundown, I have a sense of accomplishment
but not my usual physical fatigue. I am restless for the first time since my
crisis began, and perhaps I am actually feeling the vast luxury of boredom. Oh
yes, boredom is indeed welcome after what I’ve been through. I idly page
through newspapers and books like a pampered husband, oblivious to the time
passing, until it is dark and still throughout the house, the night wind rising
softly. Poised upon sleep, I look out at the lawn, now populated by real and
imagined creatures of magic. I wonder how they will look in the morning, at
noon, under rain, under moonlight, as now. Will they continue to be art and,
for that matter, can they possibly be art at all?

As though tantalizing me with an answer, the universe unexpectedly
propels another of its surprises to me. Slowly sauntering down the street in
the moonlight is the French girl! As she reaches the Thing, she immediately
touches it in that curiously deliberate, familiar way and then her hands
retreat abruptly, as though disappointed, to a point halfway into her pockets.
How elegant she is! It is a natural elegance, almost sculptural. I sense that
something both momentous and precise is going on in her thoughts: perhaps a
judgement of me. Well, she won’t get away from me again! I stride out to the
porch and stand, grinning with secret foreboding, like my neighboring witches.

She looks up, startled as a deer as I say, “I don’t know your
name, but I’ve seen you since you were a child. Now, you must come in and
introduce yourself and at least have a glass of wine. I’m dying to know what
draws you to that horrible object.”

She smiles and walks slowly up my steps; one hand still elegantly
half-held in her pocket. “I am Sylviane Dumarais. Please call me Sylvie,” she
says and grasps my hand.

“I am utterly delighted to meet you,” I say. “Somehow, we have
passed one another for years and never spoken. I am Ruth Land . . .”

“Oh, I know you! Everyone does, at least in my family. We also
know the friend you lived here with. I have even read some of your books, and I
am so sorry for your loss.” She is very tall and slender, with dark hair down
to her shoulders. Wearing nothing more elaborate than an open-necked blouse and
blue jeans, she continues to seem very elegant, obviously the influence of
another country and culture. Her skin is light olive and her eyes large and
brown with youthful animation. She wears no makeup but is decidedly lovely. In
the clear light, I now see that she resembles Katia when she was young: the
jagged piece of memory stabs me.

“You’ve read our books!” I can only repeat in astonishment.

“Oh, yes, yours about the animals. It had such wonderful photos.
You and Katia are quite famous here.”

Another stab of memory. “Famous or notorious?”

She blushes and laughs. “Somewhat notorious, too, yes. It is such
a small town and such . . . what shall I call it? eternity surrounding.”

Oh god, she even talks like Katia! I hope the pain does not show
on my face. I decide to play the compulsive hostess, the simplest disguise.
“Please sit down. May I offer you Cabernet?”

“Oh, yes, whatever you have. Thank you.” Her Spanish has a French
accent, which is unexpectedly delightful. I wonder if we should switch to
French or English. Of necessity, many of us are polyglots down here, surely our
only mark of sophistication.

“Perhaps I should ask what language you wish to speak. I can
manage French but am not fluent.”

“English, if you prefer. I know you lived in America. I need
practice.”

“English it is.”

Now we both sit, holding our wine like spyglasses, observing a
novel creature we did not anticipate. But the unknown is always with us at the
end of the world, and we know how to invite it. Suddenly her eyes are full of
sparkle and amusement and they stray all over the walls, as though she had been
trying to refrain from it. “I have something to confess,” she says with a broad
smile. “I so love the photos of animals and Indians on your walls. When I was a
little girl, I often took a ladder up to your windows and looked at them when
you were away in America. I could never decide which I loved best, but the
little furry ones with big orange front teeth are the most wonderful.”

“The tuco-tucos,” I said, astonished. “If I’d known, I would have
told Mariska to let you in whenever you wanted. She always kept the keys when
we were away.” I am suddenly very excited for no apparent reason.

“Well, you see . . . there is more to confess,” she says and now
laughs aloud. “Mariska found me on the ladder and did take me inside to look at
them. Several times. There were always more animals and photos.”

I share her laughter so deeply it astonishes me. “Mariska never
said a word to me about it.”

“I made her promise not to!” Now I see the child with huge, dark
eyes full of wonder, looking up not so long ago at the beauty of my beasts,
then solemnly and seriously making a grown woman promise not to reveal her
secrets. I actually want to cry; a strange joy possesses me. I must be careful
to keep these errant emotions invisible.

“So, I am not the only one who spies on other creatures!” I say,
attempting levity.

“No, we are all spies,” she says and smiles charmingly.

Yes, spies after beauty and love, survival of the spirit. “Were
you afraid of me?” The question escapes me, though it is dangerously intimate.
I should not have asked so directly.

Still she smiles, undisturbed, and says, “I was not afraid but
fascinated, and then I heard you call your friend a bear. I was so young that I
wondered if you both might be animals and the photos were . . . of your
children. Of course, a child dreams up such things.”

Not far from the truth, I do
not
say aloud. I must make
this conversation less intimate, or I will cry in front of this wandering
child, now so close to my heart. “Are you studying in France?” I ask,
marvelously off the subject.

“Yes, I am at the Sorbonne. Art will be my major. I sculpt, too.”
There it is, the origin of her training and interest.

“Then perhaps you can tell me something about that monster on my
lawn. I am even planning another monstrosity. Tell me, do you think it is
finished?”

“No, very nearly, but no. Actually, I thought you might finish it
today. I wanted to see it.” She is now studying me, somehow taking measure,
again a practiced, trained look that is full of intensity and intelligence. I
have an uncomfortable sense of being an art object.

I continue to probe in another direction. “The Thing on the lawn,
is it art or a mess?”

“I would say it is definitely art.” She rushes to reassure me yet
I have almost lost interest in the Thing since something else of breath-taking
interest, an unknown girl who seems nearly a reborn Katia, is sitting in my
living room. What mysterious symmetries hover over our lives, phantom lights in
the middle of darkness.

“I may finish it later,” I say. “I did suspect it was unfinished.
Another idea has taken hold of me, however, and I may go ahead with it
instead.”

“Is it your first sculpture?”

“Yes,
indeed!
I have
never, ever
made such an awful
ruckus and mess in public before in my very long life.”

She smiles and is silent, weighing some unknown issue carefully.
“Is it therapy?”

“I’m not sure if it is therapy, outrageousness or madness. I will
judge by the final result.” She continues to smile, still subtly delineating a
possibility in her mind. Her eyes travel over my face again and again. It is
delicious to be scrutinized so carefully, yet I do not want this child to see
the unholy terror of my emotions.

“I was wondering . . .” she hesitates, “if I might do a painting
of you. Your face is so distinctive, strong and proud. You are very beautiful
in that way. You would not need to pose or be still. I could work while you
do.” Again her lovely eyes are all over me, restless and hungry as an animal or
an artist. How utterly like Katia!

I look away and close my eyes as powerful emotions race through
me, now uncontrollable. A tear is running down my cheek.

“Oh, I
am
sorry!” she says suddenly. “You are grieving.
Perhaps I should not be here.”