Here is a continuation of "Bahati" (after a few false starts).
Brent
She was an applied researcher, highly regarded in her field, he was a liaison. He in pursuit, she absorbed in work, uninterested. They never really hit it off. Circumstances forced them together on an unscheduled day date. His diary read:
'We fixed a day date and walked along the trail at the Watchung Reservation. A long talk with Bahati. She doesn't like it at Starmount. I told her about a place in The Rockies.
My heart sings when I am with her. I want to be serious with her but I don't know how. I love her walk, her hair, her sense of humour. She is intelligent, beautiful and unreachable. Everything I am is nothing compared to her. Anything I say she can dissect it with her wit. If I tell her how I feel, I think she will make fun of me. How do I tell her?'
An unkempt man comes into the store. His jacket creased, pants unpressed, trainers tattered. The attendant looks at him disapprovingly. He shuffles to the counter, searches his pockets for change and asks for some whiskey. He hands over the cash, holds the bottle in his hand and looks at it. Slowly he makes his way to the door. Chill winds seek out and disperse the lingering warmth of the store. He shivers in the wind, pauses outside the store and looks again at the liquor.
The door opens behind him. The attendant says, "Come on. Get a move on. I don't want your type loitering near here." She shuts the door.
He moves on in a slow shamble.
Bahati sorted her hire car out, packed some oddments plus her hand held reader. There were few personal effects in her apartment. All in all, not much more than a suitcase.
The road to the Rockies was a long gruelling drive. They took it in turns driving. Brent took the first shift. Nervous about travelling through the larger cities, he kept on the Interstate 80, past Chicago. Then Bahati took over, going past Des Moines and not bearing North for Interstate 90 until they were almost on Omaha. Around Sioux City they took a break.
Autumn had advanced. It was late afternoon and a chill westerly wind was scattering the leaves. They walked through Beadle Park, the sound of traffic muted by the sliver of grass and trees between East 10th and 11th Streets.
Bahati, tired but inquisitive asked Brent, "So your friend, the one with the Cabin, what was his name again?"
Brent breathed deep of the chill air before replying, "Wahchinksapa."
Bahati's braids were tossed about in the wind.
"Isn't that a Sioux name?"
"I suppose so. I never really thought about it."
"Have you known him a long time?"
The flower beds were empty, cleared of this summer's growth.
"On and off since I entered the service."
"Do you work together?
"Oh no! He left years ago."
"Why?"
"I never asked. He seemed the kind of bright guy that would do well, but he didn't have good rapport with the suits."
"How did he come to get the house?"
He looked at her. There was an inner glow to her eyes, to the expression on her face.
"It's more of a cabin really. I never asked the details. All his family live around there. I remember that whenever he took vacations he would spend time over there. I've been over once or twice."
"How long can we stay?"
"Open ended. As long as we want, or until we find somewhere better. The only proviso is that if his ranger duties bring him there, we keep a guest room ready for him."
There followed an exchange about décor. Bahati, ever bright and inquisitive, wanted to know his tastes. Brent had no preferences. He hoped she would suggest things from her African heritage but was too shy to suggest it.
The day dissolved into an afternoon of harsh winds, mixed with the occasional warmth of a hot coffee.
Outside the settlement is an old barn. A dishevelled man wanders into the barn. He is not old but he wears the damage inside him like a mantle. He settles in a corner and takes the bottle of whiskey from his pocket. The label on the bottle is meaningless to him, but in the bottle are dreams. He looks at the bottle. Another reach into his pocket produces a music player. He listens. A sad smile creases his face, and then fall the tears. For a while he looks away from the bottle then he caresses it to his chest. He hugs his knees to him as his body convulses into a spasm of sobs.
The music ends. He looks again at the bottle, opens it slowly. A smell of alcohol tantalises him. Reaching down, he restarts his music player. Then he raises the bottle to his lips, takes a small sip. Cheap whiskey burns his throat and makes its way to his stomach. A warmth spreads over him. He huddles further into the straw and nurses the bottle.
Bahati and Brent would spend time fixing up the cabin. Sometimes they would drive into Cody and pick up tools or ornaments for the garden. The time would flow in an endless dream. There would always be more chores about the home.
Brent would ask her about her African heritage. Sometimes she would demur. Occasionally she would tell him of the project. Her descriptions of the world building tools didn't interest him, but he loved to hear her talk.
They would idle in the garden and reset the garden furniture. Then Bahati would tell him why she loved it here. She would describe the flowering of bloom in springtime, the passage of spring into summer and how the mildness of the weather was so suitable to her temperament and her complexion.
When they had fixed up the place, made it more like a home, he would look for some work. The troubles of the world couldn't reach them here. Summer was chased away by autumn and in turn, the falling of leaves presaged the onset of the colder months.
A bitterly cold wind blows the straw about. There is a noise outside. One of the reservation guides walks into the barn.
The guide spots him and says, "You can't stay here."
The disdain in the guide's face is clear.
He is still young but the cold saps his vitality. Shivering, he gets up. His eyes averted, he mumbles an apology and shambles out of the barn.
The music player needs to be recharged. He heads back to the cabin.
On the path to the cabin he remembers. He has been here before. He turns to a tree stump, under which is a hollow. Reaching past a clump of leaves he retrieves a part filled bottle of liquor.
He caresses the bottle in his pocket. The cabin is close...
A figure moved through the undergrowth. The set of cariatides were broken, marred and falling into ruin by the passing of time; but still the water flowed.
He was aware of the changes to shadows and shapes, the constant sussuration of the wind, all the sounds of night.
He approached the building. The doors were sealed. Around the circumference of the building he moved. There was a slight creaking sound behind him. He froze and turned round slowly. The wind blew again, a dead branch abraded its neighbours. He continued his circuit. Windows and doors were sealed. He retreated back to garden. By the ruin of the cariatides was un banc italien. He sat and rested, opened his knapsack and lifted out his diary. The facility, abandoned long ago, was a place of danger; but he needed to know what had happened, how things fell out.
Another sound behind him. The garden seemed to fade. He turned, rose. In front of him a barely remembered face from security.
The figure asked, "Brent? Why are you here?"
He couldn't answer.
"You know the agreement, no return, no contact."
He felt a pang of shame.
"Listen Brent," the figure said, "we had to get rid of you."
A feeling of crushing fear hammered at him.
"You were a nuisance. If I am honest you were no good at your job. Why do you think we gave you all the dumb assignments?"
He tried to explain about Bahati but struggled to express himself.
"And as for Bahati, what do you honestly think one of our top research staff could see in you. You're a dead end loser and never fit in. Now why don't you just fuck-off and honour your side of the deal?"
He flounders and wakes, cold and nervous. His head is spinning, mouth sour with stale alcohol. Against the wall the empty bucket sits accusingly. Brent looks away and searches his pockets. The bottle is gone, perhaps consumed. He searches for more change but there is none.
The dream comes back to him. It reminds him of the bad times and the less bad times a blur of weeks, months and years. He had never plucked the courage to seek Bahati again, had left without her and she had been caught up in the troubles back East. The weight of the past threatens to crush him.
He tells himself, "No. It wasn't like that. It never happened that way."
The heart of hopelessness beckons and he can't look away. He needs her so badly. Feeling the pressure boiling up inside him, he must do something, anything. The weather isn't great but Brent goes out. Winter is approaching.
A ranger and a native to the land, Wahchinksapa approaches the cabin and opens the door. It is unlocked. The cabin is untidy, nowhere is clean. Brent's music player rests upon the table. It is out of charge. Brent is not about. Wahchinksapa sighs, puts the music player to recharge and sets about cleaning up. He fills the empty bucket, unused until today, with water from the well ready for boiling. He waits and reflects.
Brent turned up here with his prized possession, the bucket; but no girl. There were many victims of the troubles back East.
The tidying finished, Wahchinksapa stays the night and leaves the next morning.
Winter passes. The snows recede. Wahchinksapa's ranger work brings him back to the cabin. He enters. The music player still rests on the table, nothing is out of place.
He will organise a search party but considers that Brent is finally with his beloved Bahati.
He picks up the music player, switches it on and listens. It has enough charge to play the opening refrain of a haunting twentieth century ballad:
I have a dream, that you'll come to me
Just like the sun, like the morning wondrous to see
So let me wake, to a golden sun
Cold are our dreams, when we wake to no-one...
As sung by Ioanna (Nana) Mouskouri
Words and music to 'I have a dream (toi qui me ressembles)' are by Blaness / Kretzner / Fugain / Delanoe.
Part of the mandat culturel cycle
07/10/2009
© Terence Park 2009