The Fugitivities, стр. 68

PART FOUR

I run, but time’s

Abreast with me

—COUNTEE CULLEN

A letter to you from home. I’m resting for a few days. Came down with one of these flu things. Got it on the plane, I think. The delightful side of this is that now I have an excuse to lie around in bed catching up on my reading and writing to you! I suppose the first thing to tell you is that Mariam and I are now officially “on a break.” We’re still texting, but I know inside that it’s probably over. I’m unhappy with myself for not handling it better. The fact that she’s in London right now is probably for the best. But I miss her terribly. What if I’ve screwed up a relationship with the one person who could make me happy? How do you ever know for sure if a relationship is the one? I think I wanted so much to fall in love, to be in love, that I panicked when it felt like it might really be happening. The smallest things seem to make all the difference, the slightest alteration of a day’s plan and entire stories we might have lived just evaporate or materialize out of the void. For at least a week, I had this notion in my head that we would get married. We could go to Amsterdam, or Brussels, where it’s legal, and be part of this beautiful new era that’s opening before us. I sometimes have to stop and think about how extraordinary it is, what a time to be alive. All these new freedoms for love and acceptance expanding the picture of what a life could look like, what my life could be. The chance to be part of a historic moment. But I’m clearly not ready yet. Isn’t it strange? It’s like everything is possible now, there’s never been a better time, there’s never been so much hope, it’s never been so easy to communicate and travel, to have fun and meet people from everywhere. And yet, I still feel somehow trapped. More unsure and frustrated than ever, more afraid that things aren’t adding up toward something that will last. I secretly worry whether what I’m doing will be worthy of everything my parents and their parents did for me. Maybe there will never be an answer. It does feel good to be able to write to you about all this, though, because I know you’ll read this and smile when you think of me, so serious and philosophical-like, laid up in my bed with all these balls of tissue and my endless cups of tisane, writing feverishly to you while the dreary rain taps on my window. I suppose if all else fails, the one thing I can say is at least I have you. In our own way, at least we’ve had each other.

—A

18

Jonah stared out at the trucks passing by on the broiling highway. Little dust tornados swirled over the copper-colored land. Then, abruptly, grayish-green fields of corn or maize sprouted out of the baked earth. Occasionally they passed low gray factory complexes with corporate names stenciled on windowless facades. They slowed to a stop next to a truck-servicing station. From his window, Jonah watched sex workers in nylon shorts take languid steps back from the asphalt as the bus passed them by. The driver loudly announced “Trinta minutos” and stepped off. In the convenience area, there were various food stalls and aisles of packaged snacks, all with unfamiliar designs and names. Jonah picked up a bag of Yokitos and stared at the alligator apparently wearing a ball cap made from a leg of ham. The thought of ham-flavored potato chips made him slightly nauseous. He felt homesick. For New York. For Paris. For familiarity of any kind. His heart rose when the cashier told him where to find a computer with internet. He quickly checked his email. Arna had not written him back, and he wondered if something he said in his last email had put her off. He wrote a short note to Nathaniel Archimbald.

Dear Nate,

I know this will seem kind of random, but I’m writing you from a service area not far from the Brazilian/Uruguayan border. Rio was crazy, amazing, dangerous. My friend Octavio who was traveling with me fell in love in Porto Alegre, a city in the South, and now I’m continuing solo toward Montevideo, a bit of a relief as I have a stronger grasp of Spanish than Portuguese. Listen, man, I still have your letter to Laura, but I don’t know what to do with it. You and I both know the chances of me finding Laura are as likely as finding a lost penny on the beach. I don’t even know what she looks like, you know? Anyway, this next phase of my travels could be pretty unpredictable, and I don’t want anything to happen to the letter, so if you remind me of your address, I’d be happy to send it back.

Un abrazo from a lost brother,

Jonah

Back on the bus, Jonah’s window was now dark with night. He tried once again to sleep, and this time he succeeded. He dreamt that he was in Paris, in the projection booth. Yellowed movie posters floated in the darkness. The actors and actresses with their beautiful teeth no longer stared at each other full of rapture; they were staring at him, like a circle of mute lawyers. The Kinoton and its black snake whirred to life. A stock of silvery, crackling light wobbled against the screen, patiently clearing into the shape of Phineas sitting with his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette.

“Where am I going?” Jonah asked him.

Phineas took a drag but did not respond.

“What happened to you? Why did it all go south?”

Phineas looked out to a point in the