XLV. PHOTOGRAPHS: LIKE AND NOT LIKE

It was a photograph just like the old days. Or was it?

 

He slid off the bed quickly. Thorns all around him black and glistening

 

but he passed through unhurt

 

and out the door pulling his overcoat around him as he went. Corridor deserted

 

except for a red EXIT sign at the end.

 

Pressing hard on the spring bar of the door he stepped out into a blood-colored dawn.

 

Not the parking lot. He was in the debris

 

of the hotel garden. Ruined roses of every variety paused stiffly on their stalks.

 

Dry blades of winter fennel clicked

 

in the cold air and swung low over the ground shedding feathery gold stuff.

 

What is that smell?

 

Geryon was thinking and then he saw Ancash. At the bottom of the garden on a bench

 

built into a big pine tree. Sitting

 

motionless with knees under his chin and arms folded on his knees. Eyes stayed

 

on Geryon as he crossed the garden,

 

hesitated then sat down on the ground in front of the bench. ’Día, said Geryon.

 

Ancash regarded him silently.

 

Look as if you didn’t sleep much, said Geryon.

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Kind of cold out here aren’t you cold just sitting still?

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Maybe we could go get some breakfast.

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Or just walk downtown sure would like some coffee.

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

 

Geryon studied the ground in front of him for a while. Drew a small diagram

 

in the dirt with his finger.

 

Looked up. His eyes met Ancash’s eyes and they both rose at once and Ancash hit

 

Geryon as hard as he could

 

across the face with the flat of his hand. Geryon stumbled backwards and Ancash hit

 

him again with the other hand

 

knocking Geryon to his knees. He’s ambidextrous! thought Geryon with admiration

 

as he scrambled to his feet swinging

 

wildly. He would have landed a punch on the pine tree and broken his hand

 

had Ancash not caught him.

 

They swayed together and balanced. Then Ancash unlaced his arms and stood back.

 

With the front of his shirt

 

he wiped snot and blood from Geryon’s face. Sit, he said pushing Geryon to the bench.

 

Put your head back.

 

Geryon sat and leaned his head against the trunk of the tree.

 

Don’t swallow, said Ancash.

 

Geryon stared up through pine branches at Venus. All the same, he thought, I’d like

 

to punch someone.

 

So, said Ancash daubing at the bright purple mark on Geryon’s right cheekbone.

 

Geryon waited.

 

You love him? Geryon thought about that. In my dreams I do. Your dreams?

 

Dreams of the old days.

 

When you first knew him? Yes, when I—knew him.

 

What about now?

 

Yes—no—I don’t know. Geryon pressed his hands over his face then let them fall.

 

No it’s not there now.

 

They were quiet awhile then Ancash said, So.

 

Geryon waited.

 

So what’s it like—Ancash stopped. He began again. So what’s it like fucking him now?

 

Degrading, said Geryon

 

without a pause and saw Ancash recoil from the word.

 

I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that,

 

said Geryon but Ancash was gone across the garden. At the door he turned.

 

Geryon?

 

Yes.

 

There is one thing I want from you.

 

Tell me.

 

Want to see you use those wings.

 

A silence tossed itself across the tall gold heads of the fennel stalks between them.

 

Into this silence burst Herakles.

 

Conchitas! he cried stepping out the exit door. Buen’ día! Then he saw Ancash’s face

 

and looked toward Geryon and paused.

 

Ah, he said. Geryon was groping in the bottom of his huge coat pocket. Ancash pushed

 

past Herakles. Vanished into the hotel.

 

Herakles looked at Geryon. Volcano time? he said. In the photograph the face of

 

Herakles is white. It is the face

 

of an old man. It is a photograph of the future, thought Geryon months later when he

 

was standing in his darkroom

 

looking down at the acid bath and watching likeness come groping out of the bones.