Hear the Wind Sing

27

I was having a bad dream.

I was a big black bird, flying west across the jungle. I had a deep wound, the black blood clinging to my wings. In the west I could see an ominous black cloud beginning to stretch out, and from there I could smell rain.

It was a long time since I’d had a dream. It had been so long that it took me a while to realize it was a dream.

I got out of bed, washed the horrible sweat off my body, and then had toast and apple juice for breakfast. Thanks to the cigarettes and the beer, my throat felt like it was full of old mothballs. After washing and putting away the dishes, I put on an olive green cotton jacket, a shirt I’d ironed as best I could, chose a black tie, and with the tie still in my hand I sat in the air conditioned parlor.

The television news announcer proudly declared that it was likely to be the hottest day of the summer. I turned off the television and went into my older brother’s room, picked a few books from his enormous pile of books, then took them back to the parlor where I plopped onto the sofa and stared at the words printed within.

Two years before, my brother left his roomful of books and his girlfriend and took off to America without so much as a word. Sometimes she and I ate together. She told me I was just like him.

“In what way?” I asked, surprised.

“In every way,” she said.

I probably was just like him. It was probably due to the ten-plus years of our polishing those shoes, I think.

The hour hand pointed to twelve, and after milling about and thinking about the heat outside I fastened my tie and put on my suit jacket.

I had lots of time to kill. I drove around town for a bit. The town was almost miserably long and narrow, starting at the sea and climbing into the mountains. River, tennis court, golf course, rows of estates lined up, walls and more walls, some nice little restaurants, boutiques, an old library, fields of primrose, the park with the monkey pen, the town was the same as ever. After driving around for a while on the road that wound its way into the mountains, I drove along the river towards the ocean, then parked my car at the mouth of the river and dipped my legs in the water to cool them off. There were two well-tanned girls on the tennis court, hitting the ball back and forth, wearing their white hats and sunglasses. The rays of the sun bringing the afternoon suddenly increased in intensity, and as they swung their rackets, their sweat flew out onto the court.

After watching them for five minutes, I went back to my car, put down my seat, and closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the waves mixing with the sound of the ball being hit.

The scent of the sea and the burning asphalt being carried on the southerly wind made me think of summers past. The warmth of a girl’s skin, old rock n’ roll, button-down shirts right out of the wash, the smell of cigarettes smoked in the pool locker room, faint premonitions, everyone’s sweet, limitless summer dreams. And then one year (when was it?), those dreams didn’t come back.

When I arrived at J’s Bar at exactly two o’ clock, the Rat was sitting on a guardrail reading Kazantzakis’ Christ Recrucified.

“Where’s the girl?” I asked.

He silently closed his book, got into his car, and put on his sunglasses and said, “She’s not coming.”

“Not coming?”

“Not coming.”

I sighed and loosened my necktie, pitched my jacket into the backseat, and lit a cigarette.

“So, where are we going?”

“The zoo.”

“Great,” I said.