The Drive Page 13

  I sat down on the ground, overwhelmed.

  I’d seen another fire like it, three years before, on the other side of the world. It had been with Zuzska and Beatrice, near the end of my first trip to Prague. The week before I left, we took the train to Catalonia, with a few other travellers and expats. We stopped off in a fishing village called Portbou, on the French border. There were deep-hulled skiffs bobbing in the harbour, and tiny white houses packed together like salt crystals, and a bar called Ca La Feli, with a terrace where we drank Estrella Damm and Mahou and felt very sophisticated.

  The first night, a summer solstice festival was taking place. They had a cobla band and sardana dancers and free sangria and, at dusk, a firework display above the bay. We gathered with the locals to watch. In the middle of the finale, one of the rockets tipped over and went astray. It streaked like a burning snake towards a nearby hill, where it burrowed into the underbrush and began thrashing around, stirring up flames. From there the fire spread, overtaking the entire hillside. Up and down the beach, Spanish children cheered and screamed. The town’s only fire engine was dispatched. Volunteers made a half-hearted attempt to tame the flames, while the band kept playing and the party carried on, as if the brushfire was simply part of the festivities.

  Down on the dance floor, with all that going on in the background, Zuzska and I started a fire of our own. I can’t even remember what triggered it. Some imagined slight, maybe. Or a throwaway remark that caught on and ignited. Pretty soon we were hissing and sputtering, screaming insults at one another, raging among the revellers. Eventually Zuzska blew up and shot off, like a human bottle rocket, trailing a blaze of red hair behind her. I stayed on the dance floor, still smouldering, until Bea came looking for me.

  ‘I’m not letting you fuck up like this!’ she shouted over the music. She pressed her forehead against mine, as if she wanted to headbutt me. Bea was capable of doing that, too. ‘She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and you know it. Now go find her.’

  I did. It wasn’t hard. Zuzska was sitting down at the seashore, weeping like a water nymph. I got it into my head that the only way we could make up was by going swimming. We could douse ourselves and cool our rage that way. Zuzska swore at me, told me it was a stupid idea. Then she started to strip. She peeled off her top and shed her skirt, so fast that I’d barely unbuckled my belt before she’d left me on shore. I undressed and swam after her. A haze of smoke hung above the bay, and the water was filled with phosphorescence. Zuzska streaked on ahead, streaming green from her legs, her arms. She swam into the middle of the bay, hundreds of yards from shore, and stopped to wait. As I drew level she grabbed me and wrapped her limbs around me and started kissing me. I couldn’t support us both and we sank down together, all entangled, sharing oxygen. I opened my eyes, and in the underwater murk I saw bubbles, glittering green flecks, her blurred face, the diffusion of flames on the surface. We kept kissing desperately, even after our air ran out, even after we could no longer breathe.

  I’d never known love could feel so much like drowning.

  Squatting there in the road, and thinking of that other fire, I began to wonder what had caused this one. It could have been lightning, but more likely it had been a moment of carelessness: an untended campfire, a dropped match, or a cigarette like the one I’d tossed out the window. That had been miles back, but if the authorities really wanted to they could add the fire to the list of things to pin on me, along with the car crash, and the eagle. Even if this particular disaster wasn’t my fault, it might as well have been.

  I eased the car to the roadside, popped the trunk, and grabbed a mickey from my stash of bargain booze. I sat on the asphalt, with my back against the passenger door, and took a sip. Without meaning to, I’d picked gin – Zuzska’s favourite. It tasted of her lips, and of her drunken gin-kisses on our nights together.

  Next to the road, where the fire must have started, the brush had burned to cinders. Further out it was still blazing. Flakes of ash fluttered down from the sky like black snow. It peppered my face and forearms, landed in my lap and hair. I closed my eyes and stayed like that, relishing the scent of smoke, savouring the crackle-snap of flames. It was so warm and comforting, that fire, smouldering in the dark like a memory.

  chapter 34

  By morning the fire had burned itself out. Threads of smoke wove up from the blackened ground, and the sky had a milky hue, like a rheumatic eye. I hacked my morning dart and mashed it out in the Neon’s ashtray. From then on, I was always careful to do that.

  As I drove along, I assumed the wasteland would give way to living brushland again, but that didn’t happen. Instead the burnt remains turned grey and crumbled into ash, as if the fire had passed that way long ago. The ash became dust, and dirt, and eventually I realised I was driving through a desert. Not the kind of desert you see in cartoons, with endless rolling sand dunes, but a real desert. The ground was parched and pockmarked by rocks. The only plants were big sagebrush shrubs and clumps of ragweed, bent sideways by the wind.

  I pulled over, got out, and unfolded my map across the hood. I’d never heard of a desert in southern Oregon, but there is one, apparently – the Great Sandy Desert. Further south lay Black Rock Desert and Smoke Creek Desert, in Nevada. There were tons of deserts in that area. I folded up the map and looked around. The actual name didn’t really matter. It was a desert, and I was in it. That was okay. So long as I kept going, and didn’t run out of gas, I figured I’d be fine.

  In the desert, I kept expecting to see some typical desert animals: geckos perched on rocks, or rattlesnakes shaking their tails at the roadside, or buzzards gliding in spirals overhead. But there weren’t any. The only signs of life I saw were actual signs: road signs and speed limit signs and mileage signs. The mileage signs listed the distances to upcoming destinations in descending order. Reno was always at the bottom. Every road led to Reno, apparently. But it was still nearly five hundred miles away, and I had to drive it alone. A few times, I glanced over at the passenger seat, hoping Zuzska might appear, but she never did. She was gone.

  ‘I wish I had some company,’ I said.

  My wish came true. Around mid-morning, I spotted what looked like a heap of clothes at the roadside. As I got closer, I saw that it was a man asleep in the sand. He was lying on his back, with a shirt draped over his face and one hand held out, thumb up, as if he’d dozed off while trying to hitch.

  I pulled over. The sound of the engine must have woken him, because he sprang up and gathered his things. He had a shoulder bag and a backpack. From the sides of the pack dangled pots and pans, clipped to metal karabiners. As he trotted over to the car I rolled down the passenger window, and he crouched to peer in. He was wearing a pair of aviator shades, with lenses like mirrors. I could see myself reflected back in them. He looked fairly young. About my age, maybe.

  ‘Where you headed?’ I asked.

  ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘South.’

  ‘South is good.’

  I hopped out to pop the trunk. Then I remembered that I had a dead eagle back there, and a loaded pistol. I told him he could stash his stuff in the back. He laid his backpack on the seat, but kept his shoulder bag with him. It was a faded blue satchel with the US Postal Service logo on the flap. A mailbag. It didn’t really go with the rest of the outfit he had on: a linen shirt, khakis, and Birkenstock sandals. All his clothes were covered in a layer of desert dust.

  He slid into the passenger seat, and we started driving.

  ‘Man, I’m parched,’ he said, fastening his seatbelt. ‘You got any water?’

  ‘I got road pops. Lucky Lager.’

  ‘Lucky’s good.’

  ‘They’re in the back.’

  He fished one out, drained it in about thirty seconds, then helped himself to another. As he drank, I angled my rear-view to get a better look at him. His face was lean and sunbrowned, and his lips were a bit chapped. After a minute or so he pushed his sunglasses up, resting
them on his forehead. He had a raccoon-eyed tan and boyish features that looked a bit familiar, somehow.

  ‘Say,’ he said, ‘how about some music?’

  ‘The radio doesn’t work.’

  ‘Are you sure? Maybe I can fix it.’

  He reached for the dial, and I caught his wrist. I wasn’t breaking my vow of silence, even for a guest.

  ‘I said it doesn’t work.’

  He retracted his hand. Carefully. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  After that, he was quiet for a while. We both were. He sat with one arm folded over his mailbag, holding it against his abdomen. Every few miles he’d fiddle with the buckles and look inside, as if checking that the contents were safe, then close it up again.

  ‘Cool bag,’ I said. ‘Did you used to be a postman or something?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He took a slug of beer, and burped. ‘And, if I was a postman, I still might have one letter to deliver.’

  I slowed down, glancing at him. ‘To who?’

  ‘Somebody important.’

  ‘Can’t you just mail it?’

  ‘I don’t trust the postal service. The contents are too valuable.’

  He caught me eyeing his bag, and shifted it over to his right hip, away from me – as if he thought I might try to snatch it. He said, ‘This is one letter I’ve got to deliver by hand.’

  ‘Is that where you’re going?’

  ‘I’ve got a good game we can play,’ he said. ‘Let’s pretend to know everything about each other, all the boring stuff you ask strangers when you first meet. Where you’re from, what you do, where you’re going. We know all that. It’s like we’re already old friends or brothers. So we can only say interesting and refreshing things. How does that sound?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  He sat gazing out the window for a minute. I couldn’t figure out if he was waiting for me to begin the game or what. But then he put his hand to his forehead, acting like an oracle, and said, ‘The only journey is the one within.’

  I shifted in my seat. ‘That’s pretty deep.’

  A minute later, he came out with another one. ‘Lose yourself and find the key.’

  He was good, this guy. He’d obviously played the game before. I tried to think of something that would impress him.

  ‘It’s best to take the road less travelled,’ I said.

  ‘You didn’t make that up.’

  ‘I didn’t know that was part of your game.’

  ‘I don’t think you really get my game.’

  He yawned and slid down in his seat. I kept waiting for him to say something else, but his head slowly sank lower, until his chin was resting on his chest. I assumed he was asleep, until he murmured, almost to himself, ‘The road heals all wounds.’

  ‘Don’t you mean time?’

  He didn’t answer. He’d nodded off. As he slept, his head bobbed around like one of those dashboard dolls. For about half an hour or so I drove and smoked and zoned out to the hypnotic movement of the road. I didn’t realise he’d woken up until he started talking again.

  ‘I’ve got a theory,’ he announced. Lacing his fingers, he pressed his palms towards the windshield to stretch out his arms and back. ‘You know when something really weird happens, and you just accept it and say, “Wow, that was weird”?’

  ‘Kind of,’ I said.

  ‘Well, what if you didn’t just accept it? What if you really thought about it, and searched for the hidden meaning in it?’

  ‘Like what?’

  He looked out the window, tugging at his earlobe. ‘Say you order a new suit. A blue suit. But the company delivers a black suit instead. And, on the day it arrives, your relative dies.’ He turned to me. There were crow’s feet around his eyes. He was a little older than I’d first thought. ‘Symbolically, the two things are connected. That would be weird, right?’

  ‘Sure. A coincidence.’

  ‘But it’s not just a coincidence. It’s a meaningful coincidence. It’s as if the events in your life have aligned. Not through cause and effect, but in some other way. You get me?’

  I nodded. ‘Sure. It’s like when I picked you up. It was weird, finding you like that. You needed a ride, and I needed the company. And it all came together.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘That’s it. That is it.’

  ‘But as soon as you start thinking like that,’ I said, ‘couldn’t anything be meaningful? Any little coincidence or occurrence? Like, you blow your nose, and on the same day a plane crashes. You can pretend that means something, but it probably doesn’t.’

  He was peering at me with this shrewd Sherlock Holmes expression. ‘Are you a rationalist?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You sure talk like one.’

  He crossed his arms and stared straight ahead and gave me the silent treatment for a few minutes. Then he said, ‘It’s not actually my theory, anyway. It’s called synchronicity. A really smart guy named Carl Jung came up with it, okay?’

  I told him it was okay.

  We drove until the sun dropped from the sky and landed in a puddle of red on the horizon. Then the puddle drained away, leaving the world dark. I could see our reflections in the windshield. The yellowish glow of the dials and dashboard made us look like zombies.

  ‘When do you want to stop?’ I asked.

  ‘When do you want to stop?’

  Eventually we stopped. I told him that he was welcome to sleep in the car, but he said he’d rather sleep in his tent. As he unloaded his things, he spotted my visor on the back seat. He picked it up and tried it on. The flashing lights lit up his face, giving it a campfire flicker.

  ‘Sweet visor,’ he said. ‘Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Up north.’

  I walked around the car, took the visor back, and turned it off.

  ‘Want to trade for it? I got lots of cool stuff.’

  ‘No,’ I said, putting it in the trunk. ‘It means a lot to me.’

  ‘Don’t you know what they say about possessions?’

  ‘I have a feeling you do.’

  ‘Hold them in a flat palm, not in a clenched fist.’

  Hefting his bag on one shoulder, he trudged about twenty yards off. I cracked open a road pop and sat in the car, watching him through the window. He had one of those camping flashlights that you strap to your forehead. I could see it bobbing around as he worked away. When he crawled inside the tent, it lit up like a paper lantern, floating out there in the dark. I rolled down my window.

  ‘Goodnight,’ I called.

  A second later, the echo came back. ‘Goodnight.’

  The lantern winked out. I lowered my seat, and got comfortable. That was when I noticed. On the passenger seat beside me – practically right in front of my face – was his postbag. He must have forgotten it. I stared at it for a long time. Outside my car the desert was dark and quiet and still. I reached over and unbuckled the bag. There was a letter inside, just as he’d said. The envelope was worn and wrinkled, and the seal was open. I could easily have slipped the letter out, read it, and put it back without him ever knowing.

  I withdrew my hand and re-buckled the bag.

  chapter 35

  I heard pounding. Somebody was pounding on the window. I sat up in my seat. The hitcher was outside the car, dressed in his boxers, doing an excited little dance – like a firewalker prancing over hot coals. It was still before dawn and the desert landscape looked dull and grey as porridge. He continued pounding on the glass, using the meaty part of his palm.

  I reached over and opened the passenger door for him.

  ‘What’s up, man?’ I asked.

  He grabbed his postbag and glared at me. Suspiciously. ‘We’ll see what’s up, won’t we?’

  Crouching on the pavement, he unbuckled the clasps, withdrew the envelope, and studied the seal. Then he prised open the flap and peered inside, checking on the letter.

  I lit a Lucky and waited for him to finish.

  Aft
er a minute he slipped the envelope back in the bag, and buckled it. He climbed into the passenger seat and stared at me, his eyes quivering, his nose nearly touching mine.

  I yawned smoke. ‘How did you sleep?’

  He smiled. ‘How did you sleep?’

  We were still friends, apparently.

  As we drove along that morning, he got some beef jerky out and starting gnawing on it. He was eating teriyaki flavour – my favourite – and the smells of soy sauce and salt and spices filled my car, my nostrils, my head. Ever since I’d stopped eating, I’d become hyper-aware of food smells, as if my olfactory functions were working overtime.

  The hitcher tore off a strip of jerky and wagged it at me.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you eat breakfast?’

  ‘I’m not really eating anything these days.’

  ‘I totally understand.’ He popped the piece in his own mouth and chewed, looking thoughtful. ‘You didn’t read my letter.’

  ‘I wanted to.’

  ‘But your will was stronger than your desire.’ He was staring at me in that intense way of his again. ‘I left it there on purpose, you know. I needed to see if I could trust you.’

  ‘And do you trust me now?’

  He put his hand on my knee. ‘Do you trust me? Because I have something to show you. Better than the letter.’

  I said that I trusted him.

  ‘Then take this left.’

  There was a turn coming up. I hadn’t seen it, and don’t think he could have seen it, since he wasn’t even looking ahead. I guess he just knew that desert incredibly well.

  ‘Left! Go left!’

  I turned left.

  It was a one-lane road that dissolved into a dirt track. Then the track tapered off, and we were rattling over flat, open ground that was cracked and sun-baked, like old pottery. The hitcher leaned forward in his seat, shouting directions and encouragement at me.