Sanibel Flats

TWENTY-ONE

If it was a dream, it was like no dream he'd ever had.

Before him was an oblong space swollen with pearly light. The light came through in rays as well defined as laser beams, touching his face and his body with mild warmth. The area of incandescence dominated his view and filled the room—for he seemed to be in some kind of room, though he didn't turn his head to be sure. He could look only at the light, drawn to the refulgence like the jungle moths he sometimes thought about, the creatures that gathered one night of the year to fly toward the full moon.

Maybe I'm dead. . . .

He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all—not that he feared nonexistence, but more because of the implications of being bathed in celestial light. His pragmatic side rebelled at that, like the victim of a cosmic joke.

Something moved beside him, and he still did not turn his head. A shape came into view, gliding toward the source of the light. The shape sprouted arms, reached up, and the light was suddenly dimmed, as if curtains had been drawn. Then the thing with arms turned toward him and he could see that the shape was that of a woman; a woman dressed in white but with long black hair, though he couldn't see her clearly for his eyes refused to open completely. His eyelashes were a veil and he watched her glide toward him in soft focus. She reached out and he felt her fingers touch his face.

'Ford? Won't you please wake up? Ford, you dear ugly man.'

Ford felt he should struggle to answer, for now he recognized the voice and the voice fit the face. But he didn't struggle. He tried to speak but, when no words came, he simply lay there feeling oddly complacent and very tired, an observer, not a participant. He was having a dream and this woman was part of the dream, Pilar Balserio.

Now both of Pilar's hands were on his face and she was leaning over him. She kissed his lips softly. 'Do you know what the doctor says? The doctor says that sometimes people in a coma can hear everything. He says they have to be reminded that to get better all they have to do is open their eyes. So now I'm telling you: Wake up, Ford. Please. Come back to me now because there are things you should know and I must leave in just a few hours. Ford?' She waited as if expecting a response, then said, 'I may never have the chance to speak with you again.'

A reply formed in Ford's mind, though his lips still refused to transmit words. But he felt that that was all right; that she would understand. Couldn't she see that he was smiling?

There was a rustling noise, a sudden feeling of warmth, and Ford realized Pilar was lying beside him, her arm over his chest, holding him tight, her mouth against his ear. She was trembling; trembling and whispering into his ear so that it was as if her mind was speaking directly to his mind.

'I'm frightened, Ford. I've done so many bad things, but it hurts me most to know that I've hurt you. I want to tell you about those things—not because I want to share the guilt but because you are a rational man. You have a right to know. I won't add confusion to the pain I have already caused you. The night before you left, the night we made love . . . I'm the one who arranged for the guards to knock on my door at that hour. That's why you had to run. I knew that once I had loved you, really loved you in the way I wanted, I wouldn't have the strength to make you leave me once more. But it was necessary. It was necessary for my work. For my country. For my people. So I arranged for the guards in advance, not trusting myself. Does that make you hate me, you ugly man?'

Ford wanted to stir, to hold her, but he just lay there feeling the words. How could he hate her now for what he had already guessed?

'There is more you should know. I should tell you about the book. You brought it to me once, and I feel that someday you will return it to my people again. You understand my meaning; I'm sure that you understand. The book was stolen not long after I had finished translating it. It was taken by a man who cared only for the power it would give him. He wanted it as an artifact, a thing to show the people and help unite them in his drive for power. My people revere such artifacts and would attach great importance to the person who possessed it. But this man was a devil and I'm glad that you had a hand in killing him.' Avoiding the general's name, but speaking of him with disgust while, in Ford's mind, the image of Zacul's face, those insane eyes, flashed for a moment, then faded as Pilar continued to talk.

'The book was a disappointment to me, Ford. It held no answers, it told very few secrets. But in ways— strange ways, ways that you would laugh at—it predicted the future of my people. It is because of the book that I knew so clearly what I must do. Other things became necessary. Some good things, some terrible. I arranged for my own husband's death. I murdered him. I am a murderess. I confess to you what I can confess to no priest because you, as no one I have ever met, are like me. You are a rational person and you know all the pain that that implies; all the loneliness. I killed him for the greater good, but I still feel the guilt, Ford. I wish you could talk to me and make me feel better. I wish we could talk as we did those nights on the beach. Did you know that the first time we sat talking was the first time since childhood that the loneliness in me disappeared? It was as if I had been waiting for you—you, a great ugly gringo older than me. Who knows why such things happen? But I could feel your words in my soul.'

Then she lay silent for a long time, holding him. Ford could feel her soft breast on his arm; the thudding of her heart moved through him. His mind began to drift as he tried to focus on the expanse of light again, and he would have thought she had disappeared were it not for her steady heartbeat. Then she said, 'There is something else I would like to tell you, Ford. But I can't because my life isn't my own. Do you know what makes me angry? My life has never been my own.' She stood and leaned over him and Ford felt her lips on his. 'I love you, Ford. I will always love you. ...'

Then the dream was gone.

So why were there angels singing?

Dis manibus sacrum, ad astra per aspera ...

Singing in Latin, their voices blended and wind-soft.

Cras cimet qui nunquam amavit quique amavit eras amet . . .

Ford could feel the resonance of the chant seeping up through the floor, through the walls, surrounding him like a veil or the spirit of life itself.

Then he was sitting up, blinking his eyes. Before him was the oblong form which had once burned with light. It was a window, gray with the dusk beyond. The crown of a palm tree drifted into view, then drifted away again, rocking in the wind. Thus he knew that he was on the second floor. He knew that he was alive. But he could still hear the haunting cadence of the Latin chant.

Adeste, fideles, laeti triumpliantes . . .

He was in a small room of wood and stone. The walls were whitewashed but not decorated. There was a dresser with a ceramic water basin and a silver crucifix. He lay in a simple bed with wooden footposts and beside the bed was a door. The door was open and the sound of women's voices came floating through.

Ford's brain scanned for an explanation, trying to figure out where he was, why he was here. Then he remembered Zacul and the explosion, and he decided that he must have been injured. In a slight panic, he took inventory of his limbs. His arms, his legs were in place, but his head hurt. He touched his head and found that it was wrapped with gauze. But there was only one small tender spot, toward the back, where the bandage was heaviest, and that was a relief. He tried to swing his legs off the bed but felt a sudden thrust of pain in his groin. Momentarily frightened, he threw back the sheet and looked beneath the long white nightshirt he wore. A catheter tube had been inserted into him. It was an unattractive thing to see, his member shriveled as if trying to hide while ingesting this sterile plastic tube, but there was no apparent injury. There were scissors on the table beside the bed, and Ford snipped the Y-prong. While water drained from it, he took a deep breath and pulled the tube out.

'Ye-ouch.' Swearing softly and already feeling better for the sound of his own voice.

Ford got to his feet slightly dizzy but strong enough. He followed the walls down the hall, the stone floor cold on his feet. When the singing grew louder, he knelt and looked through the stone portals that promoted air circulation, common in the old buildings of Central America. In the room below was a domed circular chamber designed in the old days for acoustical effect. There were nuns in the room, their heads bowed, hands folded. They wore white habits and veils, walking slowly and in step around the perimeter of the room as they chanted.

He was in a convent. But it wasn't cloister La Conception, the convent outside the Presidential Palace in Masagua City. He had never been here before; he recognized nothing outside the window. He