Don’t stop, she said as he poured from the watering can the keys to houses she had never visited, drawers she could not unlock, cars reserved for others. Then coins from countries that appeared on none of her itineraries—Ukraine and Indonesia and Iran, not to mention Argentina and Brazil. And hoop earrings she would not be caught dead in, glass beads from a necklace worn by someone else, a silver brooch that made her heart ache. Don’t stop, she said when there was nothing left—and so he filled the can with water to sprinkle over the objects spread like seeds on the dining room table. One by one they sprouted into new lines of argument, and as they grew she raised her hands above her head, crying, Don’t stop.
What did they seek in the storeroom, garden, and bedroom? What drew them night after night to a shuttered house on the bluff above the sea, vowing to repair the damage caused by the shifting earth—cracks in the adobe, loosened tiles in the kitchen? Kiss the feet, the hand, the mouth: this was their credo, adapted from a text translated by an adjunct from the valley. Marry word and deed, he told them at the final exam. Weeks passed before they got his little joke, by which time he had taken another job out of state. They didn’t try to find him: there was too much to do. The rains were heavier than usual, uprooted trees slid down the bluff, and while they debated whether to reinforce the foundation the earth gave way in a wall of mud that covered the road, burying an empty tractor trailer and an armored car returning from the casino. They had no title to the house riding out to sea. The one song they knew had something to do with desire.
Oscula—this was the word on the tip of the tongue of the woman who refused to travel farther down the coast without assurances that she could film whatever she liked. The soldiers patrolling the beach were negotiating the terms of their surrender to the insurgents, who had invited her to join them for the march to the capital, and she was surprised by her mixture of emotions at the prospect of peace. The enticements of the sun and sea were parceled out among the families gathered on the shore, the fishermen lining the jetty, and the feverish man pulling a barrel full of monkeys down the boardwalk. He stopped to wipe his brow and saw, riding at anchor in the harbor, a ghost ship laden with medicine and provisions. There was an old man collecting coils of rope in the wrack and rocks below the hotel, which had been attacked on the first day of the war. How it remained open throughout the siege was a mystery to everyone but the manager, who cautioned guests not to leave their satchels under the table, or else they would lose their money. Wiggle your hips, throw something out—it was all the same to him. Diamonds vanished from the market, and no one seemed to mind. The soldiers laid down their weapons and removed their boots, posing for the camera. Kiss me, the woman said, remembering—and they did.