eBook
Related collections and offers
Overview
For middle-aged Cecilia, the rainforest represents both solace and tenuously controlled danger, as she discovers when she follows the same path each day from her hotel at a Brazilian spa into the surrounding jungle. Although her daily forays are designed to help leave her painful past behind, Cecilia’s thoughts return to her deceased husband, her drug-addicted son, and her own place in the world. These thoughts are her only company until the present intrudes once more in the unlikely form of a fellow patient at the spa, a North American man who might represent a second chance.
In The Rainforest, the award-winning novelist Alicia Steimberg offers the reader new definitions of happiness and mature love—or perhaps simply the reassurance that in life, nothing is ever quite as terrible as one fears or quite as glorious as one remembers.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780803209930 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Nebraska Press |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2006 |
| Series: | Latin American Women Writers |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 240 KB |
About the Author
Alicia Steimberg was born in 1933 in Buenos Aires, the descendant of Eastern European Jewish immigrants to Argentina. She received an advanced education and training in English and has worked for many years as a professional translator. Her own literature has a clear autobiographical component, and she has earned a reputation as one of Argentina’s best contemporary writers. In 1992 she was awarded the prestigious Premio Planeta Biblioteca del Sur for her novel Cuando digo Magdalena, since translated into English and available in the Bison Books edition, Call Me Magdalena.
Andrea G. Labinger is a professor of Spanish and the director of the honors program at the University of La Verne in Southern California. Her many translations include Alicia Steimberg’s Call Me Magdalena and Carlos Cerda’s An Empty House, also available in a Bison Books edition.
Read an Excerpt
The Rainforest
By Alice Steimberg
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright © 2006
University of Nebraska Press
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-8032-9329-1
Chapter One
I'm in the rainforest, and it's very hot and humid; at times a warm
drizzle falls. Eyes closed, I lift my face to catch the water and drink
a little, while a steel-blue and cadmium-yellow macaw watches
me without turning its head. This is how I spend my days, among
charming monkeys, benevolent serpents, motionless parrots, and
foliage that enfolds me. With each step I take, flower-laden branches
envelop me. I'd gladly remain here, tasting raindrops and picking
the occasional fruit from the lowest branches. The fruit resembles
chirimoyas, mangos, bananas.
There's no danger of getting lost in the rainforest. My compass
guides me whenever it's time to return. I know I have to head east,
and in fifteen minutes I'm in the clearing where the hotel is located.
As you approach the hotel in the afternoon, you can smell dinner:
there's always rice with vegetables and meat, poultry, or seafood,
everything seasoned with fragrant herbs. They raise the fowl in a
chicken coop out back. I love to go in there and steal a freshly laid
egg for the next morning's breakfast. The chickens here don't get a
balanced diet, just natural food, so they have that marvelous, old-fashioned
flavor and aroma. It reminds me of an educational poster
I always used to look for in thelibrary of the teacher's college when
I was studying for my degree. The poster was old and worn: it
almost certainly dated back to the nineteenth century when the
school was founded, and I used it for a demonstration lesson for an
elementary school class. It showed some multicolored chickens and
a magnificent rooster, illuminated by a sunbeam streaming across a
wire fence. In those hectic, tense years of my youth, when it frightened
me to realize that I didn't know what I wanted (I'm practically
an old woman now, and I'm still not sure), that chicken coop picture
was like a refuge. As a girl, I used to get sick quite often, and
Mama was convinced that the country, with its fresh air, was the key
to good health. After coming down with measles (regular and German),
tonsillitis, and various forms of flu, they brought me to a
house with a chicken coop like this one (I don't know where it was
- kids follow their parents just as chicks trot after hens - all I know
is that we used to travel by train to a sunny little town where the
house was). There I would faithfully spy through the wire fence on
the birds, their chicks, and their eggs, their perennial reproduction
of life.
The place where I am now is, to be precise, a convalescent facility,
although no one uses that term to describe it. They simply call it
"the spa." After a whole day of long walks in the rainforest, I appreciate
what I see when I return to the hotel: rough-hewn furniture, a
large mirror with a moth-specked frame, the tables in the little dining
room, my room and my bed. The recommendation is to sleep
on a mattress on the floor, Japanese-style, but that strikes me as a bit
too ascetic. I sleep soundly in the bed and awaken to the singing of
birds and the fragrance of honeysuckle. I thought I'd have to wear
high boots in order to avoid mosquito bites, but none of that's necessary
because this is a safe rainforest. There are ants, true, but I
suppose they have some ecological purpose. There they go, marching
in long rows, always so disciplined, each one carrying its little
leaf or petal. I don't admire or torture them anymore, as I did when
I was a kid, but sometimes, since I have nothing else to do with my
time, I get the urge to pick up an ant and place it way back at the end
of the line, ever so carefully. How would I feel if an enormous hand
were to lift me up and deposit me at the end of the line at the bank
or the post office? I think loneliness and the warm, humid, slightly
enervating climate that always makes me feel like I'm about to fall
asleep are responsible for these silly ideas. When I go back to the
hotel at sunset, I sink into a wooden tub full of warm water strewn
with huge flower petals.
I wear low-necked dresses, loose and comfortable, because of
the heat, which is constant. I've learned to perspire without feeling
grubby. I have breakfast and dinner at the hotel without exchanging
a word with a group of pale Finns who occupy the other tables. I
don't understand the language of the locals - dark-skinned, dark-haired
people with black, black eyes, and I don't understand Finnish,
either. The friends who recommended this place to me told me
about the Finns: they come here for reasons like mine; only they
don't suffer from confusion but, rather, from a suicidal sadness that
descends on them from the cold and the leaden sky they have to
endure in their country ten months of the year.
I glance at my watch: six p.m. Leaves and flowers brush my arms,
and my tears mingle with the raindrops that have begun to fall. I cry
and feel better. I can't see the sky, just the tops of the tall trees and a
monkey swinging from a branch. What I wouldn't give right now to
be alone on a sultry afternoon, with a storm threatening, at the
Buenos Aires Zoo, breathing in the scent of the animals by an algae-covered
lake. I lie down on a bed of leaves at the foot of a colossal
tree and fall asleep. When I awaken, I see that it's grown dark enough
to start back. When a little light filters through the branches, I realize
I'm close to the clearing. Before leaving my solitude behind, I let
out a scream that's like a howl.
Evening. A bath in the wooden tub in my room. The Ambrée soap
that I bought at the duty-free shop lies on a wicker chair next to the
tub, where they've also left a good, rough towel. I've taken off my
dress and underwear and thrown them on the mosaic tile floor. At
home I wouldn't tolerate those crumpled, rain-soaked garments
piled up on the floor for even one minute, but here I've succumbed
to indolence. Anyway, there's always someone around to take care
of my things. When I get back to this room after dinner, they'll have
picked it all up, and everything will be in order: the bed turned
down, an After Eight mint on the pillow, like a talisman against
barbarism.
After I dry myself off, I toss the used towel on the floor with the
rest of the stuff and dress for dinner in clothing that's been impeccably
washed and ironed by the hotel staff. A dress very similar to
the one I took off, only a different color. My daily wardrobe consists
of six short, loose dresses in pastel shades: Nile green, old rose, light
blue, cream, chalk white, cerise. Sleeveless, square-necked. A few
pair of flimsy sandals, or else I go barefoot. I use only citrus fragrances;
it's impossible to consider heavier perfumes in this constant
heat. I've arranged my cosmetics, combs, and brushes on the
unfinished wooden stand in the bathroom.
My table in the dining room is next to a large window through
which you can see only the garden, with its ancient palm trees. I like
that: my long daily walk among leafy trees is sufficient for me. At
each table there's always a basket overflowing with fruit; the recommendation
is to eat at least two pieces of fruit before the rice dish.
The fruits resemble those we're familiar with, but, like the chickens,
they're larger and tastier. I choose something that looks like a banana,
and a fruit that's like a kiwi but twice the size. A delicious
combination. The Finns are still pale and serious, hardly exchanging
a word among themselves, and it's already been almost four
weeks. I guess they don't go down to the beach because they're afraid
of skin cancer. Mostly, none of them looks at me, but today I discovered
one of them staring at me with curiosity. Curiosity, and something
like passion. He glanced away quickly, coughing a little and
By crossing a different part of the rainforest, you can reach the sea,
a beach called San Conrado. In order to get there very early, the only
time of day when the heat is bearable, you have to leave at dawn. I
picked up all this information in Buenos Aires. At the agency specializing
in non-touristy spas, the same agency that brought me to
this place (a weekly flight from Rio to a neighboring town and from
there a helicopter that arrives daily with new guests, mail, and provisions),
they explained that as far back as anyone can remember,
no one has ever ventured into the rainforest at night, so they can't
describe what goes on there. Do the animals go wild at night? I stare
at the people at the other tables, and then I discover a man who isn't
Finnish. He's sort of blond, but not as blond as they are, athletic
build, graying at the temples, blue eyes, and pleasantly tanned skin,
lined with the requisite wrinkles (what would I do with a face as
smooth as a magnolia?). He's looking at me, too. He's been waiting
patiently for me to discover him, his fork poised in midair. When I
glance his way at last, he smiles and nods his head, picks up his
silverware, plates, and his fruit cup, and moves over to my table.
He's a North American, from California; surrounded by so many
unapproachable Scandinavians and mysterious natives, we feel a
kinship, like a meeting of old friends.
Steve speaks spiritedly, half in Spanish and half in English. He tells
me he's a biologist, he does research, he travels a lot, and he's lived
in Mexico. Tonight the rice dish is especially tasty, and Steve has
brought over a bottle of wine from his table. The dessert is the most
delicate orange mousse I've ever tasted, and I smile to think how
effortlessly both he and I consume sophisticated wines and desserts
in such an apparently primitive place; we realize that the rustic
ambience has been carefully orchestrated. After dinner the same
helicopter that brought us the orange mousse and the seafood for
the rice will carry us over the rainforest to the beach, ringed with
twenty-story hotels with revolving cafés. On the top floor of the
tallest building, Steve and I have our first drink together and dance
to old songs.
It only happens
When I dance with you
And I notice that every curve and hollow of my body fits tenderly
into the contours of this man I've just met.
When weather conditions are ideal, they say, in the very early
morning and at nightfall, the hang gliders launch themselves from
the terrace of the twentieth floor.
When I arrived at the rainforest spa, I didn't realize I was going to
think so often of Dardo. He's been gone eight years already, eleven
months after the fatal diagnosis. During those months, contrary to
what I had anticipated, he suffered no extreme pain that couldn't be
relieved with drugs, but he became more and more incapacitated,
as his doctor had predicted. One year's survival, he said. Dardo was
hospitalized for an entire month so that, by using new, sophisticated
technology, they might find the microscopic primary tumor
that had caused the metastasis to his bones. But the cancer was very
advanced, and there was no cure, the oncologist said. He told me
first, during a conversation we had while Dardo was in the hospital.
The oncologist was a well-dressed, fat man. I never saw him in a
white coat.
"You have a tumor," he told him a few days after the conversation
with me. Dardo and the doctor treated each other as equals. They
were two professionals: an engineer and a physician.
Dardo received the news with a smile: the meaning hadn't registered.
They had dulled his pain with analgesics, and his color was
good: that day he had eaten his lunch eagerly; he seemed very calm,
even happy. Happiness can also come from the disappearance of
pain.
"I'm very glad to be in this hospital," he said. "I feel very well
cared for."
The doctor smiled, and I smiled, too.
"Now we're going to find out where the tumor is - that's why
we're putting you in the hospital," the doctor continued, "to locate
the tumor."
There was no reply. Dardo turned his head, calmly looking at a
treetop through the window.
Dardo had had two accidents in a row, one involving his hip and the
other his arm. The orthopedists dealt with him as orthopedists do,
and our family physician's intervention was necessary in order to
send him to another specialist who would investigate more carefully
and interpret the X-rays correctly.
The first accident took place in Buenos Aires. After a fall Dardo
started to feel a pain in his hip that wouldn't go away, but he insisted
on continuing to work, overcome by pain and taking a ton of medications.
I went on a business trip for a week. When I returned, I was surprised
to find Dardo at home. Opening the door to the apartment,
I saw him sitting in a chair, smiling broadly at the other end of the
living room, surrounded by people: his mother; Sebastián and
Federico, my older boys; and two friends who had stopped by to
visit. He didn't get up to greet me, but at that moment I was aware
only of his unexpected presence at home at eleven o'clock in the
morning; it took me a few more seconds to realize why he hadn't
stood up to meet me: his right arm was in a sling. There had been
another "accident": he had been mugged while crossing the street.
They had knocked him to the ground, grabbed his briefcase, and
left him at the mercy of the oncoming cars as the light turned green.
Some passersby managed to spot him. Traffic stopped, an ambulance
arrived; he was taken to a hospital, where a cast was applied to
his broken right arm. Dardo hadn't wanted to disrupt my trip or
frighten me, so when he saw me come in, he smiled and smiled; he
explained, everyone explained. The next day the pain was so unbearable
that he decided to go to another clinic, where they determined
that the cast was on wrong, and they reset the arm in a different
position.
In the X-rays both parts of his fractured humerus appeared like
two veal bones placed randomly on a butcher counter. Once the
break was reduced, the two sections looked more aligned, but there
was still a little space between them.
The bone didn't heal as quickly as expected. The orthopedists
changed the cast a few more times, varying the position of the arm.
Dardo suffered from severe pain in his arm and hip; he took powerful
painkillers, he slept a lot. Weeks later the X-rays showed that his
fracture still hadn't healed.
Finally, they took off the cast, replacing it with a bandage. Dardo
took sick leave from his job; I continued working. The household
functioned as usual. Every morning the cleaning woman turned it
into a pleasant, orderly place smelling of floor wax and the good
food she prepared and left for us. As Dardo's pain continued, the
new orthopedic specialist recommended by the clinic ordered a ??
scan that revealed the cause of the problem: a primary tumor of
unknown origin had metastasized to the bone. The most agonizing
thing wasn't so much the time lost in useless treatments but the fact
that the cancer was quite advanced and now nothing could save
Dardo from pain and death.
Me, Cecilia, hang gliding? There's something about Steve that
convinces me immediately that anything he suggests is all right.
These flying devices are simple and apparently very safe - in fact,
as safe as airplanes. There are thousands of flights every day, and
people travel as calmly as if they were on a bus. Once in a while, in
a very great while, one falls down. It must be that famous exception
that proves the rule, although I never did understand why an exception
had to prove a rule. In San Conrado, at least, I never heard
anyone say there had been an accident. So, without knowing quite
how, one morning I found myself seated and firmly secured in a
contraption designed for two people, with Steve at my side commanding
the controls that could change the flight's direction.
This is a sport that depends totally on weather conditions, like
flying a glider. Flight instructors for gliders, just like flight instructors
for hang gliders, are weather experts. At the lecture given by
the San Conrado instructor, I learned which clouds predicted rain,
which ones meant wind, which ones simply a cold front. In any
event I didn't have to do anything, just sit next to Steve, well protected
by seat belts, and launch myself into the void alongside him.
As we took the elevator up to the top floor of the café, I was seized
by terror, but the same thing happens to me whenever I have to get
on a plane: I'm frightened beforehand, but when I'm in the air, I'm
never afraid. I wasn't even scared when they made us stand on a
parapet on the unrailed terrace - which you could reach as soon as
a guard opened the imposing iron gates - and the technicians activated
the machine and set it in place. I can't recall the moment
when they launched us into the air. I only felt, to my great relief,
that, instead of falling, we were rising. The wings inflated; the air
carried us upward. Steve was at the controls, and I recovered just
enough to look around as we flew over the beach. It was a glorious
day, not a single cloud; the greenish blue of the sea was punctuated
by many-colored ships and the sunbathers' umbrellas on the beach.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Rainforest
by Alice Steimberg
Copyright © 2006 by University of Nebraska Press .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.