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248 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 2018
My parents still live in a Soviet suburb halfway between here and the sea: Zolitude, where last year a roof collapsed and killed forty shoppers as they weighed their options for dinner.
• The devils in these nightmares are toothed whales, white and black and also just white, in water so cold it's blue with its own light. They seize our ankles with their sawteeth and whirlpool us down the nightling league to the river bottom. They hold us there.
• Everyone starves for the love of men, even men themselves.
• The vendors stay open all night, even through the grave-bottom of winter.
Dusty sheathes himself in khaki against the sun and wind, kisses his wife and her girl, and drives inland on one red, day-long shot of road. On the second morning, he passes over the Annamites, his bike roaring in second up the grade, gravel hawking off the hairpins into the blue-black, the dipterocarp sea, the pit he's climbing out of. The road is empty except for potholes and a single, starved Honda driven by a kid in a dirty t-shirt, hunting rifle slashed across his shoulders. No animal life – it's been devoured. On his right, over the scarp, the mountains are imbricate rows of corroded teeth. The place is a national park now, all of it. Protected. From who? It blows his fucking mind.
The sun on Irene is green-gold through the leaves. Her freckles look like worry scattered under deep-socketed, apologetic eyes. She could be a sickish art-gallery clerk, undiagnosable without health care; or some court sorceress tasked with sitting awake all night to keep the cats and night hags off a happier woman's baby. I love Irene. It's a side effect of looking at her.
The water is lax. The sky opens up in mounds of mauve and saffron. The boat's engine churns against crowds of little wavelets. They pass lush clumps of greenery, possibly tethered, possibly roving. Audrey puts her hands under her shirt. Her belly is hot. Her hands are numb as a stranger's. The island is its own horizon of foliage clouds. The dawn behind shades it into shapes. This boat is a rescue boat. The sun exists. She can see it. She squints against it. She is the one being rescued, now, finally.