Sundog by Jim Harrison

Author:Jim Harrison
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

CHAPTER XI

* * *

It was a warm June afternoon, and we had been working on the screened porch when we finished the previous segment. I was making notes and watching Eulia and Strang down on the riverbank prepare for his swim. They were speaking in rapid Spanish while she greased his legs and body against the cold water. Thus far the swimming had caused him great suffering; the awkward muscle bunches built up by crawling tended to cramp in the water, but he was sure he could work his way through the problem. The day before a cramp had been so severe that he had broken a tooth while gritting his teeth. I made a note to ask him about this apparent contrast between his intelligence and his optimism. I wanted to say “boyish optimism,” but it was both unfair and inaccurate. The forest clearing and cabin had become a bit claustrophobic, and we made plans to visit Emmeline, Robert Jr., and Aurora before Aurora had to return to Italy. I suggested out of maddened curiosity that we visit Karl in prison in Marquette. Strang said it was unlikely that Karl would see anyone, but that I might drop a note proposing an interview. The overwhelming goad behind the long, daily swimming sessions was that Marshall had sent a large folder describing the New Guinea project. There were no photos except a small aerial of the site, the usual twenty-five square miles of green hell with a large river running through the center of it. The rest of the folder was made up of blueprints and specifications, which drew the occasional gasp of pleasure from Strang. Something essentially mean-minded in me wanted to probe deeper for a raw nerve, for the great leveler that is at the heart of all personal journalism, wherein the noblest human might be made pedestrian at least for the length of time it took to read the article: the school of “Faulkner was laughably short,” or “Churchill, fat as a toad, coughed up his last bite of flan,” or “Eisenhower, despite his questionable talents in World War II, appeared ill at ease and simpleminded during an after-dinner conversation at Stokely Van Camp's winter home at Hobe Sound.” That sort of thing, Iago unleashed, the sweltering resentment a pencil pusher feels in a country where politicians keep raising the mythological spectre of the Frontier. Literary biographers have a special talent, too, for making writers more boring than the very least of their work.

There. Eulia was kneeling in her bikini, pointing her bottom at me with telescopic accuracy. If I can't have it, it must be suspicious, I continued my train of thought, then let it trail off into the greenery. It is scarcely the fault of the world that my head weighs a thousand pounds, net. Strang's life seems full because it “is” full, and effortlessly so. Mother used to say “Niggle, niggle, niggle,” when I was caught in a fit of spite. My tight heart released a bit, watching Strang kick away at the swift current while he held a rope.

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