The Abundance of the Infinite by Christopher Canniff Read Free Book Online

I demand of both patients and friends. At the same time, I have a desire to share her same experiences; not only to know more about them, but to know for myself the places to which she has travelled. I don’t feel as though I want to disclose any of this to her now, though, and so I try to think of an obscure answer which she might be able to correlate to her own situation.
    â€œI’m running toward something,” I reply, unsure of how I might continue this.
    â€œWhat’s that?” she asks.
    I pause. I have begun her line of questioning, and I comprehend that because of Karen’s constant travelling, she has a frequent need to understand, and to be understood, by strangers. I suddenly experience a tinge of this same urge myself.
    â€œI took Thoreau’s advice,” I say, incredulous at my own words, “to live the life I’ve always imagined.”
    â€œAnd this is it, living here in Manta? Really? The life you’ve always imagined?”
    â€œIt is,” I reply emphatically, sitting up in my chair.
    â€œYou’re crazy,” she says, smiling.
    â€œSo how well did you know my father?” I ask.
    She pauses and takes a deep breath just before a taxi kicks up dust and billows exhaust fumes beside us. She coughs before answering.
    â€œI knew him a little, saw him around at parties. He taught English at the university whenever he needed money. He kept to himself most of the time. The Señora talked as though she loved him. They went out together one night, and she said it was the most enjoyable night of her life. They went from bar to bar, discoteca to discoteca , and he played the bagpipes as she entered each place. He ‘piped her in’, as she put it. And when she asked him when they were going to get married, your father simply said that she was too young for him, when they both knew she was actually twenty years older and separated from, but still legally married to a man who lived thousands of miles away in New York, while he was still legally married to your mother.”
She pauses to take a drink.
    â€œSo, are you married?” she asks.
    I touch the ring in my pocket.
    â€œYes,” I reply, to which she appears surprised.
    â€œChildren?”
    â€œSort of.”
    I hand her a copy of the ultrasound picture, and she scoffs.
    â€œOh.”
    â€œMy wife is much older than I am. The baby has Down syndrome, and it isn’t developing properly. The doctor says the fetus has clubbed feet and a head that is too small for her body, and she’ll have heart defects and mental problems. I’m giving my wife time, and writing her letters, to prevent her from making the worst mistake of her life. She wants to have her pregnancy terminated.”
    Karen doesn’t ask me any more questions and, as we sit there in silence, quickly finishing our beers before leaving, I suddenly realize that I have never said those words to anyone else.

10

    Although months seem to have passed since I’ve been here, it has only been weeks. I am able to understand the Señora and her daughters now from my limited Spanish, providing they speak clearly and not too fast. I am at the stage of language learning where I’m too busy mentally dissecting verbs and categorizing social interactions into statements or questions, to engage in a true conversation. Inés and Yolanda have learned enough from my lessons to have simple conversations in English, and the Señora seems pleased with their progress.
    I first touched brush to what passes for canvas here a week ago. The oil colours mix on the page before me at noon to form the outline of a boat, the stilts beneath it gleaming in the sun. That was a difficult effect to achieve, and I have a dozen ruined pages to prove it. The colours blend on the page to produce the background which surrounds fishing boats in the distance, a man splashing in the water nearby beside umbrellas and lemonade vendors. The clouds are