Blinding Light by Paul Theroux Read Free Book Online

it seemed to cause—Steadman realized that perhaps this apparent congeniality and easy company was the result of their decision to separate. Once they had said it was over, they had nothing to argue about—they had no future. They could be friends again.
    Still, they sat at the café not speaking, not touching. The conversation in the church hung over them, the nagging echoey weight of unanswered phrases.
    Rain came again, first like blown grit, then like pebbles tapping and softening in the gusting wind until the sound was more like a lash. Darkened by the weather, they were isolated and lost any desire to see more of the city. Steadman paid the bill and they caught a taxi that was parked near the bus terminal.
    When they got in, the taxi driver was effusive, wearing a colorful scarf and a dangly earring. He spoke a sentence that Steadman could not comprehend.
    â€œHe says the rain is good luck,” Ava said. “He’s so pleased we are here. He has a friend in New York. Male friend, of course.”
    Steadman thought how rainstorms made strange cities familiar, exaggerated and simplified their contours. Yet here the rain did not drain away but puddled and flooded and held up traffic. This sudden downpour enclosed them, blurred the city, gave it a look of homely exoticism, made them need each other again. Now it was just the two of them. The sun might have separated them, but the bad weather brought them close.
    Steadman said, “I’m starting to worry about this trip. If I don’t hook up with this guy Nestor I’m screwed. I’m depending on him to get me into the jungle. He’s supposed to be an ethnobotanist. If he doesn’t show, there’s no story.”
    Ava sat back in the taxi, drawing away from him, and said, “Oh, so you’re a writer.”
    At first Steadman almost laughed and said, What are you saying? Of course I am! But he hesitated, because she was blank-faced, waiting for an answer while the taxi splashed through the flooded gutters, sending up gouts of water. That was the other thing about rain in such a country. It came down mud-colored.
    Steadman said, “Yes, I am. And what do you do?”
    â€œI’m a doctor.” She smiled as only a stranger smiles at another stranger, holding the expression in check and yet hopeful.
    The taxi driver took an interest. He said,
“Quisiera mostrarles cosas fantásticas
.”
    â€œHe wants to show us some amazing things.”
    Steadman whispered, “He’s a sodomite.”
    Ava smiled again. She said, “Like me.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    She said, “I’ll tell you upstairs.”
    The taxi’s seats were covered in torn leather. Hanks of straw showed through, and the pungency of the straw and the leather stirred him as much as her teasing words.
    In the hotel lobby, Ava said, “I’m in three-one-oh-two. Give me a few minutes.” She did not touch him. She turned and was gone.
    Steadman liked this change of mood and the way she had given him this information, telling him what he already knew—so brisk and businesslike, as though she were an accomplished sneak, having rehearsed it many times. But he thought, That’s what fantasies are—fantasies are rehearsals.
    Liking the taste of the delay, he gave her more time than she had asked for and then went upstairs. She answered the door wearing a hotel robe, but slipped it off when he entered. She was naked. Steadman locked and bolted the door, and when he turned to Ava again she was blindfolded—the sleep mask from the plane—and held another blindfold in her hand.
    â€œWait.” Steadman was kicking his shoes off, stripping off his shirt. She knew what he was doing. She said, “I don’t care what you wear, as long as you wear this,” and handed him the other blindfold.
    In the stumbling game that followed, Ava slipped away from him and then called to him from across the