The fan
The fan's slow rotation slices the humid air with a screech of protest. It isn't cooling anything. More like smearing the hot around. I am splayed out on a too thin mattress. My skin sticks to the sheets and I suck the air in small sips like I'm drinking scalding tea. A sheen of sweat slicks me. My limbs are languid and lolling. No energy to explore the city I'd flown half way around the world to see. A cacophony of noise thuds through thin walls, blaring horns, calls to prayer, traffic, a thousand voices all talking at once. Wildly discordant, it vibrates through me. And the smells. Diesel exhaust, food spiced and curried, rotted and flowered, sharp and musty swirled together to create something entirely new, undefinable.
Beside me he pants. Small white pustules from heat rash blossom on his forehead and cheeks. His hair is slick and sodden. His eyes look dull. A Lonely Planet guide lays open on his chest, edges damp, cover creased.
"We should try to see the palace".
"We should try to make a snow fort. We could dig in, build a shelf to hold all our snowballs. I like to pile mine in pyramids for easy access. You know that blue green light that shines through when you're looking up? So beautiful. Don't you love how your breath plumes, like it's gained substance. Or how about when your woolen mitts get those hard little balls of snow on them. You know how you can kind of nibble them and let them melt on your tongue and then spit out the linty bits? It's even okay when you have to dig the balls of snow that jam in the tops of your boots or blow on your wrists cause your sleeves have ridden up and they're stinging. Even the sound of snow is gorgeous. It makes so many different sounds. I guess it depends on how cold it is, whether it's soft and powdery or hard and full of those crystals".
"You know, the Inuit have thousands of different names for snow".
"No they don't idiot. I'm sure it's not thousands...maybe twenty though".
"Do you think the people that live here have as many names for heat"?
I let my arm drop over the side of the bed and swing my hand against the tile, seeing if perhaps it's cooler on the floor. It isn't.
"There's only one name for heat like this".
"Yah, what's that"?
"Hellish".
"That fits. Definitely fits".
"But I thought you said we were flying to paradise".
With a groan he rolls into a sitting position.
"Well, I think there was some confusion then. It happens. Sometimes people who are sure they're going to heaven end up somewhere else entirely".
"And you think that's what happened with us? That we only thought we lived a good life"?
"Maybe. I don't know. I can barely think. My head feels stuffed with hot cotton rags".
"How do you know"?
"Know what"?
"What hot cotton rags would even feel like".
"Shit, you're talk is tiring me out. Even sitting tires me out. Christ".
"Okay. Lets do something. Isn't there a mall somewhere with air conditioning?"
"A mall. Right. In your dreams".
I sat up too. My thighs were they touched one another pooled sweat.
"I bet I stink. Did you know people here think foreigners smell like spoiled milk? No one drinks it here, so we've all got this spit-up smell. Isn't that gross"?
"Gross for them. Should we get on a bus and subject them to our stench to pay them back for the lack of air conditioning"?
"Okay. Lets go to the palace. They've probably got marble benches. That might be cooler. We could get naked on the marble benches and fan ourselves with guide books."
"I wonder how many westerners get arrested for doing that"?
"I don't know. It's something the guide book never mentions".
We stand, jam our feet into our flip flops, place our still soggy money belts against our bellies and stomp down the stairs. I feel clumsy. Too big for my body. Too big for this place. The women here are tiny. Miniature perfect. Golden skin and silky black hair. They don't smell like sour milk. They wear saris, bright colours fitted to smooth bodies. They move like water. Here I am clunky, awkward. I move like my feet weigh me down, like I'm flattened by the heat.
Leslie Soles
Oct 10