Her voice died on the air. Still clinging to the hairs of the blanket, she tightroped along the edge of the wet slab until his face became visible.
There was no doubt this was Swan, but now his handsome face looked gummy and gray. It was a sagging, stupid face with a bruised cheek where the concrete had rubbed against it. Dried crusty stuff was clumped at the corners of his bulging eyes that quivered beneath their lids. The spittle at the corner of his sagging mouth had overflowed and left a pool on the concrete. Wiry beard hairs as long as her fingers sprouted from his chin. His once-beautiful hair looked tangled and oily. This was a different Swan than she’d seen before, a wheezing fleshy mound. She clung to the nap of the blanket as she stared at him.
“Hoy! Hoy!” she yelled. “Dirty old Swan!”
There was no sign he heard her. His raspy snores were getting even louder and she wondered if this was another artistic truth: Awake and animated, a boy suppresses ugliness by his energy, while a girl, a beautiful one, will remain beautiful even while she sleeps.
As she thought about this, she noticed something; a large open suitcase, colored an outlandish shade of blue, that lay farther along the ledge. It had been left at a haphazard angle with one corner sticking out over the water. Its handle hung close to the ground.
Ottala was even weaker than she knew, and it took enormous effort to climb onto the handgrip. As she stretched to grasp the open edge of the case, pieces of bodysmirch flaked from her skin. Somehow, she was able to swing her legs up to the hinged part of the handle, and using her legs and arms together, she pulled herself onto the metal rim and lay there for a long time, gasping.
There was all sorts of stuff in here, sacks of buns most importantly.
Half-diving, half-falling, she flopped onto the closest sack. The trapped air held her as she pushed herself to her knees. The sack’s bright lurid imagery—cackling blue monkeys in geometric yellow trees—made her feel dazed and off-balance, but after a few seconds she pressed her face against one of the few clear spots in the thermoplastic and peered down at the big yellow buns in their separate wrappers. Everything Giants made was coated in some sort of plastic and the membranes were very thick. She clawed at the bag she was squatting on, pounded it with her hands, tried to crease it, tear it, bite it with her teeth. All her efforts were useless and soon she collapsed from exhaustion. For the first time since she’d found herself in this strange place, she began to cry. She knew she was on the verge of dying, and Swan, when he awoke would find her body, encased with goo, lying dead on this impenetrable bag surrounded by screaming monkeys….
An artist must train herself. She must train herself to overcome any barrier, the most formidable of which is always her own mind. Before undertaking Gut Wedding, she’d trained by burrowing into the mud at the bottom of the millpond. Half buried in silt, she’d lie there, perfectly still, holding her breath for fifteen minutes at a time. She also ran through the plastic gardens, her face wrapped in strips of cloth; blinded and barely able to breathe. As she ran, she crashed into every sort of obstruction, polyvinyl stems and rocks and garden ornaments, only to rise to her feet and run some more. She’d return to her room covered in bruises. Every human body holds back energy in reserve. This was a fundamental principle of medicine and life. The reserve is for use in a crisis, in a fire, or when the body is pursued by enemies, but Ottala had learned to summon it at will. She’d survived inside Swan’s body with barely any air and absolutely no food. Remembering the intensity of her recent hardships she rose on her rubbery legs and climbed back to the rim of the suitcase. Her intent was to slide down the side of the handle, but losing her grip, she fell to the ground, landing on her back.
“Swan!” she yelled after she’d limped over and collapsed against his face. “Swan! Open your eyes!” She slapped him with the flat of her hand over and over. “Open! Open! Open!” she yelled as she pounded him with her fists. He simply would not wake up.
The great sloshing sea, which had calmed considerably since the storm, came right to the top of the abutment. A vast assortment of plastic garbage had collected along this edge, and her eyes wandered among the cup lids, bun wrappers, dental picks, microbeads, six-pack rings, bottle caps, press-on nails, and hundreds of other less recognizable artifacts of the Giant’s Polymer-based Civilization.
Something caught her eye… a syringe. She lay down on her stomach, and reaching out with one leg, hooked its plunger with her toe. She pulled it carefully towards the shore, keeping her foot above the liquid. She was afraid, being so weak, to become mired in the surface tension of the water. If she were to fall, she didn’t know if she’d be strong enough to get out of the sea again.
When she finally managed to drag it onto the cement, it was as long as her body; a clear plastic cylinder with black flaking numbers, a steel needle beveled to a point. Its plunger was fully compressed and it contained no liquid.
This is what Ottala used to puncture the bun bag. Ramming her syringe through its surface over and over to enlarge the hole, then using it to lacerate the individual sacks inside. She dug out moist pieces of bun by the handful and chewed them slowly. The big sack fogged over with her breath as she reclined there, and she wondered when Swan would finally wake up and discover her.
But Swan did not wake up that day or the next day either, and Ottala slept in the suitcase. After eating her fill, she’d burrowed down among his clothing to make a quiet cozy nest for herself away from the sloshing sea. Only when her thirst became unbearable, did she climb out again. Squatting down, she ladled seawater into her palm. Her reflection warped around the surface of the trembling drop, but the liquid looked clean enough. When she sucked at it there wasn’t the slightest taste of salt. She limited herself to three drops that morning, and after that day went by, and then another, she stopped worrying about becoming ill.
What was wrong with Swan? How could anyone sleep so long? Every day for seven days she tried to wake him. She poked his face with the syringe, and then dragged it to where his foot was and attacked that too. She threw water in his eyes, hurled the stones that were everywhere along the ledge against his face. Nothing had any effect.
Sometimes, she’d stand for many minutes observing him, thinking about his gentle nature. She remembered how sheepishly he’d sit there, when they were getting to know each other, when she was trying to get him to open up a little. She remembered how he’d bend over her with a rapt expression on his face, listening to her chatter. She’d tell him all sorts of stories then, some of which were even true, until—eventually—he started to laugh a little. Swan was earnest to a fault. It was easy to see how much he needed her and, so often, after they’d talked, usually at the last minute when he had to leave, he’d suddenly declare his love for her. She cared about Swan even if she wasn’t in love with him. She felt no passion or yearning—how could she? She felt none of the silly euphoria that comes with being in love…. Still, he was very dear to her.
If he’d only wake up! Her work was languishing. But now there was much more to worry about than her work. Now she needed his company. She needed his friendship. The tables had turned. She needed his help. And she needed to know where this place was and why they were here. She was feeling terribly alone and frightened.
If only she could feel his old affection beam down on her again! If Swan would only wake up, she knew her love would rise to meet him. For the moment, all she could do was watch his face and wait for his eyes to open. Those crazy eyes, always darting in every direction beneath his fleshy lids….
Remarkable reversals have been happening, and now we finally see deeper into Ottala, whose investment in union with Swan, though affectionate, seems to have been more an art project than an intimate love. So . . . what's possible? Looking forward to finding out.