Now Is the Time to Open Your Heart_ A Novel - Alice Walker [18]
And now, perhaps it was time to leave that area of exploration, and, like Sue, to enter another: the life of the virgin, one who is whole unto herself.
So that is how you have changed, he said to her, when she returned. That is the one change I would never have guessed!
They were lying cozily in bed, her leg over his. In the old days this position itself would have been an invitation.
Are you sure? he asked.
It isn’t, as it must seem, a mental decision, she said.
He waited.
And I don’t think it’s forever. But what do I know?
Please don’t be too angry with me, he said. But I’m not ready. Would you consider tapering off gradually? I’m not ready to lose this part of our life yet.
She lay, only a moment, reflecting.
I’m not ready either, I think.
He grinned.
Oh, don’t be so cocky, she said.
Making love, tapering off, was a way of being gentle to them both.
And now when she lay in his arms she savored and grieved the richness, the sweetness, the sharp edge of intimacy she would be leaving. She felt she would be leaving the body itself. But there was a land beyond the sexual body, and friends like Sue proved it. They were out there in it, already, inhabiting new forests, sailing new seas.
And Sure Enough
And sure enough, almost the first words out of the shaman’s mouth were: no sex. He was short and brown and round with an open and friendly face. Young. She was surprised. She’d thought shamans had to be old, thin, a bit haggard by their wisdom. A trifle gloomy. But no, Armando Juarez was in his forties, and, though he had grandchildren, he seemed as jolly and nimble as a boy. His straight black hair was cut just below his ears, his black eyes gazed merrily back at the group. They were seven. Five women, ages forty to sixty-five; two men, a slender New Yorker of a youthful, ambiguous age and an older man, perhaps forty-five, from Utah.
Not with yourself, he joked. And not with each other.
Could we ask why? asked Kate.
Maybe the medicine is jealous, said the man from Utah, chuckling.
Armando was serious. It is because that is how it is, he said. From time before time. Making love is something we enjoy, of course. But it has its place and time that is not the same place and time as the Grandmother medicine. This medicine, you will see, is from the Grandmother. That is its spirit. Grandmothers are not sexy.
That’s what you think, muttered one of the women, and everyone smiled. Including Armando.
You’re right, that’s not the reason, he said. Don’t tell my wife I said something so stupid. She would kill me.
There was a long silence.
It is to pay respect, he said finally, reflectively. It is to have an experience of the soul that is undistracted by desire.
Oh me, oh my, said the youngish New Yorker.
Kate had met this group at the airport only hours before. It was the first time any of them had visited this country. The first time any of them had traveled to South America. At the airport they’d recognized one another immediately as Medicine Seekers. There they stood, speaking only a halting, basic Spanish, those who spoke it at all. Loaded down with backpacks, baseball caps and straw hats, waterproof duffels, sturdy sandals or boots.
They had the look of people deliberately distancing themselves from the center of things, as their own cultures defined it. Seeking the edge, the fringe. But also, paradoxically, the heart. At least they hoped so.
Again Kate found herself in a tiny boat, thousands of miles from anyone she knew, on a river, the Amazon this time, heading for the forest.
He had watched her go. This time, because he was going somewhere too, they’d parted at the airport at home. He’d carried her brown duffel and her faded mauve backpack, and she’d carried her bag of oranges. They stood at the back of the line as people boarded the plane, their bundles around their feet, their bodies touching. At last it was time for her to board. He hugged her, she raised herself a bit, they kissed.
Enjoy Hawaii, she said. I