Sacrament

He put his foot on the accelerator, and swung the vehicle around to head it back down the street. As he did so the bear changed tactics and direction, dropping back onto all fours to overtake the jeep, then cutting in front of it.

For an instant the animal was there in the sear of the headlamps, its wedge-snouted head pointing directly at the vehicle. It was not one of the pitiful clan Guthrie had described, their ferality dimmed by their addiction to human refuse. It was a piece of the wilderness still; defying the blaze and speed of the vehicle in whose path it had put itself. In the instant before it was struck, it was gone, disappearing with such speed that its departure seemed almost miraculous; as though it had been a vision conjured by the cold, then snatched away.

As he drove back to the house, he felt for the first time the poverty of his craft. He had taken tens of thousands of photographs in his professional lifetime, in some of the wildest regions of the planet: the Torres de Paine, the plateaus of Tibet, the Gunung Leuser in Indonesia. There he had photographed species that were in their last desperate days, rogues and man-eaters. But he had never come close to capturing what he had seen in the jeep’s headlamps minutes before: the power and the glory of the bear, risking death to defy him. Perhaps it was beyond his talents to do so; in which case it was probably beyond anybody’s talents. He was, by general consensus, the best of the best. But the wild was better. Just as it was his genius to wait upon his subject until it revealed itself, so it was the genius of the wild to make that revelation less than complete. The rogues and man-eaters were dying out, one by one, but the mystery continued, undisclosed. And would continue. Will suspected, until the end of the rogues and mysteries and the men who were fools for them both.

III

Cornelius Botham sat at the table with a hand-rolled cigarette lolling from beneath his blond feather moustache, his third beer of the morning set at his elbow, and surveyed the disembowelled Pentax laid out before him.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Will wanted to know.

‘It’s broken,’ Cornelius dead-panned. ‘I say we hack a hole in the ice, wrap it in a pair of Adrianna’s knickers and bury it for future generations to discover.’

‘You can’t fix it?’

‘Yes, I can fix it,’ Cornelius said. ‘That is why I’m here. I can fix everything. But I would prefer to hack a hole in the ice, wrap it in a pair of Adrianna’s knickers—’

‘It’s given good service, that camera.’

‘So have we all. But sooner or later, if we’re lucky, we’ll be wrapped in a pair of Adrianna’s knickers—’

Will was at the stove, making himself a ragged omelette. ‘You’re obsessing.’

‘I am not.’

Will slid his breakfast onto a plate, tossed two slices of stale bread on top of it, and came to sit at the table opposite Cornelius.

‘You know what’s wrong with this town?’ Cornelius asked.

‘Give me an A, B or C.’

This was a popular guessing game amongst the trio, the trick being to dream up alternatives more believable than the truth.

‘No problem,’ Cornelius said. He sipped a mouthful of beer and then said: ‘Okay. A, right? There aren’t any good-looking women in two hundred miles, besides Adrianna, and that’d be like fucking my sister. Okay? So, B. You can’t get any decent acid. And C—’

‘It’s B.’

‘Wait, I haven’t finished.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘Fuck, man. I got a great C

‘It’s the acid,’ Will said. He leaned towards Cornelius. ‘Right?’

‘Yeah.’ He peered at Will’s plate. ‘What the hell’s that?’

‘Omelette.’

‘What did you make it with? Penguin eggs?’

Will laughed, and was still laughing when Adrianna came in out of the cold. ‘Hey, we got more bears at the dump,’ she said, her Southern drawl perfectly mismatched with every other detail of her appearance and manner, from her badly trimmed bangs to her heavy-booted stomp. ‘At least four of ‘em. Two adolescents, a female and a huge male.’ She looked first at Will, then at Cornelius, then back at Will. ‘A little enthusiasm, please?’

‘Just give me a few minutes,’ Will said, ‘I need a couple of cups of coffee first.’

‘You’ve got to see this male. I mean—’ she was struggling for the words ‘—this is the biggest damn bear I ever saw.’

‘Maybe the one I saw last night,’ Will said. ‘Actually we saw each other. Outside Guthrie’s place.’

Adrianna unzipped her parka and sat down on the beaten-up sofa, flinging aside a pillow and blanket to do so. ‘He kept you talking for quite a while,’ she said. ‘What was the old fuck like?’

‘No more crazy than anybody’d be. living in a shack in the middle of nowhere.’

‘On his own?’

‘He had a dog. Lucy.’

‘Hey…’ Cornelius cooed. ‘Does that sound like a man with a supply or what?’ He grinned, his eyes popping. ‘Only a guy with a habit would name his dog Lucy.’

‘Christ!’ Adrianna shouted. ‘I am so thoroughly sick of hearing you talk about getting high.’

Cornelius shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said.

‘We came here to do a job of work.’

‘And we’ve done it,’ Cornelius said. ‘Every damn undignified, pitiful thing a polar bear can do we’ve got on film. Bears playing around the broken sewage pipes. Bears trying fucky-fucky in the middle of the dump.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Adrianna said, ‘we did good.’ She turned to Will. ‘I still want you to see my bear,’ she said.

‘ Your bear now, is it?’ Cornelius said.

She ignored him. ‘Just one last shoot,’ she implored Will. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’

‘Jeez,’ Cornelius remarked, putting his legs up on the table. ‘Leave the man alone. He doesn’t want to see the fucking bear. Haven’t you got the message?’

‘Keep out of this,’ Adrianna snapped.

‘You’re so fucking pushy,’ Cornelius replied. ‘It’s just a bear.’

Adrianna was up from the couch and over to Cornelius in two strides. ‘I told you: keep out of this,’ she said, and shoved Cornelius’ shoulder just hard enough to tip him over. Down he went, clearing half of the doomed Pentax from the table with his boot-heel as he went.

‘Come on,’ Will said, setting down his omelette in case there was an escalation in hostilities. If there was, it wouldn’t be the first time. Nine days out of every ten Cornelius and Adrianna worked side by side like brother and sister. And on the tenth they fought, like brother and sister. Today, however, Cornelius wasn’t in the mood for insults or fisticuffs. He got to his feet, brushing his hippielength hair back out of his eyes, and stumbled to the door, picking up his anorak on his way. ‘See you later,’ he said to Will. ‘I’m going to go look at the water.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Adrianna said when he’d gone. ‘It was my fault. I’ll make peace when he gets back.’

‘Whatever.’

Adrianna went to the stove and poured herself a cup of coffee. ‘So what did Guthrie have to say?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘Why did you even go see him?’

Will shrugged. ‘Just…some stuff from my childhood…’ he said.

‘Big secret?’

Will offered her a slow smile. ‘Huge.’

‘So you’re not going to tell me?’

‘It’s nothing to do with us being here. Well, it is and it isn’t. I knew Guthrie lived on the Bay, so I kind of killed two birds…’ the words grew soft ‘…with one stone.’

‘Are you going to photograph him?’ she said, crossing to the window. The Tegelstrom children, who lived across the street, were out playing in the snow, their laughter loud. She peered out at them.

‘No,’ Will said. ‘I already invaded his privacy.’

‘Like I’m invading yours?’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

That’s right though, isn’t it?’ she said gently. ‘I never get to hear what life was like for little Willy Rabjohns.’

‘That’s because—’

‘—you don’t want to tell me.’ She was warming to her thesis now. ‘You know…this is how you used to be with Patrick.’

‘Unfair.’

‘You used to drive him crazy. He’d call me up sometimes and vent these streams of abuse—’

‘He is a melodramatic queen,’ Will said, fondly.

‘He said you were cryptic. You are. He said you were secretive. You’re that too.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

‘Don’t get intellectual. It pisses me off.’

‘Have you spoken to him recently?’

‘Now you’re changing the subject.’

‘I am not. You were talking about Patrick and now I’m talking about Patrick.’

‘I was talking about you.’

‘I’m bored with me. Have you talked to Patrick recently?’

Sure.’

‘And how is he?’

‘Up and down. He tried to sell the apartment but he couldn’t get the price he wanted so he’s staying put. He says it depresses him, living in the middle of the Castro. So many widowers, he says. But I think it’s better he’s there. Especially if he gets sicker. He’s got a strong support group of friends.’

‘Is whatsisname still around? The kid with the dyed eyelashes?’

‘You know his name, Will,’ Adrianna said, turning and narrowing her eyes.

‘Carlos,’ Will said.

‘Rafael.’

‘Close enough.’

‘Yes, he’s still around. And he doesn’t dye his eyelashes. He’s got beautiful eyes. In fact he’s a wonderful kid. I surely wasn’t as giving or as loving as he is at nineteen. And I’m damn sure you weren’t.’

‘I don’t remember nineteen,’ Will said. ‘Or twenty, come to that. I have a very vague recollection of twenty-one—’ He laughed. ‘But you get to a place when you’re so high you’re not high any more.’

‘And that was twenty-one?’

‘It was a very fine year for acid tabs.’

‘Do you regret it?’

‘Je ne regrette rien.’ Will slurred, sloe-eyed. ‘No, that’s a lie. I wasted a lot of time in bars being picked up by men I didn’t like. And who probably wouldn’t have liked me if they’d taken the time to ask.’

‘What wasn’t to like?’

‘I was too needy. I wanted to be loved. No, I deserved to be loved. That’s what I thought, I deserved it. And I wasn’t. So I drank. It hurt less when I drank.’ He mused for a moment, staring into middle distance. ‘You’re right about Rafael. He’s better for Patrick than I ever was.’

‘Pat likes having a partner who’s there all the time,’ Adrianna said. ‘But he still calls you the love of his life.’

Will squirmed. ‘I hate that.’

‘Well you’re stuck with it,’ Adrianna replied. ‘Be grateful. Most people never have that in their lives.’

‘Speaking of love and adoration, how’s Glenn?’

‘Glenn doesn’t count. He’s in for the kids. I’ve got wide hips and big tits and he thinks I’ll be fertile.’

‘So when do you start?’

‘I’m not going to do it. The planet’s fucked enough without me turning out more hungry mouths.’

‘You really feel that?’

‘No, but I think it,’ Adrianna said. ‘I feel very broody, especially when I’m with him. So I keep away when there’s a chance, you know, I might give in.’

‘He must love that.’

‘It drives him crazy. He’ll leave me eventually. He’ll find some earth-mother who just wants to make babies.’

‘Couldn’t you adopt? Make you both happy?’

‘We talked about it, but Glenn’s determined to continue the family line. He says it’s his animal instincts.’

‘Ah, the natural man.’

This from a guy who plays in a string quartet for a living.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Let him go. Get myself a man who doesn’t care if he’s the last of his line, and still wants to fuck like a tiger on Saturday night.’

‘You know what?’

‘I should have been queer. I know. We would have made a lovely couple. Now, are you going to move your butt? This damn bear’s not going to wait forever.’

IV

i

As the afternoon light began to fail, the wind veered, and came out of the northeast across Hudson Bay, rattling the door and windows of Guthrie’s shack, like something lonely and invisible, wanting comfort at the table. The old man sat in his old leather armchair and savoured the gale’s din like a connoisseur. He had long ago given up on the charms of the human voice. It was more often than not a courier of lies and confusions, or so he had come to believe; if he never heard another syllable uttered in his life he would not think himself the poorer. All he needed by way of communication was the sound he was listening to now. The wind’s mourn and whine was wiser than any psalm, prayer or profession of love he’d ever heard.

But tonight the sound failed to soothe him as it usually did. He knew why. The responsibility lay with the visitor who’d come knocking on his door the night before. He’d disturbed Guthrie’s equilibrium, raising the phantoms of faces he’d tried so hard to put from his mind. Jacob Steep, with his soot-and-gold eyes, and black beard, and pale poet’s hands; and Rosa, glorious Rosa, who had the gold of Steep’s eyes in her hair, and the black of his beard in her gaze, but was as fleshy and passionate as he was sweatless and unmoved. Guthrie had known them for such a short time, and many years ago, but he had them in his mind’s eye so clearly he might have met them that morning.

He had Rabjohns there too: with his green milk eyes, too gentle by half, and his hair in unruly abundance, curling at his nape, and the wide ease of his face, nicked with scars on his cheek and brow. He hadn’t been scarred half enough, Guthrie thought; there was still some measure of hope in him. Why else had he come asking questions, except in the belief that they could be answered? He’d learn, if he lived long enough. There were no answers. None that made sense anyhow.

The wind gusted hard against the window, and loosened one of the boards Guthrie had taped over a cracked pane. He raised himself out of the pit of his chair and picking up the roll of tape he’d used to secure the board, crossed to the window to fix it. Before he stuck it back in place, blocking out the world, he stared through the grimy glass. The day was close to departure, the thickening waters of the Bay the colour of slate, the rocks black. He kept staring, distracted from his task not by the sight but by the memories which came to him still, unbidden, unwanted, but impossible to put from his head.

Words first. No more than a murmur. But that was all he needed.

These will not come again—

Steep was speaking, his voice majestic.

—nor this. Nor this—

And as he spoke the pages appeared in front of Guthrie’s grieving eyes; the pages of Steep’s terrible book. There, a perfect rendering of a bird’s wing, exquisitely coloured—

—nor this—

—and here, on the following page, a beetle, copied in death; every part documented for posterity: mandible, wing-case, and segmented limb.

—nor this—

‘Jesus,’ he sobbed, the roll of tape dropping from his trembling fingers. Why couldn’t Rabjohns have left him alone? Was there no corner of the world where a man might listen in the wail of the wind, without being discovered and reminded of his crimes?

The answer, it seemed, was no; at least for a soul as unredeemed as his. He could never hope to forget, not until God struck life and memory from him, which prospect seemed at this moment far less dreadful than living on, day and night, in fear of another Will coming to his door and naming names.

‘Nor this…’

Shut up, he murmured to memories. But the pages kept flipping in his head. Picture after picture, like some morbid bestiary. What fish was that, that would never again silver the sea? What bird, that would never tune its song to the sky?

On and on the pages flew, while he watched, knowing that at last Steep’s fingers would come to a page where he himself had made a mark. Not with a brush or a pen, but with a bright little knife.

And then the tears would begin to come in torrents, and it wouldn’t matter how hard the northeasterly blew, it could not carry the past away.

ii

The bears did not make a liar of Adrianna. When she and Will got to the dump, the remnants of the day still with them, they found the animals cavorting in all their defiled glory, the adolescents – one of them the best proportioned female they’d yet spotted; a perfect specimen of her clan – scavenging in the dirt, the older female investigating the rusted carcass of a truck, while the male Adrianna had been so eager for Will to see surveyed his foetid kingdom from the top of one of the dump’s dozen hillocks.

Will got out of the jeep and approached. Adrianna, always armed with a rifle under these kind of conditions, followed two or three strides behind. She knew Will’s methodology by now: he wouldn’t waste film on long shots; he’d get as close as he could without disturbing the animals and then he’d wait. And wait; and wait. Even amongst his peers – wildlife photographers who thought nothing of waiting a week for a picture – his patience was legendary. In this, as in so many other things, he was a paradox. Adrianna had seen him at publishing parties grinding his teeth with boredom after five minutes of an admirer’s chit-chat; but here, watching four polar bears on a piece of wasteland, he would sit happily mesmerized until he found the moment he wanted to seize.

It was plain he was not interested in either the adolescents or the female. It was the old male he wanted to photograph. He glanced over at Adrianna, and silently indicated the path he was going to take between the other animals, so as to get as close to his subject as possible. She’d no sooner nodded her comprehension than Will was off, sure-footed even on the ice-slickened dirt. The adolescents took no notice of him. But the female, who was certainly large enough to kill either Will or Adrianna with a swipe if she took a mind to do so, ceased her investigations of the truck and sniffed the air. Will froze; Adrianna did the same, rifle at the ready if the bear made an aggressive move. But perhaps because she’d smelt so many people in the vicinity of the dump, the bear wasn’t interested in this particular scent. She returned to gutting the truck seats, and Will was off again, towards the male. By now Adrianna had grasped the shot Will was after: a low angle, looking up the slope of the hillock so as to frame the bear against the sky, a fool-king perched on a throne of shit. It was the kind of image Will had built his reputation upon. The whole paradoxical story, captured in a picture so indelible and so inevitable, that it seemed evidence of collusion with God. More often than not such happy accidents were the fruit of obsessive observation. But once in a while, as now, they presented themselves as gifts. All he had to do was snatch them.

Typically, of course (how she cursed his machismo sometimes) he was going to position himself so close to the base of (he hillock that if the animal decided to come after him he’d be in trouble. Creeping close to the ground he found his spot. The animal was either unaware of, or indifferent to, his proximity; it was half turned from him, casually licking dirt off its paws. But Adrianna knew from experience such appearances could be dangerously deceptive. The wild did not always like to be scrutinized, however discreetly. Far less adventurous photographers than Will had lost their limbs or their lives by taking an animal’s insouciance for granted. And of all the creatures Will had photographed, there was none with a more terrible reputation than the polar bear. If the male chose to come after Will, Adrianna would have to bring the beast down in one shot, or it would all be over.

Will had by now found a niche at the very base of the hillock that suited him perfectly. The bear was still licking its paws, its face now almost entirely turned away from the camera. Adrianna glanced back at the other animals. All three were happily engrossed in their sports, but that was of little comfort. The geography of the dump allowed for there to be any number of other animals scavenging close by yet out of sight. Not for the first time she wished she’d been bom with the eyes of a chameleon: side-rigged and independently manoeuvred.

She looked back at Will. He had crept up the slope just a little, and had his camera poised. The bear, meanwhile, had given up cleaning its paws, and was lazily surveying its wretched domain. Adrianna willed it to move its rump; turn twenty degrees clockwise and give Will his picture. But it simply raised its scarred snout into the air and yawned, its black velvet lips curling back as it did so. Its teeth, like its hide, were a record of the battles it had fought. Many of them were splintered and several others missing; its gums were abscessed and raw. No doubt it was in constant pain, which probably did nothing for the sweetness of its mood.

The animal’s yawn afforded Will a chance to move three or four yards to his left, until the bear was facing him. It was clear by the caution of his advance that he was perfectly aware of his jeopardy. If the animal took this moment to study the ground rather than the sky then he had a couple of seconds at best to get out of its way.

But luck was with him. Overhead, a flock of noisy geese were homing, and the bear idly turned its gaze their way, allowing Will to reach his chosen spot and settle there before it dropped its head and once again sullenly surveyed the dump.

At last, Adrianna heard the barely audible click of the shutter, and the whir of the film’s advance. A dozen shots in quick succession; then a pause. The bear lowered its head. Had it sensed Will? The shutter clicked again, four, five, six times. The bear let out a sharp hiss. It was an unmistakable warning. Adrianna levelled the rifle. Will clicked on. The bear did not move. Will caught two more shots, and then, very slowly, began to rise. The bear took a step towards him, but the garbage beneath its bulk was slick, and instead of following through the animal faltered.

Will glanced back towards Adrianna. Seeing the levelled rifle he motioned it down and stealthily stepped away. Only when he’d halved the distance between the hillock and Adrianna did he murmur:

‘He’s blind.’

She looked again at the animal. It was still poised at the top of the hillock, its scarred head roving back and forth, but she didn’t doubt what Will had said was true. The animal had little or no sight left. Hence its tentativeness; its reluctance to give chase when it was not certain of the solidity of the ground beneath its paws.

Will was at her side now. ‘You want pictures of any of the others?’ she asked him. The adolescents had gone to romp elsewhere, but the female was still sniffing around the truck. He told her no; he’d got what he needed. Then, turning back to look at the bear, he said:

‘He reminds me of somebody, I just can’t think who.’

‘Whoever it is. don’t tell them.’

‘Why not?’ Will said, still staring at the animal. ‘I think I’d be flattered.’

V

When they got back to Main Street, Peter Tegelstrom was out at the front of his house, perched on a ladder nailing a string of Hallowe’en lights along the low-hanging eaves. His children, a five-year-old girl and a son a year her senior, ran around excitedly, clapping and yelling as the row of pumpkins and skulls was unravelled. Will headed over to chat to Tegelstrom; Adrianna followed. She’d made friends with the kids in the last week and a half, and had suggested to Will that he photograph the family. Tegelstrom’s wife was pure Inuit, her beauty evident in her children’s faces. A picture of this healthy and contented human family living within two hundred yards of the dump would make, Adrianna argued, a powerful counterpoint to Will’s pictures of the bears. The wife, however, was too shy even to talk to the visitors, unlike Tegelstrom himself, who seemed to Will starved for conversation.