The Economy of Light Read Online Free PDF

stared at me.
    “Why did you scream? Do you remember?”
    “I remember.”
    I didn’t say anything more, but waited for her to go on, if she would.
    “The scream was for Genaro, but for you too,” Onca said. “I will tell you,” and she walked back in the room, but kept her distance from me. “I dreamed about what happened to Genaro when he was cured by this doctor. I saw in this dream what Genaro was like before he saw this man. He was not so quiet, he had more life. And then he became like you....”
    I felt her words, as if I had been kicked and the wind had gone out of me, but I said nothing.
    “In the dream I saw my husband as he really is, I felt his thoughts, and I felt a sadness that took the life out of Genaro, that took his words and laughter and juice. I can’t describe this sadness, but it was as if he felt he had done something terrible, even though he didn’t, as if he carried terrible things that weren’t his. Like you, Misteer. The same as you. And I feel afraid for both of you, because I know you are going back to meet this sorcerer, and I want to stop you. But I don’t want you to die. But I don’t want you to carry weight, and Genaro, he cannot carry any more. So I don’t know. But if you go, Meester, you must take care of Genaro, no matter what. You must promise me this.”
    I nodded and saw that she was crying, although her voice never wavered, just increased in strength.
    She left and I realized that she was right. I was going to go. I would only become bedridden if I stayed. If I was going to die, it might as well be in the open, on the Amazon, than here. And as I turned off the light, I thought about David and my mother—I had never known my father, for he had died in an automobile accident before I was born. I remembered snatches of childhood before the camp, and I felt the old anger and hatred for Mengele. I had spent the better part of my life tracking him, to balance the scales, and in those years I had lost the focus of anger; finding him had become my raison d’être , but it was a choir I had become resigned to. My passion was gone, walled deep inside, its only escape dreams and nightmares. But now, perhaps my fear of death rekindled it. If there was a doctor living in the jungle, I would find him. If, impossibly, he was Mengele, I would kill him.
    I would kill him for David.
    For my mother.
    For me, for the life he had taken.
    And if he were just a doctor, a missionary treating the Indians, perhaps he would help me to die well.
    As I sank through layers of gray thought to sleep, I felt a strength leaching into my old bones. I dreamed that I held the knife to Mengele. I dreamed that Mengele never was, that I had a life, a family instead of a few ugly affairs. A family instead of an empty apartment. A family instead of a fazenda Indian woman who treated me as an child—perhaps out of love, perhaps because it was her character to mother.
    But as I slept I found my anger and hatred once again. I seethed with it, I was overjoyed with it, and even in the deepest of dreams, I knew that if I were going to die, I would have a purpose. Even if Mengele was dead, even if he was the hollow-socketed skull held up by the coroner in Embu, I would find him, in life or in death. For in my dream, I could see into Onca’s dreams, into Genaro’s dreams; and in deep sleep I believed in sorcery, for now I too was a sorcerer, a demon, and if it took a dream-journey for me to reach and exorcise my past, then so be it.
    * * * *
    The next day I talked with Genaro. We were in my dining room and Onca had prepared the table with silver and crystal as if this was to be my last supper. It was dusk, and the room took on a smoky appearance; the oriental rug that covered the rough plank hardwood floor gave a cozy warmth to the room, as did the hearth, for there were nights here when a fire was in order. “I can’t just make plans to go into the jungle,” I said. “I must know exactly where we’re