Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth Read Online Free PDF Page B

Two more counsellors, Anthony and Mimi, had stayed behind to prepare snacks and keep an eye on things.
    I fell in love instantly; I think we all did. As soon as the introductions were over, Sheldon led us in song: Oh when the saints! Go marching in! Oh when the saints go marching in! Oh Lord, I want to be in that number. Yes, when the saints go marching in.
    By the time the bus pulled up in front of the camp, I was sure the saints had already marched in and transported me to heaven on earth. No one on the planet could possibly want to be anywhere but here. We climbed down and hauled our luggage towards the grounds.
    Camp Bakunin had taken over an abandoned campsite; a carved wooden arc supported by two posts welcomed us to Cedar Hills. The name rang a bell—girls from my school must have spent their summers here. But Cedar Hills had either folded or moved to another location. In its current state, the place had a museum look: pilgrim efforts in the wilderness. Since the plumbing was no longer functional, the cook would be bringing canisters of drinking water in from town. As for the call of nature—this, our counsellors assured us, was a precious opportunity for breaking down bourgeoisbarriers as we all tramped together into the forest, comrades in our common pursuit of bodily relief.
    Though Camp Bakunin had permission to use the grounds, we felt like conquerors revelling in the spoils of victory. The size of the camp contributed to the fantasy—Cedar Hills had been built to accommodate at least two hundred campers; we were a group of forty-seven, with twenty cabins and log houses at our disposal. During the first few days we came across assorted odds and ends: a Mickey Mouse watch in the art room, a lone sandal buried in the sand, a baby-blue disc on which tiny white contraceptive pills were arranged in a circle. These paleological remnants made me think of a world swept away by glaciers or drought; maybe we weren’t conquerors after all, but time travellers.
    We were free to move into any bunk house we liked. The Thus Spoke Zarathustra girl wandered off to the edges of camp and appropriated an isolated cabin for herself, the boys split up into two groups, and the remaining girls, including me, chose to congregate in the bunk house closest to the kitchen. We dumped our belongings on the saggy mattresses and made our way to a snack stand set up on the lawn. Leaning against the back of a chair was a large poster on which our counsellors had written: Welcome Campers! When we can no longer dream, we die.—Emma Goldman . Next to the poster, like ministering angels at the gates of paradise, Anthony and Mimi presided over the milk and cookies.
    Time for a break. I feel almost limp with fatigue, as if I’ve been climbing mountains. A long soak in the bath should help. A long soak with sweet-smelling, skin-soothing elixirs, followed by a steeping of my senses in forgetfulness, i.e., sleep.
    I’ll be back. The past, it turns out, exerts a supernal force of its own, compels me to continue.
    . . .
    The late November sun is bravely casting its pallid light. I’ve made myself a pot of spaghetti and answered two emails from students— hi miss, i can’t finish the paper by tuesday on account of a microeconomics exam / Hi miss, I really truly don’t feel very well … I gave them both a five-day extension.
    I was about to carry on with my story when the doorbell rang. I knew it was Mr. Jamal, my tenant, from his ringing style: a brief, timid buzz followed almost immediately by a longer one, in case the first didn’t go through. Mr. Jamal and his family live on the ground floor. I keep the middle flat of the triplex empty, for in my circles there are always transient women, drifting between affairs or countries, looking for a place to stay. My motive is not entirely altruistic—I don’t want anyone directly below me, running the washing machine when I want to sleep, sleeping when I want to listen to Franck’s Sonata for violin