Book 1: Revelation at Tikal — Ch. 5: Leo Carillo and the Blank Pages

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Book 1: Revelation at Tikal — Ch. 5: Leo Carillo and the Blank Pages

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概要

Full Episode Description In Chapter 5 of Revelation at Tikal, Cutty and Paula need a place to sleep before they hit the marina at Oxnard, and Cutty picks Leo Carrillo State Beach Park, the same stretch of sand he used to sneak into on his motorcycle whenever school and friends started to itch. Rocinante is too tall for the bridge, and there's floodwater under it anyway, so they take spot number twenty-four near the showers — handed to them by a freckled, red-haired ranger in a Smokey Bear hat with her own complicated phone life happening in the back of the booth. After dinner at Nick's in Santa Monica, where Paula pushes a bowl of vegetable soup around with her spoon and refuses to trust the kitchen with anything that used to walk, they pull into the campsite, kill the diesel, and split up. Paula takes a heavy green Safari flashlight down to the beach to chase phosphorescent waves and look for the sea cave with the half-buried wooden ship she has been reading about in the park pamphlet. Cutty stays in Rocinante with a strip of beef jerky, a cup of Sleepytime tea, and Floey's trunk. The contents come out across the dinette table in layers. Brittle family records. Sepia photographs. Books stacked like bricks. Near the bottom third, under a folder of his uncle Barry's Project Blue Book files from 1955 — Barry was twenty-two, already climbing the Air Force ladder, and would later disappear south of the border between one jungle and the next — Cutty hits a stiff manila envelope torn open at one end. His name is on it in Floey's handwriting, the same flowing script she has used on his birthday cards since he was a kid trailing seventeen years behind her. Inside the envelope: a sheaf of blank twenty-pound rag bond. Maybe a hundred sheets. Front blank. Back blank. No invisible ink. No spy tricks. Floey never went in for spy tricks. It takes a minute, but Cutty sees it. Ayer Dada would not have replaced a stolen letter with clean paper. The blank pages are not a robbery. They are an instruction. Floey has been telling him for years: Cutty, you're the writer. Let the story flow through you. Be the receiving instrument. The envelope is her invitation to fill it. Cutty pulls his Alaska notebook from beside the driver's seat and starts working. The chapter takes a long, deliberate breath here and lets him think through everything that brought him to this beach: Floey's fifteen-year marriage to Eugene Carl, the John Birch pamphlets, the high Mormon standing, the painter Sancho Sánchez who was supposed to be her tutor but became her rapist instead and shut her talent down for a decade. The cosmic-slapstick run of accidents that ended the marriage — Eugene Carl tied off to the station-wagon bumper and dragged across the roof, the ram in the corral, the lighter and the bathroom vapor and the shotgun. Floey finally pointing the wagon south on 395 and not looking back. Then Paula comes through the door with windburn on her cheeks and salt on her skin, full of news about the cave, the buried wooden deck poking out of the sand, the dinoflagellates lighting up under her boots. Cutty tells her about the manila envelope. Paula nods slowly. Very Floey. What follows is the longest, most honest conversation either of them has had in this story so far. Paula talks about Floey's two-week vow of silence at the commune, her time in John Lilly's isolation tank, her stated need to paint again — imperative, her word — and the search for the Pakal gods that brought her into Ayer's orbit. Cutty fills in Sancho Sánchez and the first pregnancy. Paula's face tightens as the timeline clicks together. The conversation widens. Cutty tells her about Alyeska and the North Slope, the public-relations degree out of Reno, the press releases about ANCSA and "hiring local" and respecting traditional life while the pipeline went across caribou migration routes. The slow realization that his real job was containment. That the Inupiat were what the project managers called "constraints." That he had been hired to keep the anger polite. Paula counters with her own version: dress blues, rules of engagement in a windowless room, saying no, sir to keep pilots from turning villages into target practice. The career she walked out of before she ever wore the uniform. "Floey wanted to help the people the ancient astronauts picked. You wanted to help the people the oil companies stepped over. I wanted to help the people the Army turns into collateral damage. Feels like we've been circling the same campfire from different sides." Then a John Prine cassette goes into the deck. Bruised Orange. "The Hobo Song" floats out thin and lonely. Cutty pulls a blanket from the locker and wraps it around both of them. Paula doesn't move away. She asks if the dinette folds down. He drops the table and flips the cushions into a narrow bed. She comes up with her pack and that same crooked smile and leans, more than steps, into him. The first kiss ...

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