Crab Orchard Review, Vol. 15, No. 1

Tabaré Alvarezto find a name that fit. The shoots would not appear for a few days, buthe went through the list anyway, bringing to mind the shape, colors,texture, and smell of each of the flowers. The girl, though she had noimage or scent to remember, sometimes spoke a name with him.“Weaver’s bamboo: Bambusa textilis.”“Buddha’s belly: Bambusa ventricosa.”Out of habit he interrupted the list when they passed one of thebamboo he had identified. “Sofía?”And she would say the name. “Chusquea macrostachya.”Then he continued the list, and she spoke some of the scientificnames with him.“Common bamboo: Bambusa vulgaris.”So far, all the pale plants on their circuit were in bloom, and stillthe old man could not find the right name. He called a rest and wentquickly through the books, but it was no use: he was a little tired, hethought; he couldn’t focus his eyes.They continued through the grove, taking photographs of theflowers and samples, and labeling them, then reciting the list as theywalked. It became increasingly hard for the old man to keep his voicefrom sounding strange.As they neared the creek’s source, the end of the grove, the imageof air reclaiming the space he occupied came again, more forcefully,and with it now the fear that there would be little difference; perhapshe had forgotten some of the names, simply skipped them in the list.He went through the list from the beginning, counting the names, andthe girl sensed the strangeness in his voice and spoke all the names sheknew, to let him know that the list was intact, that he hadn’t changedit. At the end, when the number was confirmed, he felt panic. Maybehe had made a mistake at the very beginning, and the list had beenincomplete all this time. Who knows what he had missed—and hecouldn’t do it all again, he didn’t have time, he would never see Africaagain or even Southeast Asia, he had wasted his life. He stopped wherehe was, a few dozen paces from the creek’s source, and sat downcarefully on the ground.The girl came around so she could see his face. His eyes were openand occasionally blinked, but she could not get him to tell her whatwas wrong. Her voice rose, and she began to call for the other villagers.The old man heard her words hit and finally blend into the rustling ofthe bamboo leaves. The villagers did not respond. She paced in front ofhim, seemingly unsure whether to stay with him or leave him to go for8 u Crab Orchard Review