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Excerpt from Burridge Unbound, a novel by Alan Cumyn

After the speech Tjodja reappears and takes Joanne and me to a huge penthouse suite on the twenty-third floor with a chandelier, grand piano, bar and hot tub, the harbour lights flickering in the black distance behind the window, the bed large enough for a half-dozen restless sleepers.

"Where’s the other room?" I ask the Minister of whatever.

"I’m sorry?"

"Joanne is my nurse. We ordered two rooms."

"Ah," he says, his eyes telling me he comprehends—appearances must be kept.

"There is an adjoining suite," he says, showing us the way. What looks like a closet actually leads to a small bedroom with a dresser, television and bathroom of its own.

After Tjodja leaves Joanne says, "Everyone thinks I’m your mistress."

"Not much we can do about it," I say.

"As long as Maryse doesn’t think it."

"Maryse knows I’m incapable."

A quiet pause. Her sudden intensity tilts me off-balance.

"Some things get better," she says quietly. "You have to believe that. You know how I feel about working with chronic cases."

"Maryse has asked for a divorce, actually," I say, failing to keep the bitterness from my voice.

"Oh, Bill," Joanne says. "I’m so sorry to hear that."

"It’s like there was a fire in the house," I say, slowly, trying to think of it exactly. "Even though you douse it early and the walls are still intact, there’s been so much smoke and water damage, the electrical system is shot, the pipes are ruined. You might as well tear it all down and start over."

"Well, I’m sorry," she says again. "If there was one couple I thought might pull through this sort of disaster it was you two." She squeezes my arm briefly, then shoulders her large knapsack, a swift, powerful movement, full of youth and life. "I’m turning in," she says and closes the door.

I sit on the bed. I have returned to the valley of the shadow and it looks like...every other hotel room on the planet. Not true. It’s a luxury suite twenty-three floors in the air. Perfect for me. Either they did their research or it’s a happy coincidence. I want nothing near the ground.

I lie back, blink at the ceiling, white stucco with glinting specks. Listen to Joanne running the shower in the other room. We could be anywhere. The Kartouf could be anywhere. In my liver, blood, kidneys, brain. Behind my eyelids, in my marrow. A quiet cancer. Peaceful for now. Perhaps happy to have me back.

I don’t sleep, of course, but it’s a surprisingly peaceful sort of unsleep, not a twister, no disasters, not even acidic, regretful thoughts of my failed marriage. Just a quiet seeping of darkness into light. From my window I watch the sun levitate out of the depths of the ocean while hulking cargo ships nod at the dock and the gulls circle. It’s odd to gaze from such a distance behind double glass—no sound, as if the volume has been lost on the television. The tritos begin to clog the avenues, multi-coloured, chromed-up, gleaming, outrageous, darting from one lane to the next, nearly up on the sidewalk to win riders, men in untucked white shirts and loose black pants, and women in office skirts and blouses, others in saftoris. Farmers ride on jury-rigged mini tractors, pulling their pineapples and papya to market, little boys sleeping in the back, their faces deep brown with sun and dirt.

Joanne emerges rumpled-faced and drowsy. "Oh God, what a horrible night!" she says. "I couldn’t fall asleep until about four or five in the morning."

"Yes, I heard you."

"Well, you’re used to it!"

She slogs off to the bathrrom.

And suddenly I am certain this has been the right thing to do. I’ve returned to the valley of the shadow but I’m used to it, and there is a peace here at the core that could never be mine away from it. This is where my most terrifying, exciting, difficult, heroic, agonizing moments were spent. Where I was most alive. I was put to the fire and lived to tell. And now it’s mine to put water to the fire. How could it be otherwise? I wouldn’t miss these days for the world.

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