Patmos

Jose would remember that poster. “Haz Tu Parte Para Prevenir El Dengue,” it read – “Do your part to prevent Dengue.” Below the title were pictures of basins, old tires, pots, sink holes, and a yard with long grass, all filled with water where the mosquitos would breed and all covered with large red Xs. He peered close to see if the tire in the picture was for a car or a truck. The tires in his yard had been car tires. Of course, he buried them like he was supposed to and he filled the sink holes, overturned his potted plants, and cut the long grass with his machete. He had done his part, yet he still recited the poster over and over again in his mind, as if reciting the rosary– “Hail Mary full of grace. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb…”

            The health post’s vacancy was belied by a solitary fluorescent that flickered tenuously in the next room. It was fastened high in the rafters and Jose could see it above a squat door that partitioned the waiting and examining rooms. He grew accustomed to its buzzes and hums, interspersed with the occasional plunk of a beetle that mistook it for the sun. However, he occasionally heard as well a soft whir. It was when he heard this whir that he looked at the poster, expiating sins through recitation of the techniques to prevent Dengue.

            He had not wanted to come. Neither had she, but he was leaving. She waited three months to tell him and by then it was too late to bribe a local pharmacist. He scanned the empty waiting room again and walked to the window, looking through bars and into the darkness. The Paraguayan government built the little health post on a worthless parcel of land far away from the village. The previous owner sold it to the Health Service for a tidy sum, no doubt by greasing palms of public servants. Jose always resented this corruption but was now grateful for the solitude. Though he had never seen the ocean he felt that he was now on an islet. On this islet there were no churches, no Pope, no friends. Perhaps God still viewed him but then only in passing. Perhaps in passing or perhaps God would linger and send him visions, like St. John on the isle of Patmos – visions of the whore and the dragon. Did the dragon eat the whore? He could not remember. Would there be whirring at the end of the world? A whirring. It started again. It invaded his thoughts and mind. No, he could no longer see himself as John. St. John would not be here, could never be here, neither John nor God. They had abandoned him and suddenly the islet seemed too crowded and the darkness inviting. Yes, he would put off his boat into the blackness, leaving the spectral fluorescent behind to crash mercifully on some foreign rocks. Still the whirring buzzed in his brain, buzzed like the light. He looked again at the poster. He had done right to rid his land of the mosquitos. Yes, he had done right. The whirring stopped.

            Jose noticed that his chest was tight and he started to breathe deeply, consciously. He mustn’t get carried away. In a few hours he would drive her to the village, to her sister’s house. Then he would wake the next morning and see the sun, the un-humming, un-buzzing sun, amid the rolling hills of Paraguay with no sea or rocks or blackness and everything would be as it was before, only there would be no baby.