O Progresso #2
By the last day of their train ride, Cornelius felt distinctly unmoored.
Melancholy saturated his senses and emotions like a fog, and he couldn’t pinpoint why.
It came upon him the same as it always had, no matter where he was or what he was doing.
He’d spent so many years trying to outrun or ignore it, but all his efforts made no difference.
He tried many times to understand where the sudden sadness intermingled with anger came from or why, to dig up his roots and search every inch for the black veins that pumped his being with foulness.
If he could find where it originated, then he could cut it all out.
When all else failed, Cornelius usually turned to drinking.
He’d been doing so well keeping his intake to a minimum, only partaking at dinner with Severino that first night in Rio.
He’d been fine, more than fine even. Sure he was thirsty, but the itch beneath his skin was manageable, easy to suffocate with smoke (his attempts to limit his intake had failed) and conversation with his companions.
Tonight they’d be turning in fairly early, they didn’t have time to sightsee in S?o Paulo like they did in Rio.
Tomorrow they’d visit the Butantan Institute, and the day after was for sending letters and picking up supplies.
Besides Cuiabá, it would be the last major point to get anything they needed.
Cornelius wanted to develop film and obtain more, and he was pretty sure Watt had his own errands to run.
Severino had some business to conduct for Joaquim, and while Cornelius was disappointed they wouldn't be visiting the university here, he was glad for time to decompress.
Cornelius decided he would stay at the hotel instead of going out for dinner tonight, eat in and enjoy a couple hours of solitude and drink by himself.
It sounded depressing on the outside, and it probably was, but he wouldn’t get carried away if he was by himself.
He simply needed to recalibrate, and it’d be the last safe opportunity before he couldn’t.
Cornelius felt giddy at the idea of a plan setting into place, but the relief was immediately eclipsed by shame.
Normal people didn’t act like this. Normal people …
talked to people when they weren’t feeling well, right?
They didn’t schedule time for drinking alone in order to cope with a vague and choking sadness.
Then again, Cornelius tried to think of anyone he knew willingly confessing vulnerability.
Not many came up. Except for Watt, like when he'd spoken about his time overseas.
Cornelius thought Watt would tell him anything, if he asked.
He was an anomaly though, too open for his own good.
But was Cornelius being too harsh on himself?
He didn’t know.
April 9th, 1930
Cornelius wanted to be alone.
Truthfully, Watt wanted to be alone as well.
He wanted to eat, and sleep. Everything was painfully quiet since departing the train, and his ears rang with the absence of chaos.
The hotel was about ten minutes from the station via taxi, and was much nicer than the one they’d stayed at in Rio.
While Severino secured their rooms, Cornelius smiled weakly at Watt in the lobby before announcing his plans to turn in early.
Each man had his own room and bathroom, Watt's was situated between Cornelius and Antunes.
The thing was, Watt had been hoping to be alone with Cornelius.
A few hours after they settled into their rooms, Watt left Maggie dozing on the bed and quietly knocked on Cornelius’ door.
It was long after supper and Watt had changed into sleeping clothes, he didn’t think much of his attire until Cornelius opened the door.
He was still dressed in his traveling clothes, the top few buttons of his shirt were undone and suspenders hung loose off his shoulders.
His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions.
His face was flush, and his eyes were surprisingly hard.
Despite his cold expression, Cornelius hoarsely asked, “What’s wrong? ”
Watt’s heart stuttered. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong. I—” He cleared his throat. “Could I come in?”
Cornelius lifted a brow, and for a moment Watt thought he’d be denied. Had he done something wrong?
Cornelius motioned for Watt to come in, and when he took a step back the movement was jerky and stiff. “It’s a bit smoky in here, just to warn you.”
And so it was. Smoke veiled the ceiling in layers, a bluish black haze that swirled as they disturbed it.
There were two ashtrays full of ash and cigarette butts, one on the coffee table and one on the dresser.
Rings decorated the furniture, and Watt traced their origins to a half full glass of whiskey.
A bottle sat on the coffee table, also half full.
More disturbing than the drink or smoke were the papers.
On the floor, on the tables and chairs. Some were crumpled into piles, some were trampled on and caught in the crossfire of what looked to be an intense pacing session.
Others were simply laying about, half filled with words.
It looked like something from a mystery novel.
Watt stood in the entryway and stared, unsure what to do.
“Fuck. Donnez-moi un moment.” Cornelius snapped, and abruptly began snatching up sheets of paper like they were nothing.
It was like watching a thundercloud move through the room, and Watt couldn't stand it. He started forward, taking Cornelius by the wrist. No thought entered the movement, and when his mind caught up to his body he immediately let go. Cornelius glowered at him, brows set in a hard line and lips pressed thin. He lowered the arm once caught in Watt’s grasp, balling his hands into fists.
“You’re ruining it,” Watt whispered.
Cornelius reared back, stricken. His hands opened spasmodically, and papers fluttered to the ground.
His lip trembled, and his bloodshot eyes filled with something like rage.
They were so blue, the water building in them magnified the pigment tenfold.
Watt braced for the incoming hit by closing his eyes. He thought, 'Go on, I can take it.'
It wasn’t a hit so much as a body slam.
Cornelius’ arms slid around his middle, cinching tight around his ribcage.
His face scrubbed against Watt’s sternum, throwing his glasses to the floor.
Watt caught them before they hit the ground, and reflexively hugged Cornelius back.
The fierceness of Cornelius’ embrace was at once familiar and all encompassing.
Watt’s arms encircled Cornelius’ shoulders, and he held the man with all the strength he had, doing his best to ground him to the earth.
He held Cornelius for the longest time, basking in his warmth.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Cornelius shook his head, rubbing his nose back and forth against Watt’s chest. His sleepshirt was thin, and wet with Cornelius' tears.
Watt swallowed, trying for courage. “Listen. Could I stay here for a little while? We don’t need to talk, and you don’t need to stop what you’re doing. I just needed some quiet company, and … maybe you do too?”
Cornelius stiffened for a tenuous second, then relaxed and nodded. He pulled away and wiped roughly at his eyes with his sleeve, and Watt pretended not to pay attention. Cornelius glanced up at him, face flushed. “Okay,” he said, and whiskey perfumed the air between them.
The bed was the only place not covered in papers, so Watt sat on the edge of the mattress.
Cornelius offered him a drink, and Watt took it.
Cornelius did not sit on the bed, still rigid and restless.
He stood beside Watt and lit up a joint, frowning at the mess he’d created.
Watt took a sip of the whiskey which was warm and frankly, terrible.
He lifted a hand towards the stick and Cornelius lifted an eyebrow. “It’s not tobacco, you know.”
“I can smell that.”
Cornelius passed it over without further argument. Watt inhaled the thick smoke derived from earth and paper, it was drier than hell and burned going down. He coughed and handed it back over. “Have you had that since New York?”
Cornelius took a hit, lifting his shoulder as he did so. On the exhale he said, “Philly actually, but yes.”
Watt shook his head. “Nothing if not prepared.”
Cornelius said nothing. He offered the joint back to Watt, and they shared it in silence.
A syrupy warmth spread throughout Watt’s body, and his mind slowed.
The thing was it didn’t feel slow, but more like what he supposed normal to feel like.
He was able to examine each thought before it fled away, and his anxieties were slippery, unable to take firm hold.
He simply existed within himself, content to do so.
Cornelius butted the joint and slid onto the floor, his back propped against the bed. If Watt moved his leg a little he could bump against the man’s side. Cornelius said, “It helps.”
“With your leg?”
“That too.”
“Me too. I think.” Watt nodded. He took a sip of his whiskey, then decided to give up on it. It was making his stomach sick, and he felt pleasant enough already. Cornelius was playing with his glass, slowly turning it in place on the floor. He said, “I’m a drunk, you know.”
Watt rolled the words over in his mind, thinking about their time together. Cornelius didn’t seem like a drunk. He’d hardly consumed any alcohol in their time together. Three times that Watt could remember, and it’d been over a month now. He didn’t know what to say.
Cornelius went on, quieter than before. “I’d been arguing with myself all day whether to settle in and drink alone, or go with you and Severino. By the time I got to my room I had myself all worked up, proud as a peacock. I decided to eat dinner with you, instead of being alone.”
Cornelius deliberately tipped his glass and spilled his drink onto the floor.
They both watched the amber liquid spread across the wood.
Whiskey met paper, soaking into the fibers and intermingling with the ink.
“But I had a feeling I needed to check the mail first. It couldn't wait.” Cornelius sighed, drawing the air from deep within.
“And in the stack of letters waiting for me was one from Mama.”
“Is she—?” Watt began to ask in a whisper, but Cornelius threw his glass at the wall. Watt startled at the deafening impact, half rising from the bed to brace himself.
“Papa’s dead,” Cornelius hissed, then buried his head in his hands and tore at his hair.
His shoulders heaved, and he began to weep.
Enormous, brutal sobs that tore Watt’s heart right out of his chest. Watt slunk onto the floor beside Cornelius and embraced him for the second time that night, holding the man while he grieved.
He’d never seen Cornelius cry before. Not as children or otherwise.
The man always seemed so unshakable, too stubborn for anything like tears.
When they were younger Cornelius had idolized his father, followed him around everywhere, which in turn meant that Watt did too.
Watt had always been envious of their relationship.
In truth, he’d never known that fathers were supposed to treat their children with anything other than indifference at best and brutal punishment at worst.
Cornelius’ father hugged his children. He spoke to them, kind and stoic and gentle.
He asked his wife and children about their day, and Watt’s too.
He’d taken Watt under his wing, taught him how to shoot a gun and paddle on the lake.
Most importantly, he taught him what a father could be. Ought to be.
Watt sniffed, and Cornelius lifted his eyes to Watt's. “Are you alright?”
Watt shook his head. “Yes, sorry. I just … he was a good man.”
Surprisingly, Cornelius smiled a little. “He always did like you.”
“I don’t think there's anyone he didn’t like.”
Cornelius was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “He did break your father’s nose, you know.”
Watt swallowed, arms flexing around Cornelius who had tensed up again. Oh, he was still holding him. Was he supposed to let go now?
“Could you … I understand if you don’t want to, but could you … tell me?”
Cornelius had already started shaking his head when Watt began to speak. “No. Forget I said anything.”
“Cornelius, I—”
Cornelius pushed away from him, staggering to his feet. “No. I don’t want to talk about this right now,” he whispered, bracing himself against the wall. He held a hand to his forehead, decidedly not looking at Watt.
Watt stared at him, feeling bereft, cold, and idiotic. Why the hell had he thought now was a good time to talk about this? Cornelius had brought it up, but it was clear the man was not in a good state of mind. Belatedly, he got to his feet. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
Cornelius' hand fell from his forehead to cover the rest of his face. “Just please go, Watt. I want to be alone now. Actually alone.”
Watt’s hands flexed at his sides, and his left one cramped and spasmed painfully for a fleeting moment. He shook off the feeling, then started towards the door. He paused at the entry and said, “If you need me, don't be afraid to knock.”
Cornelius’ hand fell away from his face and he nodded. “Thanks.”
Watt closed the door between them.
He returned to his room, and only when night began to twist into morning did he fall into a fitful sleep. He willed his mind to dream of memories he’d long forgotten, but all was darkness.