Free Mad Hope by Heather Birrell Page A

they kissed like chaste children and slept like gentle dragons, side by side, through the night, until the clear commands of the camp cook woke them.
    And then there was the issue of moving formally from sleep to waking, selecting the appropriate attire without parading around naked. Paul managed to pull on a pair of shorts and wiggle a T-shirt over his head before emerging to introduce himself to the pair of Germans, who had farted unselfconsciously – loud chains of farts – as the morning light crept in, and the group of cheery Spaniards sitting on the steps smoking cigarettes as if sucking in the dawn’s nectar. Beth put on her quick-dry pants in a supine position but had to stand to do up the zipper. As she reached to fasten the button, she ran her hands over her abdomen, as had become habit.
    Filaments of a dream returned to her.
    She had been walking past a schoolyard, and she saw them, the children, in clusters and singles, trading insults, passing around secrets like coins. What did they know ? What leavings and keepings were rattling at the bottoms of their bright, oversized knapsacks? It began to rain, and a teacher who looked far too young for the job began herding the children up the stairs and into the building. And it was then that Beth saw them – the children’s dreams. They were floating above their heads, untethered, but somehow bound. Paul! she cried. Look! The dreams were hovering, they were dancing through the air, less like speech bubbles than interwoven threads of light. And the children seemed so cavalier with their dreams; they seemed not to notice they had them. They dawdled on the steps. They shoved and hugged each other roughly. Look! she shouted at Paul again, and he turned towards her, as did the children, whose eyes looked suddenly pale and intent, as if they had themselves been woken violently from sleep. And then the dream ended, or Beth’s memory of it did, and she found herself in the Amazonian rainforest.
    Before zipping up her pants, she caressed the pouch of flesh above her belly button. She looked up because she thought she could feel Miguel watching her across the expanse of swamp that separated the sleeping shelter and the dining area, peering out towards her, silhouetted against the mosquito netting like a shadow puppet. Perhaps they all appeared this way, funny outlines backlit by their particular cultures and accents, trampling and maundering their way through the jungle, laughing and drinking around the slab of a wooden table, starting comically at all the same sights – the tarantulas waving their chubby arms at the atmosphere, the sloths hanging like overstuffed handbags from the branches of ancient trees. Watching Miguel watch her, she was overcome by modesty; she had not yet thought to put on a shirt, and she could feel sweat beginning to accrue underneath her breasts. She reached for a bra and stroked her tummy one last time.
    It had been concluded that there was nothing technically wrong with either of them. At first Paul had scoffed, said something about natural selection, overpopulation, all for the best, and she had felt an odd pull in her gut, as if one of her arteries had gone spelunking in the region of her uterus. They had walked for two hours in High Park after the third specialist gave his verdict. It was February, the temperature was sub-zero and they had to dodge Canada geese strutting and tsp ing like cops along the path. They did not speak; although the words were there, their footsteps over the snow and ice told a more complete, forlorn story. They wore parkas and Thinsulate accessories, but the wind blew straight through them. After they had circled the park four times, Paul said, ‘Chicken breasts for dinner?’ and Beth nodded, veering towards Bloor Street and home.
    In retrospect, Beth was surprised and encouraged by their daring in taking the trip, or perhaps their faith that the daringness would pay off. Yes! It was