Free Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand: A Novel of Adam and Eve by Gioconda Belli

cool of the water?”
    â€œAnd hunger? And pain?”
    â€œWe wouldn’t be hungry if you would stop being afraid.”
    They started back toward the mountain that held their cave. A shadow was circling over their heads. Adam looked up. After an instant’s blindness from looking toward the sun, he saw against the light blue of afternoon the sumptuous plumage of his favorite bird, its immense orange and gold wings, the small head crowned by an intense blue panache. It was the Phoenix.
    â€œThe Phoenix was the only one of the animals that didn’t eat from the Tree of Knowledge,” exclaimed Eve. “I’m sure that it goes in and out of the Garden without being stopped by the fire.”
    Adam wondered if it could be a sign. Perhaps the Phoenix would carry them back to the Garden, flying over the precipice. With that possibility he was swamped by a wave oflaughter and levity. He wanted to jump up and down, wave his arms. On one occasion before the woman arrived, the bird had carried him to the sea. It had set him down on the water, and Adam had seen the languid, buoyant creatures that dwelled there. He named the swordfish, the whale, the shark, the manta rays and dolphins, the schools of sardines, the seashells and starfish. He had observed the warm abysses and the mouths that served as vents for vapor from suboceanic fires. Luminous fish had accompanied him on an exploration, and for the first time he had intuited darkness. It was this intuition of a world without light that his memory had evoked during the first night of darkness in his lifetime. He was remembering the small, colorful fish he associated with Eve’s toes just when the bird descended, stirring a placid breeze and depositing two figs before her. Then it took off, directing its beak and its wings toward the Garden of Eden.
    Eve picked up the figs. Just seeing them filled her mouth with the anticipated flavor of the juice and the flesh of the fruit. Quick as the cat, Adam took them from her hands.
    â€œNo, Eve, I told you no fruits. Most of all, figs.”
    He clutched the figs in his hands. His eyes followed the course of the Phoenix. As he watched it leave without carrying them back to the Garden, he was paralyzed with disappointment.
    â€œI am really, really hungry,” said Eve, frightened. “We must eat, Adam. We have to eat.”
    â€œI am as hungry as you, but our misfortune gives me pause.”
    â€œBut the bird brought these, Adam. The Other must have sent them.”
    â€œWe don’t know that, Eve. I thought that the Phoenix would carry us back. But these figs—we don’t know, Eve, if this is another trick,” he said stubbornly. “We still don’t know if the Other is for us or against us.”
    Silenced by Adam’s blindness and stubbornness, Eve swallowed her tears, tasting the salt in her dry mouth.
    â€œPlease, Adam. Don’t throw away the figs. Keep them.”
    Adam buried them at the entrance to the cave. He dug the earth with the help of a sharp rock. Under the starry night, Eve persisted in her attempts to make him stop. There are two, Adam. Give me one. She did not persuade him. They lay down to sleep without speaking, without touching, each thinking of the other’s harsh judgment. Her hunger made her picture the fig deteriorating in the earth, food that could be in her mouth lost through the man’s intransigence, his cruelty. He was cruel when he forced her to watch as he buried the fruit; more so because he had decided for both of them. He had acted as if her words had no weight, no sound, as if he didn’t hear them. And she and her words were one. Not to hear her was to make her nonexistent, to leave her completely alone.
    He was aware that he hadn’t listened to her. Listening to her made him weak, muddled his intentions. She had too much confidence in herself, and he no longer knew in what, or in whom, to have faith. On the other hand, he