I
am haunted by Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants." For a short story in which nothing much
actually happens, images swirl in my mind's eye when I turn it towards those
long, white hills and the railway station.
For some reason, I picture the station as an isolated structure flanked by tracks that stretch endlessly in both directions. The climate is arid and save for the hills
and river, the terrain is colorless. I can see the flies and the waves of heat
rising from the tracks, hear the buzzing, and smell the salty sweat mingled
with the sweet licorice scent of anise.
Those hills, though. They rise
white, and smooth as marble with their humped backs, denying a foothold to the
adventurer bold enough to attempt the ascent.
For me, the setting is the life of the story. It breaths while the American and the girl
suffocate, stifled by their burden and each other's company.
In
the midst of this vivid setting, I can hear the man saying, "They just let
the air in and then it's all perfectly natural." (line 46) It echoes.
It hangs in the air. It pulsates
with the heat waves. It is the most
disconcerting statement used to describe abortion that I have ever read. It seems mundane and horrific
simultaneously. Perhaps it is the emotionlessness
of the statement in contrast with her obvious agitation and misgivings. It sounds like he's just suggesting they air
out her womb like one airs a stuffy room that was shut up, so it can be
entered once more.
Suddenly, I
am with Jig at the table as she sits alone.
The atmosphere is constricting and I must inhale to remind myself what
it is to breath. Life.
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