NO TRACE OF THE EXPLORER’S BALLOON

By Ben Greenman

from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled

The daughter of the brother of the captain of the steamer that made the discovery has finally told her story, and it is a tearjerker. She is an unemotional woman in most other aspects of her life, which makes it all the sadder. She works in a school library and rarely either smiles or frowns at the children. But in yesterday’s interview she was undone from the first. “My uncle,” she says, and then takes a sip of water. She is overcome with the thought of him. When she was young, he was her favorite, and vice versa. They shared a special bond, in that they both liked speaking of the unknown, much to the consternation of the others, who wished that conversation would focus on what was safely understood. The two of them ventured into places of fancy and fantasy, where castles were built in the air and then torn down by dragons also built in the air. When he married—her dashing young uncle, to a woman of means—she found herself disappointed for reasons she could not quite understand, but that at the same time were undeniably real to her, and she was equally unaccountably joyful when the marriage failed quickly. She was twelve then. Now she is older. Now she has composed herself, and she can go on with her story. “My uncle,” she said. “He had a friend who was very much like him, to hear him tell it. I never met the other man. My uncle said that they looked different: the other man was shorter, stouter, with a strange rapid way of walking as if he was hurrying across burning ground, while my uncle was deliberate in his movements, so as not to admit that anything could get to him. The friend was an explorer. He led an expedition to Blue Island by balloon. He left with fanfare. He kissed his wife and infant child, my uncle’s godson. He was in radio contact for a few weeks and then never heard from again. My uncle waited patiently for months and then when he could wait no longer commissioned a boat to go and find his friend. He did not, but he found the story of the man scattered all around. This was on a remote island. This was a campsite, now deserted. My uncle did not think the balloon landed there, as there were traces of the party having arrived by rowing or walking. The camp had been conducted, it seemed, in an intelligent manner. A few pairs of shoes discovered near a freezing river were worn nearly through, indicating frequent use. One body was found, belonging to an older man who had served as a kind of scribe for the others. He was largely preserved by the cold, and seemed as though he was still consulting the instrument that lay at his feet, along with a rifle. A leather-bound journal found next to him promised to tell the whole tale, but it was empty.” She sniffles. She is sad about the explorer and his balloon but also about her uncle. Harm did not befall him on his recovery mission but within two months of his return he was married again. That union took and lasted for sixty years. She has just celebrated her eightieth birthday. “My memory,” she said, and trailed off.