The Cloud Atlas

A few paces down the street, I heard, but refused to turn and see, someone climb the steps to the Starhope, open the door, and enter.

LILY SLEPT LIKE she'd been shot. Stomach-down on the floor, limbs and blankets scattered about, mouth agape, breaths coming in as noisily as they went out.

I'd gotten sandwiches, stale ones, really just slices of bread and some cheese, but I'd not had a lot of choice when I went out. Finding a diner that was still open took some time, but not enough; I spent an hour or so wandering what there was then of Anchorage, waiting for 1 A.M. to arrive, and worrying that when it did, she would have meant one in the afternoon. There were soldiers and sailors everywhere, never in groups of less than three, which meant that walking alone, I attracted some attention-at least from those who were still sober enough to focus and speak. But eventually I navigated away from the bars and found a tiny neighborhood that looked like it had been built within the last few hours. I walked each of the streets on its grid, and was going to start on a second lap, when a man who'd spotted me earlier shouted from a porch: “Get a move on, pal. This is all families. None of those type of houses here.” That's when I started to notice the signs tacked to some of the doors: “PRIVATE HOME.” Somebody later explained: women were rare enough in Anchorage in those days that when you saw one enter a house followed by a man, you might reasonably assume the premises were open for business.

I wondered where Lily lived. At the Starhope? When I got back to her office and found her asleep, I thought about leaving the food and going home-back to base-myself, but I couldn't leave. So I just shut the door behind me and slid down the wall until I was sitting opposite her. I opened one of the sandwiches and ate it, anticipating a good long period of studying her, memorizing her every feature. I wanted a picture, the way other guys had a picture-or half a dozen pictures-of sweethearts, of movie stars. But I wasn't going to get one, so I'd have to make one.

But the picture kept going out of focus. She was snoring. Snoring: I'm glad I remember that detail. Sometimes, I forget it-though I don't see how that's possible. She snored like she was gargling, or choking, or drowning, or was a dog engaged in any one of those activities. I'm glad I remember her snoring, because it's real enough to reassure me that this memory actually occurred.

Otherwise, the moment seems made up of too much magic: outside, that weak, watery blue Alaskan version of midnight twilight, Lily lying there, me sitting there, she sleeping, me watching. I didn't think, then, that we could ever be closer. I'm not sure anyone can. I'm not sure there is a place closer to someone than being at their side, awake, while they're asleep.

I found it increasingly difficult to breathe myself-as if what sounded like snoring were actually her wolfing down what air remained in the room. I was watching her, but not as a voyeur-I was watching over her. And nothing stirs a young man's heart-particularly one so new in uniform-as the thought that his vigilance and restraint is keeping some woman safe.

But after a few minutes of listening to her snore and wheeze, my restraint failed. Something deeper stirred within me, starting as a shiver and then finishing as flat-out, coughing laughter.

The snoring stopped. Lily sat up and looked around, wide-eyed, not smiling, not frowning. I fell silent. She saw the remaining sandwich and slid it toward her, peeking inside the wax paper.

“Sorry-” I said.

Lily said nothing, just took a bite and chewed, staring ahead. “Not the worst way to wake up,” she said. She took another bite and chewed for a while. “You're really-curious,” she said. “You know that? Curious. Comic, soldier, priest. I'm not sure who you are.”

“You did a pretty good job earlier figuring me out,” I said. She yawned. “What about what happens next?”

“I'm not so good at ‘next,’” Lily said. “Maybe if I was,” she continued, but stopped to take another bite, “I wouldn't be here, eating this sandwich, hanging out with some sailor thinks I'm Jap.” She stuffed the remaining sandwich in her mouth with the heel of her palm and smiled, cheeks bulging, as I stared at her.

“Do I look Japanese now?” she said, cheeks still huge, bits of sandwich spittling out. She took a big swallow, and then pulled on her ears, stuck out her tongue. “How about now? Martian?”

“You're not-?”

She swallowed the last of the sandwich and looked around. “You only bought one? I gave you five bucks.”

“Two, but I ate one. You're not Japanese?”

“How much did it cost? That wasn't enough change. What, you think I'm Jap, you can steal from me?”

“I'm sorry, I-”

“Well, I'm not sorry. In fact, I am-” and then she said a word I didn't understand. Or was it a word? It sounded like something she'd done with her throat, her mouth. She said it again: “Yup'ik.”

“What's that?”