The Architecture of Longing by Jamie M. Boyd
3400 words, ~17 minutes reading time
Issue 5 (Summer 2024)
The lowest levels of the public baths on Raesonde were dark and dank and silent as a womb. The top floors were a contrast, soaked in sunlight and rainbow prisms, with stained glass that rivaled Earth’s greatest cathedrals. But my favorite was always the baths’ central maze, with its twisting halls and cross-vaulted ceilings shrouded in mist—be it a hot sauna haze or a fresh cleansing cloud that, I swore, felt like the moment just before it rained.
It was through this mist I saw her emerge, once again, after thirty-five years.
We were in the women’s dressing rooms, and, thankfully, I’d already removed my towel and put my clothes back on. Although Raesondians have no nudity taboos, I averted my eyes until she fastened her skirt. At that point, had she been human instead of humanoid, I would’ve come up behind her and touched her on the arm. But this wasn’t Earth, and I wasn’t as daring as I’d once been.
“Iya,” I called softly.
She turned. Her mouth was still set in the same half-smile I remembered, as if she’d just discovered the answer to a riddle and found it more intriguing than expected.
Her skin was still the eerie green of rainforest moss. The color came from the algae-like organisms Raesondians cultivated in their skin, but it seemed to me none of them shared her exact shade, more vibrant than the common olive, yet richer and deeper than a youth’s chartreuse.
As the dressing room crowd hummed around us, her grin melted into a blank expression. And I knew, with soul-crushing certainty, I’d aged beyond recognition—that I looked every inch the 64-year-old Earth woman I was, while she, with her longer lifespan, had just entered her prime.
Her amber eyes flew wide. “Constance? Is that you?”
My heart unfurled. She not only knew me, but she answered in English, a language useless on this planet. A language she only remembered for one reason: Me.
No. Us.
We rushed to embrace but stopped short, each caught on an invisible fishing line, on the hook that was our lives—at once remembering where we were, who we were. In my nervousness, I dropped my satchel, its contents spilling onto the tile floor, tiny objects playing dissonant notes on the mosaic as they scattered.
We both knelt to gather them. Our heads almost touched as she brushed stray droplets from the slim volume, Sunshowers and Other Poems, I’d bought at an open-air market. Once upon a time, she read me those sonnets aloud.
As she slipped the book back in my bag, she murmured, “Careful, you almost lost something there.”
I flushed and forced a laugh as we stood. “I guess I did.”
Neither one of us knew what to say after that. There were eyes all around. Aliens are rare on Raesonde, so I was bound to attract scrutiny wherever I went. And I suspected Iya was no stranger to attention. The expensive cut of her cloth and the graceful arch of her neck indicated she’d grown into a woman of consequence.
“What are you doing here?” She switched to her own tongue. “Another study of our waterworks and gardens?”
That was how we’d met. Thirty-five years ago, I was on the second Empire contact ship that came to learn about the strange planet hiding in the backwater of the Patrya system, now re-classified as Rae. I was a young professor of architecture, a last-minute addition to the roster and an unlikely candidate to unlock the secrets of her people. The doctors and scientists onboard had been tasked with that mission, given the Raesondians’ unique biology.
You’ve probably heard Raesondians are the first “half plant” humanoids ever discovered. They aren’t really. A more apt analogy would be coral—animals that host photosynthetic algae in exchange for the energy they provide.
What our expedition hadn’t expected was the cultural side effect of this relationship. When you consider your body a home to other life—the way a pregnant mother might feel about her unborn child or how a proud farmer might prize his field—you don’t want that life to be poked or harvested by some strange, foreign power. The Raesondians pegged our scientists as either degenerates or thieves and avoided them entirely.
However, when you consider your body a temple in the most literal sense, when you have a culture that constructs its cities to fertilize forests rather than destroy them, when your language lacks the word “dirty” and its closest approximate is a compliment that means rich and fruitful; an alien academic possessing an unusual fascination with the intersection of wild landscape and urban public spaces might be one of the few off-worlders you open up to.
And they had. She had.
“No, just visiting,” I admitted and gestured to our surroundings, which had built the foundation of my career. “Reminiscing.”
My answer flummoxed her. Perhaps she only thought of me in connection with my work now. Or maybe she wondered how long I’d been on the planet, why I hadn’t contacted her directly. I’d considered it, but it seemed presumptuous. I would only be here for a few days, the stop a brief detour on the way to my true destination–the planet Ozur, where I was a tenured professor. My sudden appearance after so many decades might be unwelcome, stirring up old feelings safer left to rest.
Yet as I explored the city, I visited all our old haunts. Hoping, I now realized, for this.
“Well, would you like to get some tea?” she asked.
My body warmed. “I would, very much.”
It turned out the adjacent tearoom was closed. Raesondians are very much into their tea rituals, but not so into the habit of keeping regular business hours. Shops move according to owners’ whims, and it’s almost a treat to catch them open.
Outside, their sun soared high. Half the city’s residents were probably floating in their ziggurat rooftop pools, enjoying the endorphin buzz their organisms gave them in exchange for sunbathing.
Instead, Iya suggested we take a walk in the shadow gardens that wove through the neighborhood. I hid my surprise at the prospect of being alone with her. What would her husband (surely there must be a husband) think?
We twisted our way along the sun-dappled sidewalks with other pedestrians and the occasional zip-rider until we reached the garden entrance. Understand, a Raesondian’s idea of a garden is what I once thought of as a towering forest. The light dimmed and the temperature dropped. A velvet hush fell over everything—not the absence of sound, merely an appreciation for the small music of the space: the crunch of needles underfoot, the shiver of leaves in the wind, the sigh of water caressing stone as our path followed a stream.
Iya’s strides stretched so long, I wondered whether she’d grown a few inches since I saw her last, or if I’d shrunk. Unfortunately, one seemed as likely as the other. Still, I always stayed fit. I jogged eight kilometers a day and, influenced by my years here, stuck to a mostly plant-based diet. I kept up fine.
There were others exploring the garden but by the time we reached the massive Taptree, our isolation felt complete. Its trunk spanned seven meters with tiny spouts dotting its circumference at waist level, below which hung small, watertight baskets shaped like waffle ice cream cones. Iya turned a spout, and a golden stream spilled forth into a basket. She handed me the cone, then filled another. “A toast,” she declared.
I hesitated. Those many years ago, we’d discussed remaining a couple—her leaving or me staying.
Neither would’ve worked. Not because I was an alien. True, it would’ve been a scandal, but she could’ve recovered if I remained with her on her planet, as all proper Raesondians do.
Nor was it because we were both women. Humans had taken hundreds of years to get over hang-ups Raesondians never possessed. Not that her people were so much more enlightened. It was just that reproduction was more flexible here. Raesondians could procreate with the opposite sex or, thanks to help from their little green friends, by naturally cloning themselves. I’d since learned some Earth animals could do this, too–corals, Komodo dragons, some sharks, and, before they went extinct, honeybees. The moss Tetraphis, which grew on the rotten stumps behind my grandfather’s cabin in Canada, switched back and forth between sexual and asexual reproduction all the time.
No, the simple fact was we ended it because we wanted different things. Me, a career studying the shining citadels and secret catacombs of the galaxy. Her, the simple joy of raising a family on her home world. Still. Did she resent me for boarding my ship and flying off into the sunset? Did she envy my freedom—or was that pity I saw in her eyes?
As I lifted my cone, I hoped the flesh on my upper arm, softening with age, didn’t jiggle. “What should we toast to?”
She tilted her head, more stunning than ever. “To innocence.”
My chest tightened. “To innocence.”
“And wisdom. A life well lived.”
“Hear, hear.” We touched baskets, even as I wondered whose life she meant. Did she have regrets? Did I?
The sap was too sweet, but it had a real kick as it went down. I could see why it fetched ridiculous prices. Rumor claimed it added years to anyone’s lifespan if consumed regularly. Iya once told me great wars had been fought over groves of trees like this.
I searched for something safe to say. “I see you’re a mother now.” I nodded toward the four rings on the middle finger of her right hand, each carved from wood and polished to a sheen.
She beamed and preened about her four children, but I didn’t really listen. I’d never been good with kids. Mostly, I waited for her to ask me if I had any of my own. This was the obligatory question I was now subjected to whenever engaging in small talk. It evolved over the decades to include grandchildren, as strangers increasingly struggled to hide their surprise or outright disapproval—a conversational lashing I stopped flinching to but still braced for.
Instead, she appraised me coolly, seeing my focus had wandered. Just who do you think you’re talking to? her eyes asked. Of course, she knew there weren’t any children.
“And your husband?” I said, unable to stand the silence. “You were promised to … Tihap when I left. Did you join, as your family hoped?”
Her smile wavered, then returned, almost brittle in its perfection. “Tayhon. Yes. My mother was right. It’s been a good match.”
I gulped more of my drink and tried to decipher the flicker of emotions I glimpsed in that moment her composure slipped: Annoyance that I’d forgotten her husband’s name. Surprise that I still had the power to disappoint her. And, beneath it all, a complicated sadness.
I’d said too much—no, too little. Funny. My favorite thing about getting older was usually not giving a damn what anyone else thought.
“You’ve done well, too,” she said. “I’ve read your books. All four.”
Her words brought me back to the last evening we lay tangled in bed. I announced that my work would be my contribution to the world, my alternative to offspring. After I left Raesonde, I raced to the other side of the galaxy to study the crystalline lighthouses of Madrenay, followed by a decade detailing the floating cities of Jenida-7. Then it was back to Earth for some lucrative consulting work on the mercury moats uncovered from Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s mausoleum, and, finally, a post-colonial retrospect on the lock-keeper cottages of Sandfion.
“You’ve made quite the name for yourself,” she said.
It would be rude to agree. “Oh, I don’t know …”
She snorted daintily. “Come now.” Her expression told me modesty was never my strong suit. “You always wanted to be famous. You should celebrate it.”
I blushed. I was on my way to do just that, scheduled to leave this evening for Ozur, the Empire’s seat, where my colleagues planned a banquet in my honor. I still had to write my speech.
Wait. Was that how she remembered me—attention-hungry and vain? I frowned. “It wasn’t fame I wanted, just—”
“Oh, I know.” She waved me off. “You were after excitement, adventure and, more than anything, a challenge. The satisfaction of a well-crafted argument that would leave the rest of those miserable, arrogant bastards in the dust.”
I stared. She hadn’t seen me in almost four decades yet knew me to my bones.
She shrugged. “But you did leave me, too, so you’ll forgive me if I indulge in a little pettiness from time to time.” She smirked, and damned if she didn’t manage to look both regal and self-deprecating.
My stomach sank. Over the years, I protected myself from the sting of Iya’s memory by relegating her to the category of Impetuous Summer Fling, fond but foolish. When she echoed through my thoughts, I told myself I was merely longing for my own youth and the thrill of passion’s first blush, which always fades.
But perhaps I was the fool.
I was suddenly conscious of how close we sat; our knees almost kissed. I placed my hand on her arm, violating half a dozen different customs. I didn’t care. “Tell me, Iya. Are you happy?”
She shivered. The motion traveled from the curve of her shoulder, down her spine and those shapely legs to her sandaled feet. Finally, she lifted her chin and met my eyes.
“I am.” Her gaze burned, strong and dazzling. She meant it. But then she looked away into the trees, and her face softened. “Although sometimes …”
I’d never told her how close I came to staying. I wasn’t sure I’d even admitted it to myself. Now the memory overwhelmed me. Her mouth on mine, warm and soft as a flower. That old pull, deep inside. A tide swelling to the whim of the moon, although there was no moon on Raesonde, only Iya.
I reached for her, but she was already standing. She’d put a reasonable distance between us, her expression a careful mask. A forest creature cawed in the distance, followed by the beat of wings.
“We should go,” she said.
She walked me back to my hotel room.
Actually, Raesondians didn’t build hotels. Few people left their hometowns, and when they did, they stayed with friends or extended relatives. Failing to offer this hospitality or lacking the social networks to access it was considered shameful. So, although I thought of it as a hotel and its amenities were comparable, Iya would’ve considered it a halfway house for refugees and foreigners.
As the squat, brick building came into sight, she didn’t insist I come home with her to meet her family.
I pretended not to realize the significance of this.
She pretended not to remember that I understood.
I kept talking to hear my own voice, to drown out the increasing frequency of panic buzzing inside me, to fill the emptiness growing between us.
“So where do you call home these days?” she asked.
I opened my mouth to answer but found I had none. I inherited my grandfather’s cabin on Earth several years back after my parents passed, but I was so seldom there, I rented it out. On Ozur, the university provided generous apartments to all professors, but once I hit mandatory retirement in two years, I’d have to give mine up.
I forced a breezy tone. “Oh, you know me. I always travel on the winds of my research.”
Her smile teased gently. “Still the homeless architect.” Then something pained flickered behind it. “And today is your last day visiting us?”
I ignored the sudden burning in my chest. “Yes, I have to hurry on. They’re giving me a lifetime achievement award.” I laughed a little more harshly than I intended. “Apparently, the only thing I need to do anymore to win applause is keep breathing.”
She stopped walking right there in the middle of the street, her brow furrowing at my cynicism. Now it was she who touched my shoulder. “You know I’ve always been so proud of you, yes?”
I froze. A little boy walking by twisted his neck to stare. She ignored him, whispering, “I always will be.”
To my horror, my eyes welled. Understand, I was never emotional in public—rarely in private, either. Lovers, and there had been many, accused me of being cold.
Iya’s mouth opened in a small “o.” Her breath quickened, and her hand dropped. “What is it?”
I blinked, cleared my throat to gain some semblance of control. “Oh, ignore me. I guess when people start using the word ‘lifetime,’ it feels like the period at the end of a sentence. I thought—”
It wasn’t that I was melancholy about my age and my slowing career. I mean, I was. But that wasn’t it, really. Mostly, I felt stupid. Stupid for somehow thinking I was the exception, that I’d never get old like everyone else. And now I stood staring at my former lover, who floated next to me fresh and dewy as morning grass.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to say the truth aloud: “I thought I was just getting started. I thought I had more time for … everything.”
Her body relaxed. She smiled that smile of hers, and I finally noticed the faint creases around her eyes. “Don’t we all?”
We arrived outside the lobby. I had a few hours until departure, nothing to do but pack, but I didn’t invite her inside. I searched for something witty to say.
“It was good seeing you,” she said first.
Her voice was warm, but she spoke the way you would to an old neighbor, maybe a former work colleague. Someone who once meant something to you, but who no longer held a place in your life. Someone who, perhaps, never really had.
“Yes.” I swallowed. “Goodbye.”
The recycled air aboard the spaceship was dry and chilly, my quarters as spare and orderly as I’d left them, and the journey to Ozur uneventful. I’d plenty of time to compose my acceptance speech, but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, I closed my eyes and imagined a very different conversation. One in which I said I’m sorry and I was an idiot and Can we start over?
But even in my imagination, Iya was the wise one. Oh darling, she replied sadly, open your eyes.
So I did. My room was still empty. The past was still the past. And—who was I kidding? Had I stayed on Raesonde all those years ago, I would’ve grown bitter, resentful. Iya deserved better than that.
But it didn’t stop the longing.
So I padded over to my tiny bathroom and turned on the shower. I pulled off my clothes as steam gathered and the mirror fogged, blurring my reflection until it could’ve been thirty-five years ago. I stepped under the showerhead and let the drops spill like rain, slick against my skin.
Wrapped in that haze, I conjured the baths of Raesonde—every cornice, every filigree, every moment spent with Iya. The arch of her foot, the grotto of her navel, the echo of her laughter, the labyrinth of her mind.
Her voice whispering, despite everything, that she was proud of me.
Oh, hell. Why had I never thought to say that I was proud of her?
I stayed in the shower until the ship’s water conservation sensors beeped a warning and then shut it off entirely, until droplets chilled against my skin. I’d never been one for regrets. But perhaps it was time to stop chasing after prizes—and people—just to feed my ego. Perhaps it was time to admit exactly what I’d walked away from all those decades ago.
“Computer,” I called from inside the shower. “Open file, ‘AcceptanceSpeech.’ Start dictation mode.”
“File accessed. Proceed.”
“I would like to dedicate this award to my friend Iya Takamueen of the planet Raesonde.”
I shivered, gooseflesh rising as I gathered my thoughts.
“Iya, you believed in me before anyone else did. You encouraged me to follow my own path, even though it led away from you. You were the first to show me what the words ‘strength’ and ‘patience’ and ‘unconditional’ really meant, and all these years later, I marvel at the grace and wisdom with which you’ve built your own life. Although we’ll never see each other again, I hope you know that I will … ”
… always ache
… always wonder
“… always love you.”