Digital Pastoral

By Neda Ravandi

The horse is very old and has dark eyes. I did not know it would be here when I arrived. It lives in a stable in the furthest corner of the farm, far beyond the guesthouse in dry, unweeded brush. It is summer here but still grows cold quickly in the evening. Sometimes I visit the horse after nightfall, when everybody else has fallen asleep. My bed is narrow and creaks when I rise. I keep the black rubber boots I was given next to my door. It gets very loud here at night. Crickets hum from the thicket, possums chitter, owls plead, my boots crush against the grass in loud, echoing cracks. The stable is a pocket of stillness. Against the far wall I see the horse’s long shadow slipping gently across wood. It faces me from a narrow stall. I bring my face close to its round eyes, which stare somberly forward from under a fringe of lashes. It has a shiny coat the color of beech trees. The stable is dry and warm. Faint perspiration builds under my arms and my nose burns at the earthy sweetness of the hay. The horse is silent. It pulls its long face slightly to one side. It looks at me. A fly buzzes between us. I feel nakedly close, too bare. I shut the door when I leave. 

Back in bed I lay on my stomach. The mattress is thin and scratches my hipbone where my shirt has ridden up. The only light in the guesthouse comes from a large red lamp on the floor. I open the window and moonlight spills across the quilt covering the backs of my legs. My phone sits facedown on the floor and I strain for it, reaching with fingers outstretched. I open Tinder. There is a little version of me looking up from the screen. Me at a restaurant, hair sleek and straightened under burnished gold lighting. Me in a mirror wearing low-slung blue jeans, looking straight forward at the camera. Me with others, laughing. Me in a swimsuit. Me, drunk. Each picture glows. My skin looks soft, suffused with blue light from the phone. I tap a button with my thumb and swipe. Outside the window, a cricket hums in time with the slow-moving fan. 

Tonight my digital self is in the Netherlands. I’ve reset my location to De Rijp, a village on the western side, near the ocean. The men are hulking and blond. They have similar pictures: standing in front of the water, looking off to one side; tilted back, legs spread, in a cafe chair, a half-empty beer in one hand; a shot from the back, sun-setting, overlooking some mountainous vista. Their names are short and studded with vowels. They wear the same sunglasses. I swipe. Rolling over, the bed groans under me. There is Siem, 24, who bartends and likes cats. Mees, 25, who studies economics at Leiden and loves döner kebab. Wind from the window rushes over my navel. Light, fresh sweat beads at my hairline. The crickets are quieter. I swipe again. Jan, 26, peers down at me. He is tall and rangy, with close-cropped hair and wide set blue eyes. He lives in Bronkhorst and works as a farmhand. Hello, he has written, in Dutch, on his profile. I am very lonely and looking for good conversation. In each photo he is by himself. I would like some company, says another paragraph. My work day is long and hard, and I watch the sun set each evening. I scratch the back of my neck. I switch off my phone. 

At four o’clock I wake. The window is chilled to the touch. I pull on thermals and my rubber boots and set out for the pigsty. The air is thick and foggy and pushes against me as I walk. In the storehouse I grab bags of feed, lugging them across the ground with straining arms. Carefully, I empty the bags in the trough and watch as each pig lumbers over, enticed by the smell. They are so alive! I marvel at their closeness, their careless affability. The pigs press against each other. They stumble and snort, digging their rubbery snouts into the piles of food. Their hairy backs have spots. The trough squeaks under their pushing and pulling. In hunger they become one writhing mass. They are so loud in the stillness of the morning. I think of the horse, somber and unmoving in its stable, and of Jan. I wonder if our silence is the same.