Читать книгу Sunsets of Tulum - Mr Raymond Avery Bartlett - Страница 18

Returns of the Evening

Marisol was a short, curvaceous woman with lustrous, shoulder-length hair. Her neckline cut deeply downward to a silver sun medallion that floated atop her ample bosom like a piece of Styrofoam on the open sea. Reed guessed she was about his age, mid-thirties or so. She wore no makeup or lipstick, but her face was naturally striking, with long eyelashes that made her eyes appear dark and flirtatious. As he approached, she looked up at him and smiled.

“Here for a room?”

“Actually, no.” He held up the volume in his hands. “I just came to return a book. I think a girl staying here left it at my hotel. Dark brown hair, slender, about this tall?”

She nodded and looked at the book quickly. “Nobody can read that book anymore. It’s ruined.” She pointed to a five-gallon bucket filled with paper and soda cans. “Drop it in the basura there. The trash.”

“I’d rather…give it to her in person.”

“Sorry. I don’t allow guests inside the courtyard. If you don’t want to leave the book, you’ll just have to spend a night here. But we don’t bite.” She changed her tone. “Unless you want us to.”

“This place is the fucking best!” called out Lance, poking his head out the dorm doorway. “The best! Marisol, you’re awesome. The best.”

“If nothing else, it appears to come well-recommended,” Reed said.

Marisol winked. “Only the finest stay here.”

“And how much does it cost to become ‘one of the finest’?”

“Sixteen dollars.”

He wished he knew when the last bus left in the evening. He wondered what Laurel was doing. Did she miss him yet? At all? Images of scorpions and spiders went through his mind. Didn’t all places like this have bedbugs? But at the same time he didn’t want to argue with the price. Fourteen dollars was a sandwich and a cup of coffee back in Boston. Here it was a whole night’s roof over one’s head.

Marisol tapped her fingers on the desk. “Or one hundred sixty pesos. Money is money. All that matters is that you give and I receive.”

“Here,” Reed said, placing the cash into Marisol’s hands.

“She’s a pretty girl,” Marisol said, catching sight of the wallet, where a photo of Laurel was encased in plastic along with several credit cards. “Your girlfriend?”

“My wife.”

“She’s not here with you? ¡Qué lástima!”

He shrugged. “Long story.”

Marisol smiled. “Oooh, I am invading your privacy, I can tell. You will have to tell me all about it later. For now, we have a decision to make: dorm or a single?”

“What’s the difference?”

“If you choose a dorm,” Marisol pointed to the room where Lance and Ambrose were, “they’d be your roommates. It’s good if you’re looking for camaraderie, bad if you’re looking for…” she paused. “Privacy.”

“I’m a light sleeper.” He didn’t care, really, since he wouldn’t be staying. But he liked the idea of having a door with a lock on it. Some place that, if only for a few hours, he could call his own.

“A single, then. But be sure you get good and drunk first, because even the casitas have pretty thin walls. A light sleeper might have problems,” she said, making quotation marks around “light sleeper” with her fingers. Then Marisol scribbled down some notes and tore off a receipt, which she handed to him along with a key.

“Let me show you your room.”

She led him to the bungalow near the back of the garden, close to the row of hammocks. It was smaller than it looked from a distance, with round walls and a palm-thatched roof that was open around the edges. At one point someone had pressed mosquito netting into the gaps but it was torn in places, and on one whole side it had fallen away, hanging vertically like black gauze on a ruined veil, offering any biting insects free entry inside. Reed was glad he would be back in the Grand Medallion by nightfall.

Still, there was something touching about the care with which someone had tried to spiff it up. A tiny deck had been made with hardwood branches, stained a dark color that went nicely with the pastel peach walls. A hammock hung across the doorway, and Marisol slipped under it with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. Reed followed, feeling guilty for getting such an involved tour when he was only going to be there a few hours.

“Here,” Marisol said, spreading her arms. “Your private piece of paradise.”

The bed, a mattress-size area of raised cement with a thin futon and two almond-colored sheets, took up most of the walking area. A shelf ran along the edge of the wall above the headboard, and a small writing desk and chair were on the other side. From the center of the room a large white piece of gauze hung suspended like a giant spider web. A mosquito net. Looking up at the roof, he realized it was completely open—the palm fronds would protect from downpours, but the flimsy netting he’d seen outside would not prevent bugs from flying up and in.

“There’s a lock on the door, but we can keep valuables at the desk if you have any. Nobody ever really steals anything here. But we take no responsibility.”

“I didn’t bring anything with me. I didn’t expect to stay here. It’s all at the other hotel. In Cancún.”

“Oh, Cancún? Which hotel?”

“The Grand Medallion.”

She giggled. “Oh, well then, I should have upped the rate just for you. If you like I can call and have them forward your things here.”

“I can deal without them for a few hours.”

“Suit yourself.”

Nodding, the woman deftly undid one end of the hammock and tied it up so that it was no longer blocking the doorway. “Need anything, just ring the bell if I’m not there. The name is Marisol. It means ‘sea and sun’ in English.”

“How could I forget? It’s beautiful.”

She laughed.

“Why is your English so good?” Reed asked, knowing it was rude but too curious to stay silent.

“Oh, I grew up in San Diego. Then my family got deported, and we came back here.”

“Oh,” Reed said. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? It’s not your fault.” She turned to go.

“Sorry, one other thing,” Reed said. “Do you have any wrapping paper?”

“What? You’re already thinking about Christmas?” She paused. “Maybe I have some. I’ll go look.”

Laughing at him, the proprietress made her way back across the courtyard, looking for wrapping paper. A few minutes later she’d brought him a large sheet of blue shimmery paper that featured cartoon monkeys shouting “Feliz Navidad.”

“It will have to do,” she said, handing him the wrapping and a roll of tape.

When she had gone, Reed closed the door and then sat down on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, the cement underneath providing firm, cool support, the worn mattress had just enough cushioning and give. He placed the warped Murakami book into the paper and folded it as best he could, sealing it with tape. He set it next to the pillow and stretched out, letting his legs hang off the edge. His eyes lost focus, and in seconds he was asleep.

* * *

Reed awoke to the sound of Marisol’s voice and a light tap on the door.

“Mister Haflinger?”

“Hold on!”

“Just letting you know your friends are back.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right out. Do you know what time it is?”

“Almost five o’clock.”

How could he possibly have slept for almost four hours? It didn’t make sense. He never did that. Not since college.

Finally he stood up.

“Turns out I’m staying after all.”

Marisol poked her head in and smiled. “All the best do.”

With Laurel gone he sure didn’t have to be staring at the clock anymore. He’d stay here overnight. Wouldn’t kill him. But already he saw the vacation he’d imagined a few days ago was over. Even returning home would be tense, uncharted. It would be strange trying to explain why he’d spent the night at a youth hostel. Even stranger would be feeling like he had to keep it secret.

He went to the rickety enamel sink in the cramped bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes seemed darker, more purple than he’d ever seen before. Any darker and he’d look like he’d been punched in the face. Maybe it was the damn bed in that hotel room. Maybe he’d needed the sleep, just not realized it.

He undid his shirt and tossed it on the bed. Naked from the waist up, Reed turned the faucet and waited as the lukewarm water popped and hissed and finally turned into a stream he could wash his face with. The small bar of soap was the same brand they had at the Cancún hotel: Venus Rosa. It was bright pink, with a cloying fragrance that lingered on the skin for hours. He lathered his hands, still unsure if he’d turned on the hot or the cold water, and splashed his face, then finally let the water trickle down his neck and shoulders, before wiping himself dry with the clean but threadbare hostel towel.

Lifting an arm, he could still smell the pungent cumin of his body odor. It would have been wise to bring some toiletries, but how the hell could he have known he’d be staying longer?

He picked up his shirt, shook it, and put it on, buttoning it quickly, trying to calm himself but also think about the time. Grabbing the Murakami book, he walked to the edge of the doorway and peeked out through a crack into the courtyard. It was already dusk, the sun down, long shadows stretching out across the garden, which was flooded with people, a stark contrast with the emptiness he’d seen when he arrived. The bar and kitchen area was packed with couples and threesomes—some chopping onions or avocados, others frying things on the big black grill, others working in minute self-staked-out prep areas on the narrow counters. The two picnic tables were full, and there were even a few groups that had temporarily claimed the hammocks in the back for lack of space elsewhere. A Mexican pop tune was playing from an MP3 player that someone had hooked up to some speakers, and a girl with a fluorescent pink wig was dancing to it on the loose stones.

All he could catch of the song lyrics was, “Mi amor, mi amor.”

For a few minutes he just stood on the edge of the bungalow’s shaded terrace, looking around at the people, hoping to see the brunette and her friends, but nobody looked familiar. Everyone there seemed to be with someone else, seemed to already have a group of friends they were traveling with. Reed realized that he might be the only person in the entire courtyard who didn’t actually have anything he needed to do. No food to fix, no friends to talk to, no beer to drink with buddies.

He wiped his forehead, already so hot he felt dizzy. The sun had baked the stones all afternoon and now they radiated heat—they would remain warm until long after the stars were visible. Reed stepped off the patio and walked across, past the girl in the pink wig, who mistook him for someone approaching her for a dance. For a few moments he tried to get past her, first one way, then the other, while she courted him with an exaggerated belly dance. Neither of them spoke, and she finally let him pass by.

He went to Marisol and ordered a beer.

“I can’t believe there are so many people here,” he said, as she popped the top off and handed him a bottle.

“Everyone goes to the beach in the morning. By evening, people are hungry. Then at night, at night is when the party starts.”

“So it’s a party at the beach during the day?”

“No, mostly people just turn into iguanas. They stretch out, pull up some sand, and sleep. Most relaxing vacation in the world.”

“I was doing that in Cancún and after three days wanted to shoot myself in the head.”

“Why?”

“Nothing could be more boring than sitting by a pool.”

Marisol laughed. “That’s because it’s just a pool. The beach? You’re on the edge of something wonderful, this great life force, it’s different every day. Dangerous, even. Different currents, different ships out there. You can plunge in and see fish and beautiful creatures. Ever go diving?”

Reed shook his head. “Everything you just said is why the ocean scares the hell out of me. Doesn’t sound fun at all.”

“Your friend’s a diver. You should get her to take you diving.”

“My friend?”

“Your lady friend. The bookworm.”

“No, I’m not here to see her. Returning the book was just a good excuse to do something, get out into the real Mexico. I was dying there at the pool.”

“What? A handsome guy like you came all this way…to get away from the pool?” Marisol looked at him.

Reed held up his left hand. “I’m married. Just returning a book.”

Marisol laughed, batting her eyelashes. She leaned forward and put her arms together, highlighting her ample bosom. “If you’re so uptight about rings and things then I’ll give her the book and say it was dropped off by a very handsome but very anonymous and very married stranger. How’s that?”

Reed felt his face flush in the silence.

“I didn’t think so,” she said. “Hold on a sec. I think she’s in the dorm.”

The beer was ice cold, a Pacifico, a mild Pilsner that reminded him of Heineken but still had a flavor all its own. Marisol had rimmed the lip of the bottle with a slice of lime and pushed the rest through; it floated, suspended in the yellow neck like a green shell. The best beer he’d ever tasted.

A heavyset girl in a lemon-yellow halter top and jeans came over to Reed carrying a plate of corn tortillas, salsa, an avocado, and refried beans. She plopped herself down next to him and split open the avocado with a paring knife, stabbed the pit with the point and twisted, popping it out neatly. Flicking the seed off into the bushes, she sliced up one half and held out the other to Reed.

“Want some?”

She held a slice up to Reed’s lips, and waited. He took the piece with his fingers instead of opening his mouth, and she watched him as he chewed it and swallowed. “Good, right?”

“Delicious.”

“This half’s yours if you want it.” She placed it on the table. “Where are you from?”

“Boston.”

“I’m from Pennsylvania. So we’re both from the East Coast.”

“Never really thought of Pennsylvania as ‘coast.’“

The girl laughed. “That’s because you’re actually on the coast. You get to be a snob about it. What I meant was that we’re closer than if, say, I was in India.”

“I guess it’s a small world.”

“I’m Cindy.”

“Reed.” He paused. “You didn’t travel in India with Lance, did you?”

“With Lance? No, I just met him, here at the hostel. Why?”

“Nothing. Thought maybe it was a small world.”

Cindy shrugged. “Isn’t the avocado good? Here, have another piece.”

She handed it to him. The flesh of the fruit was the texture of butter, soft and perfect, the place where she’d cut it already discoloring in the air. Cindy held out a wedge of lime, he nodded, and she squeezed it for him. He slipped it into his mouth, savoring the combination of sweet flesh and tart juice, letting his tongue move around the flavors, tasting it as if for the first time.

Marisol approached. “Found them. They’re in the girls’ dorm. You can’t go in there normally, but since I’m okay with it, it’s fine if you poke your head in. Nobody’s changing clothes or anything.”

“Go get ‘em, Romeo,” Cindy said, sounding sad.

Reed took a final swig of beer to calm himself, then went to the dorm and knocked.

“Come in,” someone said, and he turned the handle.

The room was small and dark, with a row of bunk beds along each wall and a set of lockers. Someone had hung up three sets of panties on a coat hanger to dry. The three girls were on a lower bunk, sitting close together. One of them, the rich type, was crying. The other two were comforting her. A bottle of red wine with a dark blue label was at their feet, unopened, along with some plastic cups.

“Excuse us?” the tall girl asked, frowning. “This is the girls’ dorm.”

“Marisol said it was okay to ask you if….” He trailed off. “This is a bad time?”

The brunette looked at him, her face as unreadable as a beach smoothed by a wave. She could have been bemused or furious by the intrusion and he wouldn’t have been able to tell. He felt his cheeks flushing.

“Kind of,” the tall girl said. “Is it important?”

Reed shook his head.

“No, sorry. This can wait.” He shut the door quickly, the book still in his hand. He returned to Cindy and sat down beside her.

“Crash and burn, huh?” she said.

He held up his bottle and Cindy tapped hers to it. They drank. He could see her watch. Twenty full minutes before the bus left gave him time to finish his beer.

“Don’t feel bad. It doesn’t matter.”

“What?”

Cindy looked at him. “You okay? You need a back rub? I was studying to be a masseuse for a semester in college.”

“No thanks.”

“But I’m really good,” Cindy said, reaching for his shoulder. He pulled away. Cindy’s weight shifted away from him, and they finished their beers in silence. When he’d had the last sip, Reed excused himself and went to the bar.

“Another?” Marisol asked.

Reed nodded. “Can I get it to go?”

“Don’t drown yourself in sorrows,” she said.

“Here. Just tell her it’s from me.” He handed it to her.

“That’s a sweet gesture,” Marisol said. Then she handed it back. “But there she is.”

Reed turned around. The girl had just closed the door of the female dorm and was walking toward the back of the garden. She had a thin journal under her arm. Reed watched her choose a hammock, pull the top over her head, then fall back into it, as natural as if she’d been born a Maya.

“You can tell her yourself,” Marisol said.

“Give me a bottle of wine,” he said. “The one with the blue label.”

Marisol handed it to him. “I’ll put it on your tab.”

Reed swallowed, picked up the warped book in one hand and the bottle in the other, and crossed the courtyard. He realized he would be staying overnight in Tulum. The monumental implications of this fact passed quietly through his head as he walked toward the girl on the hammock, someone who probably didn’t care if he lived or died, someone he might never see again. Yet even if he regretted it for the rest of his life, he was going to force himself to talk to her.