Читать книгу Sunsets of Tulum - Mr Raymond Avery Bartlett - Страница 20

Entering the Water

“So, okay,” Sharon said, pouring herself a third glass of the Montepulciano. “We’d just reached the end of things, and when you’re at the end, you know, you’re at the end. Brandon’s a great guy and all, but he wanted me to go to law school, and I just figure that’s something that’s still waiting for me. Sometime. Does it matter if I start right after college? Or take a couple years and see some of the world? And he just, I don’t know. He was always too worried about me, like he was my father or something. Way too jealous about guys hitting on me. Like what, I’m going to just sleep with anyone? There’s a point where if a guy can’t trust you when you’re out of his sight, then who needs him? Unless he’s nice enough to buy you dinner.” She reached across the table and squeezed Reed’s forearm. “Thank you so much. It’s a treat to be able to dine here.”

“Don’t mention it,” Reed replied.

Sharon giggled. “Then again, maybe I would sleep with him. Depends on the guy.”

“So he was kind of right, right?”

“But him being like that is what pushed me away. And I wasn’t actually sleeping with anyone.”

“It’s jealousy, not envy, that’s one of the cardinal sins,” Clione said. “There’s nothing more destructive in a relationship than jealousy. If he was jealous, it means he didn’t trust you. And that means he isn’t happy with himself.”

“Which is why he’s becoming a lawyer,” Reed said.

All three laughed. Reed was on his fourth glass of wine and the absurdity of the evening’s events were playing out like a little movie in his head. A day before he’d been stumble-drunk beside a sterile resort pool; now he was having a romantic candlelight dinner with two young twenty-somethings, one of whom was the most perfect girl he’d ever met in his life. His heart had fallen a bit when he realized he wasn’t having dinner with just Clione, but he’d gotten over it. In fact, having Sharon as a third wheel took tension away, made him feel more at ease.

All the little coincidences of the past couple days seemed imbued with meaning. The Murakami book, the girls coming to the pool, the orange that the woman had given him—and Clione, her spectacular eyes, her lips…her lips. Wine had made him hungry to kiss them.

The restaurant Clione had picked sat directly on the beach, with wrought-iron tables anchored firmly in powdery, white sand. The Sunflower. A light breeze was coming off the waves, smelling of salt and the sea, but it was not strong enough to blow out the white candles that the chef-owner had lit for them and placed on the starched white linen. Votives lit the sloping walkway from the tiny two-car parking lot, darkness enveloped the tops of the palm trees, their silhouettes like giant feather dusters against the pinpoint patchwork of vivid, pale-blue stars.

“So,” Sharon said. “Clione said your wife left suddenly?”

“We had a fight. Sort of. She’s been busy. Maybe it was me, crazy to think she could pull herself away from her life on the spur of the moment.”

“What happened?”

“Long story.” He told them about the helicopter’s plunge, about how that had triggered the vacation, and how his avoidance of the water had ended up with him finding the book. “Actually, it surprised me that she came. Gave me hope.”

“Was it your fault or hers? That she left.”

Reed shrugged. “Hard to tell. I mean, you should try living with someone for a decade. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do.”

“She doesn’t appreciate you?”

Reed didn’t know. “We’re trying to figure some things out, I guess.”

Clione was watching him intently, her wine glass in front of her mouth as if she’d blown a giant bubble of transparent gum. “What things?”

“Big things. We’d talked about having kids for years and then talked about adopting and had some appointments set up, and she backed out. I guess she’s not as interested in it as I am. Or she’s scared. Or maybe we both need space. I don’t know. Maybe I pushed too hard on it.” He paused, poured himself another half a glass of wine. “I pushed too hard.”

“Is she pretty?” Sharon said, leaning in.

“She’s the girl that makes every guy’s mouth open when she walks into a room. She might have been a model. Now she’s a newscaster.”

“Wow. The newscaster and the helicopter reporter. It should be so romantic.”

“I know. Kind of stupid of me, right? Me. Letting her go—”

“Not if she makes you lonely.”

He sat back, glanced at Sharon, and then looked at Clione. “I should be devastated. But I’m not. Ask me tomorrow, maybe I’ll be sobbing into my pillow, but right now? Tonight? I’m still in disbelief that I’m having dinner with the two of you.”

“You don’t sound happy with her,” Clione said.

“When you’re with someone that long you don’t just toss in the towel and give up. You want it to work. They’re a part of you.”

“But you’re not happy.”

“It’s not about being happy,” Reed said, suddenly feeling defensive. He reached for the bottle and topped off his glass. “Besides, I’m happy enough.”

“Are you?” said Clione. She stared at him, unflinching. He tried to stare back but quickly dropped his gaze to the wine.

“I think it’s really noble to want to adopt a child,” Sharon said, looking as if she were going to cry. She put her hand out and rubbed Reed on the forearm. “It’ll work out. Things always do.”

“Bullshit they do,” said Clione. “Nothing works out unless you claw your way up a cliff to make it happen. And that includes happiness, too. It doesn’t just happen because you think it should.”

She sounded so bitter that for a few moments nobody had anything to add. Into the silence came the owner of the restaurant, a young Italian in a white apron and chef’s hat, who approached and hovered over them, putting a large hand on each girl’s shoulder.

“Everything to your liking?” he asked. “You must eat now so if storm Wanda hits you’ll not be hungry!”

Clione patted her stomach. Her left hand was tucked in at her side, the napkin resting on the bent fingers, discreetly hiding them. “It was wonderful, just perfect.”

“She’s not kidding,” Sharon said. “Deeeeelish.”

“Bene, bene.” He winked at Reed. “I envy you. A man between two beautiful flowers. You must promise to give me your leftovers.” He winked. “And I do not mean the food.”

“Ew,” Sharon said, after he’d left. “Are there girls out there who actually think, ‘Hey, now that he said that I guess I’m kind of hot for him’?”

“It must work,” Reed said. “Otherwise Italians would have died out long ago.”

The conversation stopped again. They all sipped their wine. Reed caught Clione looking at him over the rim of her glass, and this time he held her glance until she smiled at him.

“So what are you writing?” Reed asked. “I always see you with that book.”

“Don’t ask her that,” Sharon groaned. “It’s like asking a religious nut about God. We’ll get sucked into it forever.”

Clione shook her head, no. “Tell him what you would write then. See what he thinks.”

Sharon laughed, then lowered her voice and spoke very softly. “Not me, not what I would write. But Clione should write a story about a female superhero. She’s just like all the other superheroes. Has mad skills, can leap over tall buildings in a single bound, all that. But here’s the kicker: she gets wicked bad cramps every time she gets her period. PMS so bad she has to lie down for like two days. That’s like her kryptonite. You know?” Sharon leaned in close and dropped her voice even lower, to a whisper. “And then one day, the villain figures it out, right? And he times his heists perfectly: every twenty-eight days, just when the superheroine is gobbling down half a Midol bottle and lying on the couch all day. She’s powerless, completely powerless. All she wants to do is watch soaps and sitcom reruns. And the townspeople turn against her, see?”

Clione wrinkled her nose. “It’d only work if she had a regular period. If she was never even a day or two late. Half the women in the world would be like, ‘I wish.’“

“How does the story end?” asked Reed.

Sharon smirked. “The villain offers her a choice, right? She can trade her superpowers for a normal period! Light flow! Minor discomfort and no bloating! But,” Sharon’s voice quavered, “she’ll never be a superhero again.” As she leaned back, some wine escaped the lip of the balloon crystal and spread into the white starch of the tablecloth.

“That’s the dumbest story I’ve ever heard.” Clione said.

The tall girl shrugged, picked a strand of hair that clung to the side of her wine glass. “This would be bigger than Batman!”

Clione focused her attention behind them, pointing into the night.

“Is that lightning? From Wanda?”

They turned and stared at the ink-black sky. For a few seconds there was nothing, then came a flash and a yellow-orange flicker that spread out across the night like a series of strobes. It was too far away to hear the thunder.

“The storm?” Sharon said, standing up. “That would be so romantic, waiting it out by candlelight.”

Clione shook her head. “No, I heard it stalled somewhere in the Atlantic. Must just be heat lightning.”

Sharon looked at Reed. “It’s a perfect night to go skinny-dipping, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” Reed said, staring at the center of the table. He looked at Clione. “Sounds…great.”

“Let’s go! This is just the perfect night to be crazy!” Sharon kicked off her shoes and started walking toward the waterline. “Aren’t you coming?” she called, looking back. “It’s beautiful!”

Clione put her napkin down. “Sorry about Sharon. I said I was going for dinner and she tagged along. She kind of likes you.”

“Sharon’s funny. I like her too.”

“I mean she likes you likes you.”

Clione finished her glass of wine and shook her head when Reed offered to refill it.

“Don’t you feel like swimming? Trying?” she said. Before he could reply, she had pushed back her chair and followed Sharon’s footsteps into the darkness, leaving Reed at the table alone.

Reed looked at the sky. Sure enough, out in the distance there was a yellow-green flicker, followed a minute later by a low rumble, like a truck going by on a far-off highway. He poured himself a glass of wine and listened to the light sound of the wind, the girls’ laughter from out on the beach somewhere. Sharon let out a high-pitched squeal. They were playing in the waves.

He forced himself to focus on the wine. It made his lips pleasantly numb. His whole body felt light. Out of tune. The night, the girls, the dusty town of Tulum, the chickens in the road and the looming jungle and the sea out there. Two girls swimming naked in the darkness. The restaurant with its soft candlelight and ocean breezes, as if he’d stepped onto a movie set. His stomach tightened when he thought about trying to swim. He felt angry, as if he’d been cheated out of something important and beautiful. Something made him miss Laurel and resent her at the same time. He resented the owner too: He had cheapened the dinner, turned it from a fun night out with new friends into something sordid. He wasn’t just another cliché older guy trying to get a fling on.

He paid the bill and walked out past the few remaining diners into the dark night toward the beach where Clione and Sharon had gone. The girls were nowhere to be seen, but he followed their footsteps, just visible in the still-warm sand. To the north, lightning flashed more frequently, illuminating the shoreline and the palms. His bare feet stepped on something soft: a sandal. He peered again into the darkness and realized that Clione was standing quite close by, crouched, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. When she saw that he was watching her she laughed.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

“I thought you were already swimming.”

“Sharon is. I waited for you.” Standing up, she pulled her top off. Her taut breasts shone like alabaster in the silvery midnight. Tonight might be the last time he’d ever see this girl. As if a wave had broken over him, he felt out of control, swallowed up, simultaneously disoriented and devoured.

“Come in!” she said, unabashed, removing her shorts, then panties, one leg at a time. She dropped them on the sand. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, and he could see her nipples and the smudge of charcoal between her thighs. Her skin seemed to sparkle, and when she brushed her right arm through her hair he felt claustrophobic with desire.

He forced himself to look away. Curled up and tiny, her clothes looked like pieces of seaweed left at the high-tide line.

“I’ll just watch the stuff. Make sure no one steals it.” He remembered the travel advisories for Mexico, how most theft happens when stuff is left unattended.

“Steal our panties? Even if someone found it, who would want them?” She came closer and reached out for his hand. It was warm. “Come. Swim.”

His fingers felt cold and clammy. He felt as if he were drowning. “Is it safe?”

“It’s like bathwater.”

“Sure, I’ll come in. In just a sec.” He tossed his wallet into the sand beside the clothes.

“Race you!” Clione said, running to the surf. Not looking back, she plunged in, her body illuminated for a moment in blue-green phosphor. He envied that self-confidence, that utter lack of fear. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple grating against his trachea. With her gone, he could breathe again. He inhaled the salty Caribbean air. Walking along the footprints she’d just left, he approached the water like a cat afraid to get its paws wet. The sand here was hard from the waves’ moisture, and it was easy to see where the girls had entered the sea. White swirls broke heavily over the reef about three-hundred yards away. Between that line of surf and the shore he was standing on there was only inky darkness, a humid, pulsating womb.

Another flash of lightning and the beach became visible. The low line of cabañas, the swaying palms. Sharon had piled her clothes up neatly, far enough from the shore that there was no chance of the tide sweeping them away.

“The water’s amazing, Reed. Why are you waiting?”

Sharon was standing waist deep in the water, hands on her hips in a Botticelli pose, all-but-invisible silhouette against the darkness. Reaching both arms up in an embrace of the night sky, she fell backward with a splash in the pose of someone making a snow angel. Again a flash of violet and green around her in the waves. She surfaced, brushed her hair from her face, and called out to him. “Pure freedom.”

“We can’t force you,” Clione said, from somewhere deeper. “But it’s your loss.”

“Not forcing him?” Sharon replied, lunging out of the water. Amazonian, she ran toward him, her breasts bouncing up and down with each stride. Rushing him like a linebacker, she grabbed his arm, pulled at his shirt, sending buttons flying.

“In!” she screamed. “You’re going to have fun whether you like it or not!”

Reed pulled away, trying to avoid contact with Sharon’s wet breasts and thighs. Her hair hit him in the face like strands of rope. He stepped back and Sharon shifted her weight, pulling him off balance and down into the sand. For a moment she was on top of him, then they were side by side. Sharon laughed and released him. “You’re going in,” she said. Somehow, in just those few seconds, he’d begun to get hard.

Desperate to keep his thin pants from turning into a tent, he ran the final few steps and splashed in until he was waist-high. He felt nauseated. The water was so warm it was hot, the temperature of urine, and he breathed quickly, in and out, trying to focus on the girls beside him and not on what was out there, what might be waiting for him. Images of otherworldly creatures flashed through his mind, the things that seemed like Alien with giant teeth and vestigial eyes that he’d seen on late-night television programs. He stepped on Sharon’s foot and stifled a scream, thinking he’d surprised a stingray or crab or something larger that was waiting for him, something lurking out there. He fought against panic by forcing himself to breathe, to stop shaking, telling himself that people swam here all the time without being harmed.

In front of him, Sharon dove, the white of her buttocks showing briefly in front of him before the splash. She was so natural and relaxed. He realized Sharon was flirting with him, showing off. Clione was more reserved but clearly didn’t care about being seen. These girls were as free as the ocean’s waves. It felt right, somehow, that they accepted their bodies, that they were fiercely unashamed. Laurel didn’t even undress in front of him anymore. It had been years since he’d seen Laurel fully naked.

Clione was still next to him. As they’d gone out, she’d been behind him but now somehow they were hand in hand, his left in her right. He felt the heat of her palm against his own, and wondered if she could feel how fast his heart was beating. They’d stopped moving, and the naked girl beside him looked up at his face. Her hair wet, plastered back against her skull, the tips of it hanging down at her shoulders, she looked much younger than a girl just out of college. Her full lips, the soft curves of her body, seemed more like someone fresh out of puberty.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said quietly.

She stiffened slightly. “Are you going to swim?” she said. “If you’re not, you’re missing something.”

In response, he let go of her hand, took a deep breath, and dove. His heartbeat mixed with the sound of waves, a rush of water and noise that overwhelmed him, disoriented him. Everything was a deep blue-black; he couldn’t tell where the surface was. He put his feet down, stood up, feeling wetness between his toes, the stickiness of the sandy bottom. He was only waist-deep, but it felt like death itself were creeping onto him, weighing him down. He realized that not being able to see anything helped. He could do it, he told himself. It would be okay. It was looking out into the blueness of the ocean that paralyzed him. Like blinders on a horse that allow it to tune out the distractions of a busy street, if it was dark, totally dark, he could swim. It made it easier to ignore what might be out there.

Clione and Sharon were much deeper, already treading water and splashing each other.

“Come on,” Sharon yelled. “The water’s fantastic.”

He swam dog paddle, his head up, fighting the sucking pull of the current, until he was deeper but could still touch the sand. It would be okay if he could swim without getting his toes wet, he thought. But that sensation of wetness was as intolerable as fingernails scraping at a chalkboard.

Too far away, the girls were still fighting, splashing. He was glad they were ignoring him. His head could slip beneath the surface and by the time they found him he’d be gone. If they could find him in the darkness. Finally, feeling a rush of adrenaline and terror, he pulled his toes off the bottom and kept swimming, sucking air in quickly, shallow gulps like a fish left on a lawn, until he reached the girls. He kept paddling, back and forth, like a dog.

“You made it!” Clione said, smiling as Sharon doused her. “Time out, time out.”

“I win!”

“No way. It’s time out. I have a visitor.”

“Get her, Reed. Now’s your chance!” Sharon sent another volley of water, dousing the both of them.

“All right,” Clione screamed. “Now you’re really going to get it!” Cupping her right hand in a tight V, she began shooting water at the other girl. She was precise and mechanical, aiming directly for the mouth and eyes, her powerful leg strokes keeping her head above water despite lacking the use of her left arm, but she tired quickly. Sharon laughed, sending volley after volley of water into Clione’s face and eyes. Clione’s left arm, with only a limited range of motion, was not good either for keeping her afloat or for splashing. She would kick, shoot a volley at Sharon, and then turn her head as Sharon mercilessly returned fire, until finally Clione started to sputter.

“You win,” she said.

They returned to the beach, Sharon leading the way with a powerful crawl, Clione following with an uneven, weak sidestroke, and Reed taking up the rear with a dog paddle, the only stroke he’d ever mastered and one that kept his head safely out of the waves. When they reached the shore, Reed realized it had started to drizzle, a light sprinkle of drops that hit the water soundlessly, and the lightning was much closer, too. The storm would overtake them before they got back to the shore. He was glad when he felt his feet touch the soft bottom. By the time he was out of the water the girls had dressed, and the three of them darted back to the restaurant awning just as the sky opened up and it began to pour.

“I’ve got a bottle of wine back at my room,” Reed said, as the three slid into the taxi. Sharon went first, followed by Clione, and Reed was last. Just sitting this close to her felt exhilarating, full contact from the bottom of his thigh all the way to his shoulder. He was sorry that the ride ended only minutes later when the driver pulled up to the youth hostel door.

The rain had left the courtyard empty, and they dashed across to Reed’s bungalow. He let them in and then ducked back out to the bar to grab glasses and a corkscrew. Sharon was sitting on the bed when he returned. Clione was standing, looking uncomfortable.

“This place is beautiful,” Sharon said. “How much is this?”

“Sixteen.”

“I wish I could afford that.”

Reed popped the cork, then filled each glass halfway.

“How much do the dorms cost?” he said, handing each girl some wine.

“Six dollars.”

“That’s nothing.”

Sharon shrugged. “When money’s tight, even six dollars seems like a lot.”

Reed looked at Clione. She looked away.

He put the bottle on the cement floor and then went to the bathroom, where he tossed each girl a towel.

“Sit here,” Sharon said, patting the bed. “That can’t be comfortable.”

Clione put her glass down. “I’m going to go.”

“So soon?” Reed said. He stood up. “It’s pouring out, can’t you wait for—”

“No, I think I want to be alone.” She went to the door and opened it, looking out for a second as the rain poured down. “Dinner was fun.” Before Reed could answer she had darted into the night. The door swung slowly open again after she was gone.

Reed looked at Sharon. She looked at him. Neither of them said anything. Sharon took a sip of the red.

“Is it okay if I stay?” Sharon asked. “Just until the rain lets up?”

Reed went to the threshold. Across the courtyard he saw the girl’s dorm open and a splash of yellow light across the garden as Clione went inside. Then it was dark again.

“I guess,” he answered, closing the door and returning to the bed.

“More wine?” Sharon asked, shifting her weight toward him.