Monterey Bay (2 page)

INSECTS ON HER FOREHEAD. BIG, TROPICAL ONES.

She lifted a hand. She found the brittle legs. She tried to yank them away but couldn't, and that's when she remembered. The hotel, the tide pools, the biologist, the fall. Eyes still closed, she released the trail of sutures and lowered her hand, trying one last time to summon it: the prismatic color of the Philippines, its heat and certainty. But when it wouldn't come, she opened her eyes. There was a sagging rope mattress beneath her, her feet dangling over its edge, and a moist woolen blanket atop her that felt as though it weighed several hundred pounds. The light was dim and bleary, a noon-hour dullness soaking its way through a green-curtained window above the bed and casting the room in a submarine gloss. And the biologist was sitting next to her on an upended wooden beer crate, gazing at her with a dark pair of eyes.

He blinked twice but otherwise remained perfectly
motionless. His beard was thick and brown, his clothes tattered. A tin plate of steak and soft-fried eggs sat in his lap, the meat deconstructed into a pile of small, equal pieces, as parents do when feeding a child.

“You're awake,” he said.

She stared at the steak.

“My God, you gave me a scare.” He extended a beer bottle in her direction casually and without reserve, as if they were friends. “Turns out it's little more than a concussion, but you were so delirious for a while there that I almost considered tying you down.”

She swatted at the bottle and looked away. She could recall everything now, and in near perfect detail—the blackness of the rocks, the way he had lifted his flask, the union of the snail and the blood—and she couldn't decide whether it made her want to scream or fall back asleep.

“All right,” he said, nodding. “Something to eat, then.”

He selected a fibrous morsel from the plate and smeared it into the yolk. He lifted the fork and moved it toward her face. She tried to close her eyes again, but the pressure between them was too intense.

“My father will kill you.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“He's done far worse. On account of far less.”

“I'm sure he has. And I'm sure I'd enjoy the story. But for now . . .”

He put the plate on the floor and rose from the crate as if he were about to leave the room. Instead, he approached the bed, put a hand behind her neck, and slid a pillow into place. She flinched, and then allowed her head to drop, the pillow releasing a brief hiss of air that smelled like pickling brine.

“For now,” he continued, “you should rest.”

“Where is he? He should be here.”

“I inquired at the hotel, but no one knew.”

She gripped the sides of the mattress and tried to pull herself upright.

“Careful now.”

“I'll find him myself.”

“No, you won't.”

“Yes, I will.”

But the nausea pushed her back down. A galaxy of small orange sparks was sizzling in the corners of her eyes, and he was smiling again, cocking his head and peering at her as if her discomfort were something to be studied instead of something to be solved, the smell of the meat strong enough to make her gag.

“Please remove that steak.”

“If you need to be sick . . .”

He indicated a metal bucket at his feet: one of the same ones he had carried through the tide pools. She retched. He held the bucket beneath her chin. She emptied herself into it. Then, with what seemed like the biggest and most concentrated effort she had ever expended, she wiped her mouth on the back of
her hand, sank into the mattress, and let the universe knock her down.

When she woke again, it was dark.

Her vision was steadier, the pain in her head had softened and condensed, the sickness had abated. Dusk had made its blue black deposit, pale streetlamps shining beyond the window like lesser moons. On the small table next to the bed, she could see the satchel that contained her sketchbook, its leather water-stained from her fall. Outside, she could hear voices and cars, but not a lot of them. She could hear the ocean, too, and the biologist was still sitting on the crate next to the bed, exactly as before. The only difference was that the tin plate and the beer bottle were gone and in their place was a typewritten manuscript, which he was studying with a focus so complete, it was almost certainly fake, like how a sinner might pray. Before, in the tide pools, she had come to several conclusions, none of which had been proven wrong. Now, though, there was the question of setting. At the water's edge, he had appeared to her in blunt-chiseled relief. Here, however, surrounded by his own necessities, the ceiling low and the light dim, it was more like something rendered in oil instead of stone: his outlines definite yet malleable, the paint dry but not quite hard.

She coughed. He looked up from the manuscript and fixed
her with the same peculiar gaze as before. She shifted her limbs, testing them. He chewed on his beard with his upper teeth. The sparks returned to her periphery and fizzled away.

“Well, well, well.” He smiled. “Up and at 'em, I see.”

She looked away.

“Can I get you some water?”

She shook her head. He studied her for a moment longer and then returned his attention to the manuscript. She examined the room. Before, in the midst of her delirium, her only impressions had been those of danger and anarchy. Now only the anarchy remained. Rows of salt-stiff books, towers of warped glass jars, ragged undershorts and photographic negatives dangling side by side from a length of fishing line. A typewriter on a folding table, its keyboard a good deal larger than normal and outfitted with many foreign-looking keys. A collection of deer antlers in a hammered copper basin. Dozens of postcard-sized reproductions of famous works of art crookedly pinned to the wood-paneled walls.

“Where am I?”

He smiled again and tapped the papers against his knee. Then he rose from the beer crate and wedged the manuscript onto a crowded bookshelf across from the bed.

“My home,” he answered genially, returning to his seat. “My lab.”

“Lab?”

“Biological. I study things from the sea.”

She leaned back, narrowed her eyes, and inspected the room again.
The biologist
was not a designation she had questioned when her father had first introduced them. Now, however, she was skeptical. There was nothing here that indicated the contemplation of science, much less its practice.

“I see,” she replied.

“Skeptical, eh? Well, I don't blame you. Around here, I'm afraid I'm best known for embalming cats.” A pause. “And then there are the tours of the tide pools, but I tend to reserve those for only the most oceanically inclined of the hotel's guests.”

She slumped against the bed and pressed the heels of her hands against her temples.

“What's wrong? Should I get the bucket?”

“I'm not
inclined
toward the tide pools. Not one bit.”

“That's funny. Your father said you were obsessed.”

“He was trying to get rid of me.”

“Now why would he want to do that?”

She shook her head, her hands still knitted around her skull as if holding her brains in place.

“I really think you should have some water.”

“Fine.”

“How about something to eat? Something that's not a steak?”

“Just the water.”

His smile was so big that he almost appeared to be in pain.
When he stood, she anticipated the relief of being left alone. But he remained in the room, stopping in the doorway and craning his neck just slightly beyond it.

“Arthur? Some water, if you please.”

In response, the drumming of fast footsteps, the squeak of a loosening tap, water splashing into a sink and continuing to splash for longer than it should have taken to fill a drinking glass. The biologist returned to her side.

“Sorry about the wait. It always takes a minute or two for it to run clear.”

Another smile, another alarming inflation of his face. She looked away again, her eyes landing on the nearest wall. Out of all the oddities this room contained, the little postcard galleries were perhaps the oddest. They were arranged with no deference to style or period and were, for the most part, in exceptionally bad taste: three too many Renoirs, the most predictable Manet in existence, something that looked like a lesser Picasso but was probably a Braque. There was also, however, a work she admired: Caravaggio's rendering of Bacchus, his ruddy face and sunburned hands those of a cheerful outdoorsman, a torpor in his heavy-lidded stare that seemed both inept and threatening all at once.

“The god of wine,” the biologist explained.

“I know.” She looked down and straightened her blanket.

“Caravaggio.”

“I know.”

“A great artist, but an unpleasant man. Nervous, temperamental, violent. Kept bad company.”

“I know.”

“Art, then. Do you practice? Or do you just preach?”

She made fists, the blanket bunching between her fingers. “Neither.”

“Don't lie.”

“How dare—”

“Beg pardon.” A voice from the doorway.

The biologist swiveled around and beckoned the interloper forward. She recognized this young man, but just barely: his hive of red hair, his stout limbs and blocky posture. He had been there postfall, amid the confusion and fear, but she couldn't remember what role he had played or if he had been as nervous as he was right now. His hands trembled as he approached the bed and offered her the cup. She took it, drank, and passed it back without comment.

“Thank you, Arthur,” the biologist said. “She's quite grateful.”

“Is there anything else?” Arthur murmured.

“You're sure you don't want that beer?” the biologist asked her.

“I'm sure.”

“How about some oil? From a basking shark liver?”

“From a what?”

“Arthur. The oil, please.”

“No, I—,” she insisted.

“Arthur, there's a fresh box down in the garage.”

“There's a fresher one at the market. I delivered it yesterday. I'll go back and—”

“I said no!” she barked.

The two men froze, eyes wide. The biologist cocked his head in the direction of the door. Arthur scurried out of it. Margot clenched her calf muscles until they cramped.

“Sounds strange, doesn't it?” The biologist's words were coming much slower now, and with a new undertone of caution. “But it's known in the East for its general tonic properties, especially for allergies and arthritis. It's chock-full of something akin to cortin, a substance used to keep cats alive after they've been adrenalectomized. Also something of an aphrodisiac, if John's Hollywood friends are to be believed.”

“Keep treating your son like that and he'll revolt.”

When he threw back his head and laughed, a strip of white skin flashed beneath the border of his beard.

“Oh, is that what's got you so worked up? Arthur's not my son, I'm afraid, not at all. He's an orphan of the classic type, dust bowl and whatnot, plucked straight from the pages of John's book. Came to town to make a living in the canneries but seems to spend most of his time here in the lab. Fixing the Buick, catching the cats, being generally underfoot.”

She considered the Caravaggio again. Its initial appeal had faded a bit, its cheeks and lips now bordering on the feminine. Escape was pointless. Pointless then, pointless now.

“Funny,” he said. “I think I've forgotten your name.”

“Margot.”

“You're French.”

“And Swedish.”

“Ah, yes. Form and function, all in one.”

Her legs went stiff again, causing the blanket above them to shiver.

“Why don't you explain it, then?” he continued. “Tell me how wrong I am.”

“I'm in business with my father. Or at least I used to be.”

“They say he's got the sardine game in his sights. I hope he isn't too upset when he finds out most of them are already in cans.”

“I don't know anything about that.”

“A rift between you, then. Was it ugly?”

Too much talking, too many questions. He was her captor, she wanted to remind him, not her confidant.

“And does he see the value in your art?” he continued, undeterred. “Beyond the commercial, that is?”

“Excuse me?”

“The sketchbook. In the satchel. It fell out when you took your tumble, but I was too much of a gentleman to open it without asking permission first.”

“I don't think—”

“If you're too shy, I understand completely.” He gestured at his walls. “As you can see, I have some dreadfully high standards.”

She retrieved the satchel from the bedside table, withdrew the sketchbook, and tossed it to him.

“Mine are higher.”

“That's more like it!” he crowed.