Sand in the Wind (71 page)

“I am tired.”

“But
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
but when I leave, I’ll never see you again.”

“And this will make no difference.” Realizing the truth in her words, she still felt guilty about saying them. After a short pause, she continued speaking. “I will tell you what I think sometimes. It seems that time is longest when we want it most to end. If I am happy, my life it will be too short. If I am not happy, it will be too long. But if I am sometimes happy and sometimes sad, it cannot be too short or too long.”

Having expected something profound, Kramer began to laugh despite himself. He looked up and saw that Tuyen was also laughing. She tried to cover her face with her hand. Without thinking, he reached out for it and held it away from her face. When they had stopped laughing, Kramer found himself sitting next to her on the mattress. Tuyen gently withdrew her hand as she stared down at the floor in front of her. Kramer watched as she tried to keep a smile from her lips. She seemed so different — ‘Almost human.’ Again he was struck by how beautiful she was. He remembered the tone in which he had spoken to her a few minutes before, realizing he hadn’t merely lost his temper and feeling more than guilty. Afraid she would see the troubled expression on his face, Kramer leaned back on one elbow. He couldn’t even picture himself talking to her in that angry a tone. There had to be a reason for it. He had an idea what that reason was — something inside himself, something perverted that tried to force him to look at her as nothing more than a bitch, not even that, a cunt, something that hated her for possessing a power over him, for being able to hurt him, for being someone he could love. He glanced up and saw that she had turned and was looking down at him. Tuyen also leaned back on the mattress. She lay on her side, her arm outstretched beneath her head and a tired look on her face. “You are sad,” she said softly.

Kramer shook his head slightly before saying, “No. Time seems too short.” He removed his hand from beneath his head and lay back in the same manner as she was lying. With his other arm, he reached across for a strand of her hair and touched it to his lips. “You’re so beautiful I can’t even believe what I see
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
or what I hear.” He touched the side of her face, then slowly drew his hand away. “Do you like me?”

“I do not know you.
  
.
 
.
 
. Sometimes, sometimes I like you very much.”

“And other times?”

“Sometimes you are a little boy.
  
.
 
.
 
. You are scared.”

“When?”

“When you are angry at me?”

“Sometimes you want me to be scared, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Am I scared of you now?” Tuyen answered with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Do you want me to be scared of you now?”

“No.”

He laid his hand upon her cheek and drew himself closer until their faces were touching. She lay back and he moved his lips over her soft, warm skin. The clean smell of her hair made him want to lose himself in it, and his hand combed gently through it. She remained passive, yet the relaxed sound of her breathing told him to continue. Kramer reached his arm beneath the small of her back, slowly raising it until he was able to place her on top of himself. Strands of her silky black hair lay across his face, and he inhaled their fragrance. Pressing her closer, he experienced the soft warmth of her body. His clothing seemed as if it were trying to suffocate him. He wanted to feel her face against his chest. His hands kept passing over the zipper of her dress, and finally his almost inept fingers undid it.

Her breathing became more controlled. She seemed suddenly cold to him and the soft light of the lamp all too blinding. She no longer reacted to his touch. Kramer became more nervous. He slid from beneath her and walked towards the light. In an instant the room was dark and he felt alone. He started to move back towards the mattress, but instead turned, and in the darkness made his way to the dresser on which she had placed the matches. His fingers quickly found them, and he walked back towards her. The room was too dark; she too beautiful. He had remembered there was a candle at the head of the mattress.

Kramer removed his shirt before striking the match. Its flame seared the air and caused him to turn his head away. He lay down upon the mattress without touching her, watching the shadows of the flame glow upon her face. Even this could give it no warmth as she stared blankly at the ceiling — as if her face were carved in cool marble. She was more beautiful than she had ever been, but the moment seemed lost to Kramer. He drew her upon his chest, and there was a sad awkwardness in this act. But soon she again began to react to him, and he became more relaxed. His hands moved softly along her body, and her clothing seemed to fall naturally away from her.

She lay motionless upon him, and with each breath he was lulled by the scent of her hair and skin. He felt her weight upon his chest as it slowly rose and fell. This seemed enough, to lie there with her and in the morning find strands of her hair upon his face. He thought about how he had tried to convince himself that all he wanted was to fuck her, an act which now seemed so unimportant — not something that he wanted to happen, but something that must happen, and at the risk of losing what he now possessed.

With a delicacy that surprised him, he was able to place her beneath himself. There was little conscious thought in what followed. It seemed so natural, natural until he saw her face. The soft, flickering candlelight upon it revealed the passive blankness of her eyes. She refused to react to him, lying motionless, as if waiting for him to finish and leave her alone. He too wanted to finish, to be rid of her. A violent anger rose within him. ‘Is this what I wanted so bad? Is this what I fucking wanted — to be made to feel like some filthy animal?’ He had a sudden furious urge to slap her, and in a violent instant he imagined the shock and pain that would be written upon her face, and also the recognition that he was there —
fucking her.
But the blankness of her stare made this seem impossible. No, he knew he was helpless to change the expression on her face. Confused, hating himself for his own thoughts, he suddenly realized that again he was scared and like a child. The cruel look, that he hadn’t even realized was there, disappeared as he asked himself, ‘Did she sense this? Did she know?’ He looked down at her, now with a sad, questioning expression on his face, wondering what perverted thing inside him had again caused him to think of her in that way. He saw her nostrils begin to dilate with each breath. She began to move ever so slightly beneath him. Her eyes half closed, then opened again; but they were different eyes, those of a little girl on the verge of tears. They focused upon him, as if seeing him for the first time. Her breathing quickened, and he could hear it over his own. She bit her lower lip, and the delicate tendons of her neck pressed tightly against her skin. He doubted what he was seeing, never having realized that a moment like this could be experienced, feeling himself merge with her in the fulfillment of it.

Soon he found himself lying quietly upon her soft and motionless body, her arms drawn gently around his neck, remembering the look on her face; and in it he saw all the pain and suffering, and more beauty than he had ever believed existed.

He opened his eyes slowly, proving to himself that she was there. Strands of silky black hair lay upon his face. Her arm was still across his chest, and her head slowly rose and fell with his breathing. The upper part of her back, uncovered by the silk bedspread, took on an amber glow from the warm morning light. He studied each delicate curve. But it was her face that he really wanted to see, to watch her eyes as they opened. If he tried to move he would wake her. But somehow he knew that her eyes were already open.

Her hand began to move gently over his chest, and he said, “Good morning.” She made no reply nor any attempt to look at him as her hand continued to move softly over his chest. He played his fingers along the hollow of her back and she squeezed herself against him to avoid them. To get him to stop, she raised her head and pressed her chin into his chest. He stared at her profile, realizing again how flawless it was. He hesitated to touch her face, first combing away the loose strands of hair that lay before it. A sincere sense of disbelief in his tone, he said what he was thinking. “You’re so beautiful
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
everything about you.” She retained the same impenetrable expression before finally lowering her head to his chest. Again her hand moved gently on top of it, but she soon placed her other hand beneath his shoulder and tried to turn him on his side. He made no effort to help her, instead asking, “What are you doing?”

“Turn around.” He didn’t answer and continued to lie on his back. “Turn around,” she repeated, this time looking at his face. He shook his head and watched with amusement as she continued trying to turn him onto his side. She soon stopped, and asked him again, only more softly and followed by the gentle pressure of her cheek against his shoulder. Turning away, he listened as she slid from beneath the bedspread; then rolled back over and watched her walk slowly to the closet and remove a white silk robe. She was wearing it when she turned back towards him. He was still looking at her. Again her blank stare gave no hint of what she was thinking, and his lips moved silently as he said, “You’re beautiful.” She turned and walked to another door. As she opened it he could see that it led to a bathroom. He had little time to wonder whether she would close the door behind her. His next thoughts were answered by the click of the lock. As he listened to the flowing bath water, her stare appeared before him. Again he wondered what she had been thinking.

She emerged from the bathroom with the same opaque stare, but her tone was gentle as she said, “If you would like, you can take a bath.”

Kramer lay motionless as he watched her disappear through another door, obviously leading to the kitchen. He tried to remember how long it had been since he’d taken a bath, finally deciding it had been six months. He got up and walked into the bathroom. Leaving the door open, he turned on the water and stepped into the tub. When it was full, he lay back in the warm, soothing water, remembering the night before and still trying to figure out what Tuyen was thinking this morning. What would have happened if she hadn’t known this was the last time he would see her? This didn’t seem that important. He called to her. When she finally answered him, she was a few feet outside the bathroom door. “Come here.”

“I am doing things.”

“Come here and wash my back,” he asked in a childish tone.

“No,” she answered without any coldness or equivocation, then added, “When you come out, I will make you something to eat.”

Tuyen was in the kitchen when Kramer walked out of the bathroom. His jungle fatigues lay neatly folded upon the now made bed. They were clean, but he stared down at them with repugnance. Instead of putting them on, he walked to the closet and looked for a robe. He found a black one. It was too small. There was also a pink one, and he decided to wear it if it fit. It barely did.

Kramer started to walk towards the kitchen, but his eyes were caught by the two pictures on the table. He stood looking down at them. Her father’s stare was similar to her own, but weaker. Something forced Kramer to lift her husband’s picture from the table. The hair was straight, the lips creased somberly, and the eyes slanted. It was the same face he had seen so many times before — when blindfolds were lifted from prisoners, when corpses were rolled over on their backs. He forced himself to place the picture back down on the table, thinking, ‘Maybe I looked at her like that.’

As soon as Kramer entered the kitchen, Tuyen began to laugh while saying, “You look like my mother.”

Kramer was still thinking about the pictures. He had no idea what she meant until he saw that she was looking at the pink robe. “You didn’t like her, did you?”

Still laughing, she answered, “She diddin like me.”

“She diddin,” Kramer repeated. “I can’t understand that.”

“You are not my mother.”

“But I look like her, remember?”

The kitchen was small and immaculate. Kramer sat down at the table. Tuyen noticed him looking at some wilted flowers in its center, and she said, “They die. I will buy some today.
  
.
 
.
 
. When I live in Hue, we have many flowers in our house.” After a long pause, she asked, “What do you want to eat?”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“You want eggs?”

“All right.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

She realized immediately that Kramer wasn’t serious. “You say you are not hungry?”

“I know. I usually have six eggs and a steak.”

“If I make you six eggs, you will eat them?”

“How much do two cost?”

“One dollar.”

“I want the waitress.”

“She is busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Making eggs.”

“Okay, I’m not hungry.”

“She is still busy.
  
.
 
.
 
. Now you want eggs?”

“What are
you
going to eat?”

“I eat already.”

“Really, I’m not too hungry. What do you have in the refrigerator?” As he asked this, Kramer leaned back and opened the door. He reached for the first thing that caught his eye, and held it up in disbelief. “A mango!”

“You have eat this before? Is good.”

“I know. I have a tree in my backyard.”

“Where you live they have these?
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Where is that?”

“Miami.
  
.
 
.
 
. The ones on my tree are this big.” Kramer held his hands apart to show a size three times larger than the mango he was holding.