Sunburn (11 page)
Pedro was a small, friendly man who drove a taxi. Saturday was one of the busiest days for him, so he would work until early evening, but he would always be home for dinner. Berta didn’t mind being alone in the apartment for the day. Often she would do nothing but sit and watch the television, or go out to the small balcony and take in the sun. Sometimes she would make a visit to the church in the late afternoon, after it had started to darken and the candles made the only light.
Pedro lived with his best friend, Ramon, a widower who owned a small place in Caldetas. The bar he owned was far from downtown, and frequented almost exclusively by Spaniards. He sold
tinto
for five pesetas the glass, or twenty-five the liter. To the tourists who came in, he charged four times that. He wasn’t running a tourist bar. He had nothing against them, but since they would pay four times the price, he saw nothing wrong with charging it. A few years before, a rich and gregarious drunk boy from America had shown him how to make a
Cuba libre,
and he charged thirty pesetas for them. None of his regulars drank them. He would usually work until six, and then his helper would come on and stay until two or three in the morning.
tinto
for five pesetas the glass, or twenty-five the liter. To the tourists who came in, he charged four times that. He wasn’t running a tourist bar. He had nothing against them, but since they would pay four times the price, he saw nothing wrong with charging it. A few years before, a rich and gregarious drunk boy from America had shown him how to make a
Cuba libre,
and he charged thirty pesetas for them. None of his regulars drank them. He would usually work until six, and then his helper would come on and stay until two or three in the morning.
He’d moved in with Pedro seven years before, when his wife had died. It was a peaceful, working household. They were both robust men who liked to laugh, play cards, and eat. They drank lightly, and had never had a serious quarrel. Both were religious, though not like women were, and both believed in Franco.
Pedro dropped Berta off at the apartment with an affectionate kiss on the cheek. With her small bag in her hand, she let herself in through the front door, and rode the elevator to the third floor. The men’s apartment took up half the floor. She opened the door and looked around. It was quite dark in the foyer, but she knew her way, past the small Madonna by the door, into the living room, to the curtains. She pulled them apart, letting in the sunlight and the view of the flower-covered porch in front of the sliding windows.
The men did keep a neat house. The walls in the living room held four or five paintings of saints or matadors—almost the same thing—all painted in brightly phosphorescent colors on black velveteen. Down the hall behind her were the two bedrooms and the office with its fold-a-bed on which she slept.
She walked about for a while, whistling to herself, and put on some water for instant coffee. She drank it slowly on the porch. Then she went back to the bathroom and disrobed. She combed her hair out and let it fall freely. It really wasn’t that long, but it felt good untied. It did not occur to her to look at herself in the mirror, but if she had, she would have seen a not unattractive body, perhaps getting a little too broad in the hips, and a bit rounded at the shoulders, but still a desirable one. Her stomach had no fat on it, though it curved out nicely. The patch of hair below it was starting to streak with gray. She stood for quite some time, combing out her hair, then stretched languorously on her tiptoes. Fluffing out the tufts of hair under her arms, she chuckled for no reason. Then she turned on the shower and treated herself to a half hour of warm water.
She went to her room and changed into a beige cotton blouse and a yellow skirt which came to the bottoms of her knees. Putting on some sandals, she checked the refrigerator and decided to go to the market and buy food for dinner.
It was pleasant, she thought, to get back to the old rhythms, even if only for a day. Siesta wouldn’t be for a couple of hours yet, and she felt grand moving between the booths back behind the town, away from the tourist shops. She almost dropped in to see Ramon, as she passed within a block of his place, but decided it would be better not to. Bars were for the men.
She bought some melons and salt ham for before dinner, and lamb parts and white beans for stew.
Coming back to the apartment, she talked for a while to the woman next door, with whom she’d become friends. They exchanged a couple of recipes, and Berta listened to her complain about her husband’s drinking. But it was good-natured complaining. They both knew that men got drunk from time to time. It was only to be expected. She was upset only because he had broken one of her favorite flowerpots on the patio. They talked and wound up laughing about it. What could you do?
Berta went back in and put the beans on a low boil. When she pulled the curtains closed, it might as well have been night. She felt her way back to her room, plugged in the small evening light, a replica of the Virgin, and was asleep in seconds.
When she woke up, the men hadn’t come home yet. She finished preparing the stew and then went to sit on the patio and finish her book. Pedro got home first, and Ramon about an hour later. They sat around the kitchen table and shared a bottle of wine, playing cards and waiting for dinner to be ready. Berta slipped off her sandals and rested her foot on Ramon’s under the table.
After dinner, they watched television, the two men sitting on either side of her on the couch. When the movie ended, they got up, said their good-nights, and went to their respective rooms.
Berta undressed and put on a long black nightgown. She said a decade of the rosary, then waited until she thought Pedro had gone to sleep.
Ramon’s door was already slightly ajar when she came to it. She let herself in and crossed to his bed. Without a word, she took off the nightgown and got into bed beside him. He went very slowly. They were a well-practiced pair of lovers. He kissed her everywhere, pausing where he knew she liked it best, and she felt the beautiful tension rising in her body. Her nipples stood up like hard cherries as he ran his fingers up and down the backs of her legs. She thought she would have to scream, but held herself to a moan as the waves of pleasure ran through her body. He turned her over to her stomach then and took his pleasure in his own way. Then they lay quietly, hugging each other and falling into sleep.
This arrangement had been going on for four years, but it was never spoken about. Berta knew that she still was married in the eyes of the Church, since, so far as she knew, her husband had not died, but it didn’t matter to her. She loved Ramon, and he loved her. One day, when he retired, maybe they could afford to live together, or even find out if they could marry. Pedro, of course, knew about them, but he never let on. He knew that people needed to love. He wished his sister and his friend every happiness. He prayed that God someday would make it possible for them to be married, but that he would not punish them for the love they shared.
In the morning, the three of them went to an early Mass, then walked together back to the train station, and the men put Berta on the train to Blanes.
PART II
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
—MATTHEW ARNOLD, “Dover Beach”
Nine
The ground was warm and wet, and she was glad she had taken off her sandals. The shower after she’d gotten home with Douglas had refreshed her. Now the sun was threatening to come out again. She wasn’t thinking, but enjoyed the feel of her legs against the fabric of her pants, her hair falling loose, brushing its wet ends against her neck.
Mike walked beside her, easily, carrying a bottle of chilled white wine in his right hand. His left hand hung casually, barely swinging as he walked. His hair, long and dark, was tied at the back in a pigtail. He wore a blue and orange shirt from India, and frayed jeans. Lea carried his sandals in her hand, along with her own.
They’d met at the café, where they’d had coffee, and Mike had suggested that they go up to the old fort. What with the rain and the late season, it wasn’t likely to be crowded.
She followed him along the
ramblas,
watching him walk. When they began to climb up to the fort, they put their sandals back on.
ramblas,
watching him walk. When they began to climb up to the fort, they put their sandals back on.
Up within the walls were the old remains of the church. Some of the walls still stood to the height of a foot or so, and the places for the pews were visible. The altar and its nave were intact, though open to the elements.
Pebbles and bits of glass crunched beneath their feet as they walked up what had once been the aisle. When they got to the raised part which held the altar, they sat on it. Out in front of them, they could see the Bay of Tossa, its small boats bobbing in the light, churning water. As they sat, the boat from Lloret entered the bay with its load of tourists. Above them was the old fort, with its lookout posts, the lighthouse, and the gun turrets, all now long out of use. The sky was clearing.
She watched him take a loaf of bread from the sack he carried, then some cheese and a couple of pears. He opened the wine with the corkscrew on a Swiss Army knife, took a sip, and passed it to her.
“Two Americans playing Hemingway,” he said.
“Do you feel that?”
“No,” he said, laughing. “I’ve been here too long for that now.”
“You should laugh more,” she said. “It becomes you.”
He cut into the pear. “Drink the wine with this. It’s really good.” He smiled again. “I’m glad you could come today.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know.”
Another couple walked by. Mike and Lea were silent as they passed. Lea began to feel afraid, as though she were guilty of something. She looked at the boy across from her and shivered, hoping he didn’t realize how open she was to him.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She gave him a self-conscious little smile, and shook her head. “Not really,” she said.
“You can talk to me, you know.”
“I know. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
She looked down. “I don’t quite know where to start. I . . . I find myself wanting to know about you.” She continued looking down, and he raised her chin with his hand. He was serious.
“What’s there to know?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. The other night when you played that song, and a few other times, it’s like waves of sorrow come off you. Oh, not that you give the impression that you feel sorry for yourself, but that’s just it. All of a sudden, something surfaces, and you seem lost in it. I thought maybe if you brought it out and talked about it once, it might help.” She stopped, helpless, staring at him. He looked back at her with no expression. “Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t know you at all, but . . .”
“That’s OK,” he said. “Go on.”
She trembled slightly. Goose bumps rose on her arms and she pulled them inside her sleeves, as she used to do when she was a child. She hugged her arms to herself.
“There’s really nothing more I have to say. Just that I feel you’re hiding from something, and maybe it’s time you faced it.”
He didn’t move, and again that trance seemed to be on him. He stared away, up in the direction of the turrets. She took his hand in both of hers, and held it close to her body, under her shirt. It was hot against her stomach.
Finally, he spoke. “I’m going to talk now for a while. I don’t want you to interrupt or say a word because I’m not sure I’ll finish if you do. But you’re right. There is something . . .
“I don’t know why I asked you to see me today. Not that I don’t find you attractive and all that, but you are married, and—well, but that’s not the point either.”
He stammered, stopped, began again.
“When I was eighteen, I left Seattle for a summer in Europe. My folks were fairly well off and they gave me enough for a couple of months, and I thought it would be a great time.
“I had a girlfriend then, named Sharon Barrett. We thought it was funny that we both had the same last name, that it was fate or something that we’d wind up together. Anyway, we arranged it so that we’d be here together, and we’d travel and see the world together before starting college.
“We were good kids, too. Virgins when we left, and thought we’d stay that way. Dumb us. We made it two nights without making love. Then the third day it rained and we were stuck in the hotel room all day, and . . . Well, that’s not so important.
“So we were lovers and were like new lovers everywhere, I suppose, though it didn’t seem like it to us. I guess everybody thinks they’re different.”
A tear broke from his eye. He spoke evenly, but more tears came, running down his face, spattering onto his jeans.
“We made it down to Marseilles. Then one day we decided to go shopping separately and surprise each other with things for dinner, then meet back near our hotel. So I went to the Marché and she said she was going to the Arab quarter.”
He stopped talking, and took a deep breath, then another in an effort to calm himself.
“I never saw her again. She didn’t come back to the hotel. I waited until nearly midnight, then went to the police. I described her—tall, blond, American-looking—and the inspector covered his eyes with his hand.
“ ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘Tell me.’
“He didn’t though, but put me in a back room, and had me wait about a half hour until an American came in. Short, fat man, but very nice to me. I asked him what was going on, if Sharon was dead, but he just talked to me for quite a long time before he finally made me drink a cognac or two and told me about the white slave trade out of Marseilles.”
Other books
KILLER INSTINCT (A Mafia Bad Boy Romance Novel) by Gardener, Julia
Dark Titan Journey: Finally Home by Thomas A. Watson
Confessions of a Transylvanian by Theis, Kevin, Fox, Ron
The Ghostly Hideaway by Doris Hale Sanders
Sky Knife by Marella Sands
Virtues (Base Branch Series Book 8) by Megan Mitcham
Eric's Edge by Holley Trent
Lone Star 03 by Ellis, Wesley
Sweet Lamb of Heaven by Lydia Millet
