It was hard to imagine toward what they were headed, bad jobs and poor pay, a season of lettuce picking in southern France, a roach-infested apartment, a bed shared with two other men, each missing his wife. And yet each of these possibilities offered something better than what they had left behind.
“Let’s go,” Brian said, as the last of the men slipped into the water.
He put his hand on my arm, and I nodded, raising the leather bag above my head. Brian did the same with the pack he carried. We’d both taken our boots off and hung them over our shoulders.
The water was frigid, the bottom rockier than I’d imagined, and I had to struggle to keep my balance. It wasn’t far to the shore, twenty meters at most. Already some of our shipmates had reached land and were scrambling across the beach, disappearing into the dark scrub and up the rocky bluffs on the other side of the sand.
“You okay?” Brian asked, looking over at me.
“Fine.” I shivered, my chest half-submerged.
“Don’t think about the cold,” he said. “You’re almost there.”
I nodded and closed my eyes briefly, my bare toes fumbling blindly ahead. But in truth I wasn’t thinking about the cold. For the first time that I could remember, I was thinking about my past, about my mother, her face in the darkness above my bed at night, her pale, aqueous body suspended in the blue of an ocean, her arms and legs treading water. I was thinking about Paris as well, about the distance between us and the tearoom near St.-Julien-le-Pauvre, about what we would find when we got there. For the first time that I could remember, my own purpose seemed certain as the day to come.
When we finally staggered up onto the beach, Brian set his pack down and pulled what looked like a cell phone from the front pocket.
“GPS,” he explained. He hit a button, and the small screen phosphoresced. “The captain said there’d be a village not far from here, but I want to make sure.”
The last of the men from the boat crossed the sand in front of us and disappeared, fading into the darkness and scrub as if he had never existed. I brushed the sand from my feet and started to put on my boots.
“It looks like about five kilometers to Bolonia,” he said. “We can get a room and get cleaned up.”
I nodded, clamping my jaw shut to keep my teeth from chattering.
We climbed the bluff, then bushwacked for a kilometer or so. When we finally emerged onto the washed-out dirt road Brian’s GPS map had promised, dawn was spreading upward fast, a stain of cool blue, seeping into the dark sky like bright ink into water. By the time we’d crested the last hill and started down into Bolonia, wan daylight illuminated the tiny village, revealing a cluster of whitewashed houses huddled around an alabaster beach. Beyond the town sat the wind-worn remnants of an ancient Roman seaport, crumbling columns and stone archways stark against the blue bay.
The little beach town was mostly closed for the winter, the first two hotels we came across shuttered against December’s punishing wind. Finally, a bleary-eyed old man in slippers and a bathrobe opened the door to us at the Hostel Bellavista, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed our damp clothes, dirty faces, and scant luggage. It took a wad of euros, and Brian’s confident Spanish, to salve his suspicions. Just two crazy Americans, Brian had said, laughing, shaking the man’s hand, pulling bills from his pack. And two rooms, please, you know how the ladies can be. The man had glanced over at me, smiling at Brian as if to say, yes, I know. Then he tucked the money into the pocket of his bathrobe and led us upstairs.
My room was drafty, the radiator cold to the touch, but the shower was mercifully hot. I stripped myself of my clammy clothes and stood under the steaming water for a good half an hour, letting the feeling come back into my feet. I had just gotten out of the shower and climbed into bed when there was a tentative knock at the door.
“Eve?” It was Brian. “You up?” he whispered.
Swinging my feet to the floor, I wrapped the bedcover around myself and padded across the room.
“I hope you weren’t asleep,” he said apologetically when I’d opened the door. He glanced down at the bedcover, and I thought I detected a hint of color rising to his cheeks.
“No,” I told him. “Not yet.”
“Sorry,” he offered sheepishly, nodding to indicate the breakfast tray he held in his hands. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“Starving,” I conceded, surveying the food. The tray held a plate of chocolate-dipped churros, two large pieces of bread with butter and marmalade, several slices of ham, and a pot of coffee and two cups.
“How did you manage that?” I asked, stepping aside to let him into the room.
He set the tray on the bedside table. “Our host can be quite accommodating when provided with enough incentive.” He smiled, producing a stack of folded clothes he’d tucked under his right arm. “His daughter’s. I don’t know how well they’ll fit, but they’re clean and dry.”
“You don’t like this look?” I asked, pulling the bedcover tight around me.
“Cute, but I’m not sure it’s practical.”
“Thank you,” I said. I took the clothes and set them aside.
Brian smiled. “Do you mind if I take a look at what’s on that pen drive? Just to see if I recognize anyone. I’ve got my laptop.”
“Sure,” I told him, starting for my bag.
Brian went out into the hall, and I heard the door to his room open, then close. He reappeared with his laptop.
I handed him the pen drive and sat down on the bed. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather not watch it again.”
“Of course,” Brian said, moving to the far side of the room.
I drank my coffee and ate while Brian watched the video in silence. When he was finished, he closed the laptop and came over and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Anyone look familiar?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.” He flexed his hands awkwardly at his sides and rocked almost imperceptibly on the balls of his feet, as if waiting for something, as if trying to decide how to navigate some great impediment between us.
“At the Continental,” he said, then hesitated. “You know I couldn’t have… I didn’t know.”
“You knew what you wanted to know,” I told him.
He turned away slightly, as if from a blow.
I shook my head, regretting what I’d said. He was here now, and that was all that should have mattered. “I shouldn’t have said that,” I told him. “I know you wouldn’t have hurt me.” But the truth was that neither of us knew.
I lifted my hand to his and pulled him toward me, letting the bedcover slip away. I felt almost giddy, drunk on exhaustion, and I didn’t want to think about the Continental.
Brian got down on his knees and rested his head against my bare stomach. He’d showered, too, and his hair was still wet, cool and damp on my skin.
“It’s okay,” I said again.
I lifted his face to mine and bent down and kissed him. No, I thought, we would never know. He might have killed me that night in Tangier, but for now I would choose to believe otherwise.
Moving carefully, I eased my hand under his sweater and lifted it over his head. His skin was hot, like a fire kindled from within. Outside, the wind kicked up, needling the windowpanes with fine sand, singing through the cracks in the old stone building. Brian put his hand on the side of my breast, and I shivered. Yes, I told myself, for now I would choose to believe him.
TWENTY-FOUR
We slept through the day and left early the next evening, heading toward Seville in an old Seat Brian had managed to talk the hotel owner into selling us. We’d paid almost twice what the car was worth, but it hadn’t fazed Brian. When the old man had named a price, Brian had produced a roll of euros from his pack without flinching. There’s money here, I remembered him saying on the boat. Lots of it. Evidently, he’d taken his share.