‘This is perfect,’ Kim says, squeezing the lime onto her dish. She takes a mouthful and offers me some but the raw fish texture freaks me out.
‘Hey, Nat, do you want to see the dead thing?’ she asks, slurping the last of her food from her plate.
‘The whale?’
Kim nods.
We walk along the beach back to the guesthouse.
The sun is raucous and my skin is a bright rose colour as it burns. I wrap my yellow scarf over my head and across my shoulders and back. We amble up the beach until it’s quite deserted. I pick interesting-looking shells and rocks off the grey sand. Kim points to a black mass in the distance.
‘That’s it there.’
We continue on; the tide licks our toes as we walk barefoot on the cool wet part of the sand. The mass grows larger and it looks like driftwood.
‘The smell,’ I say, when we get closer, and cover my mouth with my scarf.
‘I’m too hungover for this,’ Kim says.
‘Did you drink a lot last night?’
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because you’ll judge me for it.’
‘No, I won’t. I like a good drink every so often too.’
‘When is every so often now that you’re all healthy?’
‘What?’
‘We’ve had no sessions in Peru.’
‘It wasn’t really the craic here though, was it?’
‘Since you’ve been healthy, you’ve stopped being fun.’
‘I’ve not pushed anything on you about health.’
‘Yeah, but look at you, all butterfly coming out of the cocoon, all arrogant, got my shit together, got my plan.’
‘Kim, what is this? Why are you lashing at me? I know you’re hurting, I get it, but don’t do this. I’m still here, we’re still friends, even after all your—’
‘After all my—?’
‘After all this.’
‘After all what, Natalie?’
‘All your instability.’
‘I wish he’d call me or something, I wish he’d tell me he changed his mind. I don’t want to be alone, Nat, I can’t do this. I don’t want to go to weddings alone. I don’t want to go out and try to find someone. I want him and that comfort again. I need it.’
‘Everything you need is right here.’
‘In Peru?’
‘No, in you. You’re only alone if you’re not there for yourself.’
‘Is that a line from your woman rescuer self-help book?’
‘No. It was a line from a plant.’
‘And I’m the unstable one? What plant?’
‘A cactus.’
‘Did you take the wachuma without me?’ She looks disappointed.
I nod.
‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’
‘You’re gone all the time.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about it?’
‘You’re never there to listen. All you want to talk about is the father and son. Or Pete.’
‘Fuck you, Natalie.’
Someone shouts from behind. A man dressed in a khaki green uniform holds a machine gun and hollers in Spanish. He guards a fancy hotel behind him. We walk back, unsure of what he wants.
‘Inglés?’
‘Sí, señor?’
‘Peligroso, chicas. Muy peligroso.’ He uses his gun to point at the strand ahead, which is desolate except for the big dead whale. There’s only Pacific to the left and the sand dunes to the right.
‘Lo siento, señor. We wanted to see the thing up there,’ I say. ‘Por favor.’
‘Okay, okay, I look. Quick,’ he says and waves us off.
Now we’re filled with dread as we edge towards it. The man holds the machine gun in his arm and watches us.
‘What’s up there, d’ya think? Are they lying in wait in the hills for tourists?’
Kim shudders. ‘I’ve been jogging up here.’
The smell is like fish oil gone rogue and all pervasive. Or a week-old open mass grave. Or a billion rotten eggs. It’s like the Inca Trail’s toilet facilities, but in the sun. The smell permeates our skin.
He’s bloated since Kim saw him first, she says. He’s rotting and expanding in the equatorial sun. ‘Oh shit actually,’ she adds and puts her hand to her mouth.
I look around suddenly, wondering if the unseen bandits or rapists are coming for us, wondering if there’ll be a shootout.
Kim’s face contorts. ‘It’s going to blow.’
We gawp at the putrid mass, at the hills and at the security guard.
There’s a sense of something about to happen. The sun is shaded by some clouds, which gives immediate relief. Then it puts its glaring spotlight on us again.
‘I’m going surfing with the guys again tomorrow, Nat.’
‘But what about our bus to Lima?’
‘I’ll get it the day after that or the day after that.’
‘But I really wanted to spend our last weekend in Lima and explore it properly.’
‘I know, Nat.’
‘I don’t want to stay on here, Kim.’
She nods. ‘But I do.’
My eyes hurt. I close them. There’s nothing I can do but accept this.
‘Claro,’ I say.
We walk in silence until we reach sunbathers and hotels again, until people peddle their helados and pineapple chunks.
The next day, I board the bus alone. There’s a sudden bang. I clasp my chest.
The end of a friendship – a gunshot – a whale exploding – a backfiring engine – the start of something new.
Bridge
Bobby walks over to a full-looking black bin bag. He takes plastic-wrapped T-shirts out of it, piles them on his desk. ‘You’ll be wearing these on the gym floor each week. This is our uniform. We want the gym users to know that you’re students and it’s good to be visible.’
He tears a pack and displays the black T-shirt; on front it says ‘APEX FITNESS’ in lime green capitals and on the back it says ‘STUDENT INSTRUCTOR’.
I’m the oldest in the class. The group are fit-looking, athletic, young. The only thing that’s easing my discomfort is that we’re in a blaring light, bland beige carpeted, whiteboard on the wall, flipchart in the corner classroom setting. The classroom is on the same floor as the gym and studio, above the squash courts. A squash ball is audibly battered against a court wall and the beat from the gym music is monotonous.
I sit in a black stacking chair at the top desk beside a soccer player called Lucy. She wears a green jersey and her hair is tied loosely with a purple velvet scrunchy.
Bobby passes a sheet to each of us with a column listing different body areas – chest, waist, upper arms and so on – and an answer box beside each.
‘Now is the perfect time for you to practise taking measurements. As we’re all aware, women are obsessed with the numbers on a scale. But really, a good instructor knows that for weight loss or weight gain, a scale is bullshit. To know how your body is doing, you measure it. If you can do this well, you will immediately be perceived as professional. So take a tape and pair up. I’ll give out the T-shirts after.’
Lucy shakes my hand. ‘I’ll measure you first?’
‘Okay,’ I say. My body constricts.
We work at the side of the table.
From the top of the room, Bobby says, ‘Ideally, when measuring calves or thighs, we would like tape to skin contact but always ask a woman first. Why?’
Nobody responds so I chance, ‘You shouldn’t touch someone’s skin without asking if it’s okay with them?’
Bobby says, ‘If the woman hasn’t shaved her legs, she’d be understandably ashamed of herself.’
Lucy is like a tailor, the tape in one hand, a pencil behind her ear. She works away and chats about her morning drive. She describes the Red Cow Roundabout as ‘worse chaos than being near Nowlan Park after the Leinster Final’, and the Red Line Luas as a ‘fucking Quentin Tarantino movie’.
I laugh at her comments, and relax as she measures my thighs, scribbling down the number in inches.