LISTENING TO THE conversations on the snitches was really frustrating. Most were just background noise. Impenetrable. I couldn’t pay attention to every sound, every phrase. It drove me mad. It was hard, not to say impossible, to do it and raise my kids at the same time: crying, pooping, diapers, breastfeeding, vomit, playing, housekeeping, cleaning, shopping, meeting the school plane, homework, more playing, eating, sleeping and all the rest. Until I decided it wasn’t my mind that needed to listen to and process all the information, but my body. Letting the words flow without paying them any attention while I went on with my life, as if they were the street noise, the music you listen to through your headphones. Anytime the word Chris popped up in any conversation, my body would react automatically. For sure.
Maybe for that reason, to stem that mind-boggling feeling, I decided to bring my impulse buy into the game. The problem is that the voice changer turned out to be a bit of a fiasco. The fourteen super-professional tones it promised just changed the pitch of your voice. And it always sounded a little metallic, unreal, digital. With the women’s voice tones, it was still somewhat credible and didn’t give me away, but with the men’s voices, any little slip and it started to sound like a parody, a joke you’d play on a colleague pretending to be the bad guy from a superhero movie. It only really worked in a brief conversation with background noise, so it would blend in with the other sounds. I downloaded various park and city noises, far from what you’d expect to hear on Robin Island and would play them when I made my calls.
The following are transcriptions of the most significant conversations the snitches had picked up so far and of my experiments with the voice changer. In chronological order.
Voice changer. Mode: Man—Frequency 13.
Day 203. 17:00 hours.
John Rushlow’s phone rings. He picks up.
JOHN: Yes?
ME: John?
JOHN: Yeah, it’s me. Who is it?
ME: Chris.
JOHN: Chris? Chris who? Your voice sounds really weird.
Silence.
JOHN: Hello? There’s a lot of noise. Are you there?
I hang up.
Snitch at Jennifer’s house. Summer’s room.
Day 204. 20:30 hours.
Knock at the door.
JENNIFER: Open the door.
SUMMER: Wait.
JENNIFER: Summer, open the door right now.
SUMMER: Wait a sec!
Pounding on the door.
JENNIFER: Open!
SUMMER: I’m coming!
Pause. The door opens.
JENNIFER: What is that smell?
SUMMER: Nothing. I don’t smell anything.
JENNIFER: It stinks all the way down to the kitchen. It smells like marijuana.
SUMMER: How would you know?
JENNIFER: Summer, don’t play with me.
SUMMER: It calms me down, and if I’m calm, the baby’s calm. It can’t be bad.
Smack.
JENNIFER: You smoke again and . . .
SUMMER: And what? What are you going to do? You can’t do anything. Anything.
Door slamming.
Summer cries in her room. Jennifer cries in Stephen’s room.
Voice changer. Mode: Man—Frequency 10.
Day 205. 10:00 hours.
The phone rings at the bank branch.
CONRAD: Good morning, Dime Bank, how can I help you?
ME: Hello. I would like to know my checking account balance.
CONRAD: I’m sorry, I can’t hear you well. You’d like what?
ME: My balance. To know my balance.
CONRAD: Your balance? Give me your account number.
ME: I forgot it.
CONRAD: Who is this? I don’t recognize your voice. And where are you? I hear cars. Are you sure you’ve got the right number? This is the Robin Island branch.
I hang up.
Snitch at Family Pet Land.
Day 206. 03:22 hours.
Shopkeeper’s bell.
FRANK Rose, where are you? Come on, hurry, let’s go home. Rose, I know you’re here. God knows why you want to be cooped up here all day. Rose? (Pause.) Rose?
Silence.
FRANK (alarmed): Rose, don’t scare me, come out now wherever you are . . .
Silence. Doorbell.
FRANK (walking off): Rose?!
Voice changer. Mode: Man—Frequency 12.
Day 206. 13:11 hours.
John’s cell phone rings. He picks up.
JOHN: Yes?
ME: Hey, John.
JOHN: Hi, who’s there.
ME: Chris.
JOHN: Again? Chris? Chris who? What do you think, I know every Chris in the world?! What’s all that noise in the background? Hello? Are you there? Why is your number hidden?
I hang up.
Snitch at Jennifer’s house. Summer’s bedroom.
Day 206. 21:30 hours.
Knocking at the door.
JENNIFER: Summer, could you open a moment, please? (Pause.) I brought you something to eat. You’ve been shut up in there for two days. You have to come out and get some air. Open up . . . (Pause.) I wanted to ask your forgiveness; I didn’t mean to hit you the other day. I’m sorry, really . . . You have to be more responsible. This isn’t a game.
The door opens.
SUMMER: I know. I’m sorry too . . . But I read on the internet it’s not bad to smoke, that it’s not any worse than taking pills for a stomachache. I swear I read it. Plus, it’s organic marijuana, without any pesticides or anything. It cost me a fortune.
JENNIFER: Summer, don’t start again . . .
SUMMER: Fine, fine, I won’t do it . . .
JENNIFER: Thanks, babe. Give me a kiss?
Kiss.
JENNIFER: I’m sorry I lost my cool.
SUMMER: If you want, I can give you a little marijuana. It’s really good for that . . .
Jennifer laughs very hard despite herself.
Voice changer. Mode: Woman—Frequency 3.
Day 211. 13:00 hours.
CONRAD (on the phone): Good afternoon, Dime Bank, how can I help you?
ME: Good afternoon. So . . . my brother died a year ago.
CONRAD: Gosh, I’m sorry. My sympathies.
ME: And well, I’m still getting his affairs organized, and I see he had an account at your bank.
CONRAD: Aha . . .
ME: I’d like to close it and transfer the funds.
CONRAD: Sure, but without wanting to be rude, I can’t take care of something like that over the phone. You would have to come in person with a death certificate and a letter of testamentary from the court showing your appointment as executor of the estate.
ME: Right . . .
CONRAD: Anyhow, what was your brother’s name?
Silence.
CONRAD: Hello?
I hang up.
Voice changer. Mode: Man—Frequency 11.
Day 214. 14:20 hours.
John’s mobile phone rings.
JOHN: Yes?
ME: Hey, John, this is Chris Williams.
JOHN: Chris Williams?
ME: Yeah.
JOHN: Are you the one that’s been calling these past few days?
ME: Yeah.
JOHN: Why are you using a voice distorter? You think I’m a moron?
Silence.
JOHN: I’m in the military. I’m going to find you, and when I find you, I’m going to knock the shit out of you. For trying to pass for Chris Williams. Because you’re not Chris Williams. Because the Chris Williams I know is dead. And I know you know.
I hang up. I take out the SIM card. I break the phone and destroy the voice changer with a hammer. I burn it all.
Snitch on Mark’s boat.
Day 215. 10:50 hours.
MARK: You’ve never told me about yourself.
ME: We have talked about you, though.
MARK: You talk to me about your daughters and not much else.
ME: There’s just not much to tell.
MARK: Come on, already, Alice . . . I feel like I don’t know you.
ME: Maybe it’s better like that, right? Easier.
MARK: I don’t know, it could be . . .
Pause.
ME: Fine. One question, ask me one question, whichever one you want, and I’ll answer, with complete sincerity.
MARK: Just one?
ME: Is that your question?
MARK: No, shit. No, OK, no . . .
I laugh. He laughs.
ME: A well-chosen question can do a lot.
MARK: Fine, I’m working on it . . . (Pause.) Let’s see . . . It’s just I have a lot of them . . .
ME: I’m sure all of them eventually boil down to one. The mother of all questions. I’m telling you from experience . . .
MARK: I can’t concentrate . . . It’s not coming.
ME: See?
MARK: What?
ME: Maybe you just don’t have anything to ask me. Maybe we’re not talking about me because you don’t want to.
MARK: Maybe.
ME: Maybe you don’t know me because you don’t want to.
MARK: Maybe. But maybe what’s happening right now is I can’t concentrate because I really want to kiss you.
Silence. I hear the sound of my cheeks catching fire.
MARK: In fact, my question could be: Do you want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you? Because I’m not going to ask it. Mainly because I’m afraid you’ll say no. So no, that won’t be my question.
Silence. I hear the sound of desire hiding behind fear. Or the reverse.
MARK: What are you doing on the island?
Silence. I hear the sound of my wish to run off.
MARK: That’s my question. That’s the question I keep coming back to every time I have a question to ask you. I always ask myself what brought you here and now to me. But I suppose the answer to that question could change every day, every moment, because I also ask myself that question, and I almost always change the answer, because it depends on something as fickle and contradictory as our longings, our frustrations, our needs, our shortcomings, our fears, our desires . . . But if you’re here with me right now, it has to do with one thing: that you’ve come to live on the island.
Silence. I hear the sound of my wish to run off . . . run to him.
MARK: So I repeat the question: What are you doing on the island?
Silence. I hear the sound of my kisses.
Two hundred and fifteen days had passed since Chris’s death. Seven months and a day. And six months and a day since I’d given birth. I never stopped asking myself if enough time had gone by. Enough time to not feel so guilty and dirty. Perhaps that’s why, before we kissed for the first time, I held back a little; Mark probably didn’t even notice. But I wanted him to give a last push before our lips came into contact, so in the future I could blame him for everything that would end up happening with us. Something like, You started it!
I’d planted the snitch that recorded this conversation just a few minutes before, when Mark went out on deck to rescue a bottle of white wine he had tied to a rope, to chill in the sea, which was now at forty-two degrees. The perfect temperature, he said.
I would have liked the first time to have been less lovely or for the conversation that got us there to have been less meaningful, less emotional. Not that the situation was idyllic. The boat moored in the marina, in a cabin bedroom, during office hours, with the curtains closed, in daylight, with Ruby and Pony conveniently asleep in the main cabin. But looking back, I think I would have preferred to take him up on that mistimed invitation he sent me at the wedding. I think I would have felt less dirty.
Before I went to the boat, I already knew what would happen. That’s why I tried to arm myself with reasons that would justify it. Hiding behind the idea that it was part of my research. Perks of the job. A necessary step to create a tie and bring Mark under my power. Sex as a strategic bargaining chip. Desire, need, power, chemistry, seduction. That’s not a justification, Alice, it’s a reality. You’re going to plant a snitch. You need information. Although you’ve never done anything remotely similar, you’re changing. You’re going somewhere else. You’re learning things you need to learn, learning to know yourself outside yourself. And for that, you have to find Chris first. That is the end, Alice, and what you’re going to do is just one of the means.
Without a doubt, what I liked best about that first time was that he fell asleep after his orgasm. A moment of intimacy unrelated to seduction. Of comfort and closeness. But besides planting a snitch, I had gone to take advantage of any negligence on his part and snoop around in his suitcase, look over his agenda, get inside his laptop and try to find the dates for his trips to New York to compare them with Chris’s trips to the island. I got up, trying not to wake him. He was hugging me from behind. The same way we had reached orgasm. Without looking into each other’s faces. Maybe from shame. And that’s how we’d stayed, spooning but not too close, not completely embracing. I softly pulled away the hand he had wrapped around my waist, put on my panties, and went into the main cabin, heading straight for the desk, but when I saw Ruby and Pony still asleep, reality hit me in the face. Regret. I felt obscene and muddled walking nearly naked through the cabin. So much so that I decided to abort the mission. Or maybe you want to screw again and you’re looking for an excuse. I wanted to get out of there immediately and shower. It was twelve in the afternoon. Night would have softened it all. In the light of day, it was too cruel to digest.
Mark peeked out, in his underwear and T-shirt, looking as regretful as I was, or more. Especially because, for the first time since I’d met him, I saw him vulnerable. I saw the boy as well as the man, clever and dumb, smug and sensitive. All together. I felt that in that very instant, I could ask him anything and he would respond to me sincerely without hesitation. I felt I wanted to go back to bed with him, because I hadn’t really done it. I had done something else that seemed the same but wasn’t. Something that has to do with what you want the other person to feel, but not your own desire.
“Sorry, it’s just that between the sex and the wine . . .” he said to justify his postorgasmic nap.
Don’t worry, it’s typical male behavior. Almost like being unfaithful to your wife. So much anger. Toward him, toward Chris—for imagining him in a similar situation—or toward myself?
“No worries,” was all I said.
Ruby started to moan because she sensed I wanted to get out of there without saying another word. Thanks, my little one.