The fear was something he had not been expecting. Sitting in the airplane. The lights dimmed. People sleeping because it was night. Night was always a problem. Miles out over the ocean. The engines thundering through the air. He could hear them. Thrusting ahead. Into black. The pilots knew. There was just darkness. A car without headlights. You could hit anything. Something no one understood. Black and suddenly there. God. Maybe the pilots knew nothing. He’d heard about some pilots being drunk. Equipment failure. The flight to Toronto had been in daylight. The plane not so big. You could almost believe it could fly. The size of it. In daylight. But there were too many people on this plane. The weight of them. He started adding up their weights. It was dark outside the window. Black. That was it. Black. Above. Below.
Ruth was sleeping. A blue blanket over her. Up to her chin. Only two seats in the row on this side. A wide row in the middle. Then another row of two seats. He was coated in sweat. He shut his eyes. Tried breathing. What he had read about it. The prison doctor had given him the brochure. Deep breathing. When he first felt this way. That fear. The first days inside. At night. Lights out. Trapped with himself. With his head. Eyes looking out into the darkness. Too much of himself. That’s how it started. Too much of himself and the airless walls. His mind trying to float out of his skull. The heartbeat. The tightness and choking. Heartbeat. He would kill himself. To make it stop. It would be easier. His stomach so murderously tight. Not like pain at all. Much worse. The breathing wasn’t working. He wanted to stand up. It was more than want. He unbuckled his seatbelt. Stood. Almost banged his head on the overhead bin. He stood there. Looking at the people. Some of them sleeping. Some of them talking to children. Everyone trying to be quiet. A movie about something on little screens. A car chase. On land. On earth. Where tires could roll. Where feet could stand. Where you could fall down. A reasonable distance. He was losing his mind. He was sick to his stomach. He was fading. He would throw himself out of the airplane. Into black space. The black would fix him. He would drift. Smack into it. The waiting black. He feared it. Because it was magnetic. It wanted him.
He walked toward the back. Away from whatever. Just walk. The bathrooms. No one waiting. He stood there. Looked past the bathroom door. Shelves in the false walls. A telephone. Forty thousand feet. Need to make a call. Hello? Yes, we might need a little help up here. Yes, forty thousand feet. No, actually, thirty thousand feet. Hold on a sec, it’s fifteen thousand feet … He imagined rulers. Inches and feet. How far up. School. A chalkboard. The walls seemed thin. There was a door there. For emergencies. A handle on it. Red letters. Bull in a china shop. He put his hand against the airplane. Trembling itself. Whatever it was made of. He shut his eyes. People believed. An airplane could fly. A bumblebee could not fly. Too much information. It was impossible. His feet on the thin carpet. Steel beneath that. Hollow. Luggage in the big space down there. The shudder. If he jumped it would fall out of space. The airplane. If everyone jumped at once. It would fall into black.
“Sir?”
A buzzing in his ears. A knot in his stomach. His heart hammering everywhere. He tried swallowing. Stuck. He tried again. Stuck in his throat.
“Are you all right?”
He opened his eyes. A woman in a uniform. He tried swallowing. It wouldn’t work.
“Are you having a crisis?” She was slim. Looking at him. Her face pretty. Her eyes all over his face. She could see the sweat. The colour of him. What’s the matter? What will I have to do?
He touched his chest. The scar through fabric. He tried to swallow. A thick stutter in his throat. A logjam.
The woman spun to pick up the phone. Her words were spoken the way she knew: “I need a doctor.”
He turned and looked back over the airplane. Trying to swallow. Like a fit. What were they all doing? The people. It was a nightmare. All of them so high in blackness. Who invented this? What madman? It was insane. These people in a tube of steel. In the black night. Over black water. He shut his eyes. Horses. He was trembling. A horse and carriage. That’s how. He couldn’t stop his knees. His teeth.
“Sir?” A man’s voice.
He turned to see an older man. A man in a white shirt and black pants. The shirt had special symbols on the shoulders. Golden thread on navy blue. Arrows. A pilot maybe. The man took his wrist. Pressed into it.
He barely knew it was going on.
“Are you having chest pains?”
Why was he asking? This man. What did he want? That’s just my hand.
He shook his head.
“I’m okay,” he said. Then he could swallow.
“Can you breathe? Take a deep breath. Are you having an allergic reaction?”
“Are you having pain?”
Heads were turned near him. They watched as though it barely meant anything. Casual but with other thoughts in their heads. Calmness a limited commodity. It might be worse. Get worse. He could set them all off. Double their fears. Ruin their steadiness in a flash. Everyone might pop at once.
He walked away. Past the older man. Down the aisle. Back to his seat. The horror was being left behind. If only he could keep walking. Around and around. Like in the yard inside. The horror in him was shrinking. He sat next to Ruth. Wanting some of her blanket. He took an edge of it. Put it over him.
The man was there. By his side.
“Are you okay now?”
“Yes.”
“Is it anxiety?”
“I don’t know.” But that’s what it was. The prison doctor had told him about it. Given over a pamphlet. He had read about it. Everything he felt listed there. He had left the pamphlet in the doctor’s office. Not something he wanted in his cell. Not something others should see. He thought he was through with all that. But it came back. Sometimes at night. “Yes,” he admitted.
“Do you want something for it?”
He wouldn’t look at the man. “No, I’m fine.” Stared straight ahead. The back of the seat in front of him. The tray that came down. He shut his eyes. He might punch out a window. Punch a hole in the wall. Help his lungs to more air.
The man said nothing for a while. Then: “If you need anything, just notify one of the flight attendants. This button here.”
He pretended he was asleep. The trembling was dying down. The God-awful bone-chill. He was almost warm again. Ruth’s body next to him. He wanted to curl into her.
The man was still there. He hadn’t moved.
He had his eyes closed but he knew the man was still there. Watching. Waiting. The presence of a body. Next to him. He never moved a muscle. Expected a flashlight aimed at him. Bright light on his face to be certain. The shiver came only in spurts. He settled down. And the man was satisfied. The man went away.
The air was different. It hit him when he stepped off. Into the sun. The heat was blazing. Dead hot. Dry. Toward the building there were guards. They had machine guns. Dogs. This was a vacation. Scare the hell out of you. First thing.
Ruth looked up at the sky. Everything brilliant. They walked in a line to the building. Stepped inside. He thought they should stamp his passport. He had it in his shirt pocket. Always there. He knew where it was. Proud of it. But they didn’t. They just looked at it. His picture. Him. He wanted that mark. That stamp. To show where he’d been. How far away he could go.
People were speaking another language. How great was that. Who would ever understand him here? It was good. It made him feel better. In hiding. No one knew a thing about him. All strangers. No one stopping him on the street.
The bags took a while to get to them. Finally they came. Not lost at all. Almost the last ones.
The taxi driver was small and demented. That’s what Ruth called him after. Demented. He grabbed their bags. Wouldn’t let them touch a single suitcase. Kept pointing to the taxi. Tipping his head. He wanted them in the car. The driver lifted the big suitcases all by himself. A wiry man. Lots of energy. Bad news. He tossed the suitcases into the trunk. Not a problem. Wiped his palms together with that wild smile. Slammed the trunk. He smiled again. Wilder. He laughed all the time. Did about three hundred. Kept checking the rearview. Like it was a circus ride. Faster? His eyebrows raised. Fun? The speed alone was enough to put him back in the place. Unsteady. Pure nerves.
Ruth held his hand. Tighter and then looser. Like breathing. The way it was held. Around corners.
He didn’t want to say anything. Pinned one way. Pinned the other. Then he had to: “Slow down.”
“Qué?”
“Slow down.”
The taxi driver laughed. Eyes in the rearview. Eyebrows raised. Welcome to my country. Almost missed a bend in the road. The ocean down there. Way far down deep. Fuck.
Ruth squeezed his hand tighter. “Isn’t this lovely,” she said. Her teeth clamped tight.
They did not crash. They did not die. This was enough to celebrate. Forget the idea of a vacation. They were alive. Out of the taxi. They almost cheered. Grabbed at each other. They were touching that way. Nervous happy. Survivors. He wouldn’t let the driver near their bags. He took them. Like no weight could ever be too heavy. Everything light as a feather after that.
Ruth paid the driver whatever. Anything. “Maybe they do that on purpose.” On their way to the hotel entrance. Putting her wallet in her purse.
“What?” he asked.
“Almost kill you, so you feel happy just to be here. Alive. Maybe it’s in their tourist handbook.”
He smiled at her. He could see the ocean off to his left. People strolling on a wide walkway beside it. He carried the bags in through the sliding door. The hotel was the sort of place he liked. Reasonable furniture. The rugs well used. People had come and gone. Plenty of people. From all over the world.
The young man at the desk was busy. In a dark green uniform. He wasn’t friendly. Not even trying. Efficient. This was enough. Couldn’t care less about them. He was busy. But he wasn’t rude. He spoke quickly. Made motions with his hands for them to come nearer. “Sí,” he said. When he was done with them he clapped his hands together. Almost smiled. Nodded. “Enjoy.” That was it. He wasn’t giving any more. His eyes on the next person.
The hotel was made of brown brick. A big complex. The hotel door was opened with a real key. He liked that. A key on a piece of orange plastic. One you fit in a lock. No flashing lights like in Toronto. No electronic click. The room had two small beds. A balcony. A telephone that looked thirty years old. No buttons on it. No dialer. No television. He went out on the balcony. There was a pink tennis court down below. The ocean to his left. Small boats. Big grassy umbrellas. The colour of old straw. Long wooden chairs. Where people might take in the sun. But it was too late in the day to be stretched out there. More buildings along the beach. Then white houses. Small white houses that all looked the same. Red tiles on their roofs. Close together. He wanted to get lost in that. Narrow streets you could barely see.
Ruth came up behind him. The sun was going down. Everything was a little orange. Warm. Pleasant. Quiet. He liked it. How it brought out nothing in his head.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
“You know me.” Still facing the window.
“Yeah.” She was talking differently. Softer. She walked slower. Moved slower. Maybe it was this place. The way he saw her when he turned. The light. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe a country could change her. Just like that. Being in a place that wasn’t her place.
“Anything’s okay with me.” He couldn’t keep his eyes off the view.
“Well, this is fine then.” She touched his shoulder. She gently kissed him on the cheek. Close to his ear.
He knew it was more than that. What she meant. He understood. Because he felt that kiss open a clearing.
It was warm enough at ten o’clock at night. He could walk around in a shirt. The air was easy to breathe. Fresh. Not hot anymore. Not a speck of humidity. They walked down streets that had white houses on both sides. All connected. Like row houses, only prettier. Fancy wooden doors. All colours. Signs out over some. A restaurant. A bar. The wooden shutters opened behind steel bars. Why the bars? Because of the crime? Not in this pretty place. He could see in. People sitting on stools. Drinking. Having a good time. Voices and laughter carrying. No one caring who heard.
It was hard to believe where he was. Every now and then he felt the fullness of it. Rising up in him. The different sights in this town he did not know. How easy it was to get here. Only so many hours. His feet on the ground again. The place he had left behind him. No one could touch him here.
Around the corner the street got wider. There were tables and chairs outside. Canopies stretching from restaurant fronts. People eating. Children eating with their families. Every time he saw a child. The smallness. He felt something was wrong with him.
“Where do you want to eat?” Ruth was walking by his side. Interested in everything. Her eyes taking in the details.
He shrugged.
“Stupid question.”
“I don’t know here.”
“Me neither. Let’s just pick a place.”
He liked that she had never been here before. “Someplace with food.”
“They probably all have food.” She looked at his face. “You’re hungry.”
“Easy to tell.”
“Am I horrible?”
“No more than usual.” She took his arm. “You just have an edge tonight.”
They picked a place with white-and-blue tablecloths and sat outside. There was a couple across from them. The man with white hair and a bright pink face. Puffy cheeks. White shorts. An orange shirt with short sleeves. He kept glancing over. Eating. Chewing. Waiting for something to happen.
He heard the man was speaking English. With an accent. The man did all the talking. Wouldn’t keep quiet about everything he saw. Everything he thought. The woman listened. She was quiet. Nice-looking. Her eyes on her bowl. Hidden. Slowly drinking her soup. Manners to burn.
Ruth ordered and the waiter took the menu. He did it fast. Glanced around at the other tables. Making sure.
“Thank you,” she said.
The waiter moved away.
The man with the pink face leaned toward them in his chair.
“You’re American.”
Ruth said: “No, Canadian.”
He ignored the man and woman. Didn’t know what they wanted.
Ruth put her foot against his leg. Under the table. It meant for him to pay attention. Maybe. Or meant for him to get her out of it. Which was it? He looked at her face. Nothing obvious there. Then he watched the man. The man was eating. And talking. Chewing and watching. In a hurry to figure them out. To get said what needed to be said. While he chewed.
“You’ve just arrived,” said the man. “I could tell by the absence of pigment.” He pointed at them with his fork. At Ruth. Then at him. “The tan. You haven’t any to speak of.”
He nodded. Smiled a little. The man was interesting. A bit of a fool. The wife was still drinking soup. Hunched a little forward. Not a sound. Spoon up. Spoon down. Smooth. Like they might take the bowl away. Like someone might realize.
“Where have you come from?”
He thought of saying something. But stopped himself. It probably wouldn’t be funny.
Ruth told the man.
“Ah, yes Canada. Right.” The man said the name in a strange way. Can-Na-Da. “We’re from England.” He said it like they wouldn’t understand. Would never understand. Could never grasp what it meant. Like he was going to spell it out for them. “Lancashire. I’m in textiles.” The man’s eyes went from Ruth to him. Back to Ruth. The man was expecting. To hear what they did. Or what they thought of what he did.
He thought of saying, I’m in murder. Fresh out of confinement. Looking for new prospects. He watched the tablecloth. Straightened a spoon. A basket of bread was set down. Two glasses of red wine.
The man went back to his eating. Used his fork and knife in an interesting way. The fork backwards. Clearing food from his teeth with his tongue. Pushing food around on his plate. Then in his cheeks. Eyes watching them. Every now and then. Putting it all together. As best he could.
“Hmmm,” said the man. But more to himself. While he chewed.
The man’s wife. Not a word. Not yet.
He ate the bread. He drank the wine. They were good together. Bread and wine.
“We must have drinks later.” The man’s voice. Through the food. “Where are you staying?” He coughed quickly to clear his throat. Might have been the start of choking. Unfortunately. It didn’t last long. The man wiped at his mouth. Something pushed into the napkin with his tongue. Folded over. Hidden away. Laid down.
“Las Palmeras.”
He was surprised at how she said it. That she told the man. But also how she sounded. Like the words were natural to her. Had existed inside her forever. Maybe she spoke Spanish. He never asked.
“Right.” The man raised his wineglass. His wife watched them through the corners of her eyes. Good looks made more attractive by her dark stare. She ate her soup. Up and down. Up and down. Not a sound. Her eyes on him more than Ruth. Something there that she was keeping. To herself.
The man from England was named Lawrence. Larry. Larry. No, call me Larry for God’s sake. Christ! He blew air up at his nose. Lawrence. He tutted and shook his head. He was loaded. He was a writer, he said. The textile business was his father’s. Not his true calling. Was fashioned for other things. Although he took the money from it. He laughed at that. My labour of love. Writing. Wrote travel books. About places no one wanted to go. But this place. This place was a holiday for him. He made a man out of his two fingers when he told them that. He walked the little man around on the bar. Back and forth then in circles.
“Travel,” said Larry. “Little little.”
His wife had become full of herself. Grand. Pushed back her hair. Or fluffed it. Bracelets on her arms. Jangling. The only thing making a sound on her. She drank brandy and sat at the end of the bar. Her head back a little. Her long sleek black hair. She watched them and sipped her drink. She watched everything. Took it all in. Deciding on when it would be right for her. Every now and then something caught her eye and she stared. To get every last thing out of it. Then she faced him again. Her head back a bit. In dark colours. A long skirt. A dark blouse with dark beads at her throat. The soup was all she had eaten.
Ruth was having a good time. Talking to Larry. Telling stories of travels. They were all a little drunk. The woman behind the bar was young and blonde. Real blonde hair. All different shades. Made that way from sunlight. The hair he always thought of. When thinking of love. She was from Australia she said. She sounded it. He liked her face. The friendliness that she had in her. The big smile. Hands in her front jean pockets. When she wasn’t busy. Swiveling her hips. Liked her more and more. It was a surprise. So many people from England. From Ireland. From Australia. In Spain. Pubs everywhere.
“The booze is so bloody cheap here,” Larry said. Like it was an insane secret. He looked around to see if anyone had heard. He leaned closer. Lowered his voice. “It’s fucking brilliant.”
He sipped his beer. It wasn’t bad. San Miguel. He thought of peeling off the label to take home with him. To show Randy. He’d bring Randy home a case of it. San Miguel. If he was allowed to. Randy would like that. And something Spanish. A little flamenco dancer. A statue doll with a lacy dress. Show Randy the pictures that Ruth would take. And Caroline. Jackie too. Gifts for them. Plastic bulls and castanets for Caroline’s new room. Maybe a little purse. Plenty of purses around. Leather shops. Jackie would love a vacation. That was what he would do for her next. He had picked Jackie and Caroline up in a taxi. Tricked them. Told them he wanted to buy Caroline an outfit at the mall. A few gifts for being so good. It was an effort. Just to get Jackie to agree. But the taxi went in the other direction. Away from the mall. Toward the east end. Where’s this? Jackie had asked. When the taxi stopped. She almost wouldn’t get out. Like it was a trap. Caroline got out. He bent to her. He whispered in her ear: It’s yours. She looked at the house because he was looking there. At the front door. She screamed. Jumped up and down. The house. Yes. The house. Caroline raced up the stairs. Two steps at a time. Two flights of concrete outside. Grabbing at the railing. They went inside. Caroline first. He gave her the shiny key to open the door. The new pink one he had cut just for her. She couldn’t believe it. The goodness beaming out of her. Jackie still on the steps. One slow step at a time. Watching the opened door. The taxi driving off. Caroline inside the new house. He thought he might burst with joy. Caroline running up the hallway. Stopping in a doorway. Her face. Her bedroom. Not knowing it. Her jaw hung open. Looking at him. Look at all this stuff. Look. She went in. It’s yours. Mine? Yes. Yours. All of it. She grabbed hold of him. Held on. Kept holding on. Hugging. Squeezing. She started crying. Not like she was happy. But she was sick. Sobbing a bit. So that Jackie came. What’s the matter? All of this is mine. She was happy then. After all. He couldn’t tell. Then he could. She went around touching the stuffed toys. Not holding them yet. Not knowing if it was okay. Someone else’s. The stacks of games in their boxes. The plastic still on. The toys in their boxes. The posters on the walls. Horses. Puppies. Kittens. Jackie looking at him like she didn’t know. Who he was. Leaving the room. Quickly. She was mad with him. The sound she made. Leaving. She wasn’t in the kitchen. Like he expected. Looked in there. Another mistake. Electric appliances on the counter. Still in their boxes. Food processor. Hand mixer. Electric kettle. Toaster. Four slices. Big slots. Daddy, she said. The way she said it was enough to cripple him. Like she was hurt. Someone had hurt her. Mistake after mistake. He went to where she was. In the living room. Staring at the art. Paintings he bought at different galleries. Downtown. Paintings he had picked out for her. Ones he thought she would like. Ones he felt she would like. Jackie looking at them. Turning to face him. Wiping a tear from her cheek with her palm. Oh, Daddy. She wasn’t mad at him at all. Jackie. His little girl.
They had moved in. Jackie and Caroline. They had agreed. To live in the house he had bought for them.
“Who do you think you are?”
He came out of it. That sweet feeling from remembering. He looked over at Larry’s wife. She was watching him. He wondered if she’d said that. It was like she’d said nothing. Maybe it was just in his head. His own voice.
“Yes, you,” said Larry’s wife. Her voice deep. Almost a growl.
Larry looked over at her right away. He said something low. Under his breath. Like a curse. Ruth looked over too. A few other people at tables by the door. It was a small place. A flash had gone off. Moments ago. Ruth taking a picture. He realized now. While he was remembering.
He took a sip of his beer. Laid down the empty bottle. Picked up the other one. The one Larry had bought. He kept buying. He wouldn’t let anyone else buy. Larry with all his textile money. Traveling with it. Stuffed in his wallet. He took it out. Left it open while he asked the price. So people would know.
Larry’s wife sipped her drink. Holding the glass with both hands. Brown eyes. Thick black eyeliner. She never said anything else. She just stared at him. Everyone left her alone. She was marked now though. Had to be watched.
The place lost its mood after that. They all thought of leaving. Felt it was necessary. Larry was up ahead. The tour guy. The travel writer. He knew everything. Nooks and crannies. Pointing. Sloppily. A street name. A house where so-and-so once lived. A Spanish cat. There. Look. Weird head. Long ears. He wanted to share it. This was his purpose in life. To be British and to share what he knew.
The beer made him see.
“Come on,” said Larry. He had sandals on. They slapped at the street. They almost made him trip. But not all the way. He waved his arm while he faced ahead. His arm in the air. A big sweep. “This way, troops. Blood and battle.”
Ruth took his arm. He looked behind. Larry’s wife was there. Dark. Drifting. Like a shadow. She watched him with her head tipped forward. Arms folded across her chest. She might have been facing the ground but her eyes were tilted up. It looked like she hated what she saw. Him.
He looked at Ruth. She smiled. Shook her head a little. Gave his arm a squeeze. He heard a hissing sound behind him. It was coming from Larry’s wife. What the fuck was up with her?
They should get away.
“This is the late-night bar.” Larry kept walking. There didn’t seem to be a bar in sight. “This is it.” They walked more and more. Larry waving. Around a corner. Arm sweeping the air. Sandals slapping the pavement. Grunts coming out of him. The wife hissing behind. There were a few Spaniards. Older men stood near doorways. Black button-up sweaters. Black pants. Distinguished. Unhappy with what was passing in front of them. The display. A woman in a window. A black shawl over her head. Black dress. She had nothing in her face. When she watched them go by. Grey hair. Wrinkled lips muttering. A proper curse. A prayer.
He didn’t like the feel of it.
“The late-night bar. It’s here. Here. Look. I kid you not.”
A young Spaniard kept his eyes on Larry. The man was sitting on a scooter. He watched Larry go by and kept watching. A headful of thoughts about belonging.
Larry took another corner.
“This is it.” His voice coming from out of sight. Far away almost.
They went around the corner. Larry stood there. Clapping his pink hands together. Lifting them up like he couldn’t believe the miracle of it. Shaking his joined hands above his head. The winner. “Oh, I told you it was here. Didn’t I say such?”
Music was playing through a doorway. Larry turned that way and stumbled into the bar. Calling out: “Hola. Hola.” Everyone his best friend. In the entire world. No matter what they thought.
He never danced. He didn’t like to dance. But he danced that night. Danced with his new heart. The idea of how he might look. It came into his mind. He shut it down. What didn’t matter now. He knew no one here. Except Ruth. When he woke. He remembered. Ruth was still sleeping. What was there to regret? That taste in his mouth. Scared again of himself. Nerves prickling under his skin. He went out on the balcony. There was only a little light. Two voices down in the tennis court. Waiting for the sun. Memories coming one at a time. Then together. Stopping. A few more. The music had been guitars. It wasn’t a tape like he thought. When he was outside. About to go in. Men playing guitars. Singing words he did not understand. There was something to that. Their voices together. Almost stabbing at the guitars. Fast. Banging their guitars with their flat hands. Stomping their feet. Shoe leather snapping against wood. Working toward fury. Something he liked. It made him content. The stomping of those feet. To drink more. Larry shouting in his ear: They play guitars until their fingers bleed. This was a tip. Larry winked. With one side of his mouth open. Women dancing. Hands over their heads. Men dancing with men. Arm in arm in circles. Two men dressed up like women. No one cared. Men with women. Women with women. It didn’t matter. Everyone was dancing. Celebrating. They got him on his feet and made him dance. Larry first. Come on. Then Ruth. Smiling. She was smiling to see him this way. He didn’t mind. The music was good for it. Larry’s wife with her eyes. No food in her. Just brandy. Another. And another. When he went to the washroom that time. She was in there. Waiting. It was like he’d followed her. But he hadn’t seen her. He thought about it. Had he seen her? She pushed him into a stall. Hissing. Snarling to show her teeth. She had her hand down his pants. Before he knew it. Against him. Pushing. He shoved her back. Not certain.
The music came louder. Someone opening the bathroom door. There were voices outside the stall. Foreign and fast. Leaning toward laughter. Two men. Talking while they pissed.
She just stayed there. Quiet. Waiting. Until they were gone. Music turning louder. Conversation rising. Then all of it blocked again.
“I know who you are,” she said. He wondered what she meant. She was from England. How would she know him? Looking in her eyes. He knew she was talking about something else. “Worthless.” She pulled up her blouse. Showed him. Squeezed herself. Like meat. Like a toy. The music outside. Wilder. Took his hand. Slapped it against her skin. Made his hand squeeze. “With your pretty woman.” Laughed with her mouth open. Ugly. She came at him. With the same savagery. A switch flicked. Grabbing. Smacked him back against the stall. The noise for anyone to hear. The noise she was making. Her mouth wet and big on him. Hungry sounds. Her fingernails digging in. Down his pants. He shoved her back. She smacked the stall. Hit her head. She stared at him. Scared. She was scared. Scared of him. Scared of the world. Scared of herself. Then it went away. Something came over her. How she could change it. Shape it. He knew her too. He didn’t know her. But he knew her. This was about where she came from. Not who she was. What she was. Where she came from. Not the place. Trying to be grand. Brutal under her clothes. Naked and brutal. The perfect way she pretended. Pretending through her life. Like him. And she lifted her skirt. No underwear. For when she did this. How often? With how many? Just waiting. Ready. She took his hand and forced it between her legs. Knees wide apart. Rubbed his palm back and forth. Too hard to be good.
Music and conversation. All louder again. The door opening. Shutting. No sound outside the stall. Maybe just one man.
This time, she didn’t care.
“Yeah,” she said. Spitting. “Like that.” She kissed him. Yanked him near. Both hands on his cheeks. Her body begging. His fingers were in her. One. Then three. Easily. “Yeah.” Showing her teeth. “Shove it.” The sneer. Like in a mirror. “In me.” Her whole body struggling. But not with him. “You like that.” Her eyes on him. “Pig.” Her body moving faster. Rocking against him. Her eyes never shutting. Angry. Afraid. He was inside her. The thrust of his shoulder. Deeper inside. Making her worse. Making her stronger. She took his arm. “No, no. Uh-uh. Bad boy.” Pulled it away. Out. She turned and left. The door to the stall open. He was breathing hard. No one there. He wiped his mouth. The stink off her. He waited. Wondering why. He washed his hands. Excited. For the first time in years. When he came back out. Ruth there looking right at him. The bathroom door. The dancing. Larry’s wife gone. But Larry still there. Wobbling. A drink in each hand. Afloat. He didn’t even know. He had no idea. But Ruth was watching him. Ruth knew.
“See what dancing leads to,” he said.
It hurt when Ruth smiled. He could see that. Hurt her. And him. The harm done. What Larry’s wife might have said to her. Just to ruin things. To put him in his place. It would take a while to get over it.
“How’s your head?” he asked. He felt he had to talk. To see if she was hungover. Or angry with him. To see how much she knew. Whose fault. To see how she felt about him. If it had changed. If last night mattered.
“Shhh.” She held up a hand and went into the bathroom. Shut the door. Locked it.
The car passed through a hilly desert. There had been orange trees. He could see the trees. They looked unwell. Like they were nothing but dying twisted branches. No leaves. But then the dots of orange. Or the dots of yellow. Lemon trees. Everything crystal clear at a distance. Unreal. Even the sunlight different here. Then desert. A town far off to the left. Like the Wild West. A wooden cowboy town. There by itself. Two sides of a street. That was all. Sitting in the middle of nowhere. Not a soul around. Not a single gunfight. No one mad enough to greet them with a warning.
“They must shoot movies there,” Ruth said. Her voice flat. Matter-of-fact. She was driving. Her only part in it. He didn’t want to drive. He couldn’t handle it. Not knowing where to go.
The town was gone. He imagined the rooms in those houses. Real rooms or just boxes of nothing.
They started climbing higher. The road moving out of desert. Through a small town. Signs of poverty. It looked like Mexico. Pictures he had seen. Or movies. A woman in a poncho. A straw hat. A few children who looked apart from everything. Struck dumb. Because of their car. Watching them pass through. A brown dog. Struck dumb too. Then land. Trees. Towns off in the distance. A clump of houses. Newer towns. Like they were made in a factory. All the same. Assembled. Not like the old white villages. Shaped every which way.
“Franco built those towns,” Ruth said.
He looked at her face. Who was Franco? What was he to her?
“So people had somewhere to live. But there’s nothing to do.” She looked at him for a second. That was all. Like she was starting to forgive him. She had said nothing about blame. No fight. She kept it all to herself. Bottled up. “I read about them. People just live there. They don’t work. There’s no work. They’re like ghost towns.”
He watched the town. People lived there. But there was no movement. The streets empty. The town gone. More desert. Then another town. Just like the last one. The road going up. Climbing. Winding in a way you could barely feel. Not many cars on the road. Then a small old town with houses on both sides of the road. Not white. But brown and different. Low buildings. Most of them old. It had a feel to it. A proper town. Rooted. He knew he would like it there. They parked. It was almost night. Stillness closing in. They needed to stop. Find a place to sleep. Getting out of the car. He knew they were up high. Maybe on a mountain. They had climbed for a while. He couldn’t see down to know he was up high. It was all too gradual.
They rented a room. The old man at the counter didn’t speak a word of English. Ruth spoke Spanish to him. The old man treated her like she was his long-lost daughter. Like he adored her. Like she was a princess. His old eyes watching her. Sacred. Wishing.
The room was small. They put their bags in there and left right away. Ruth wanted to explore. They went out walking around. Peaceful. Most of the people they passed lived there. Not like near the beach. Where everyone was from somewhere else. Wanting the way things were back home. He liked this better. Spain. The actual country. Then there was a castle wall. Right in the middle of the town. Like he had seen in the poster. In the travel-office window downtown. A castle or a fortress. That’s what Ruth said: A fortress. An old brown wall. To protect the village. To keep everyone in. To keep the intruders out. Pale brown. Like sand. A bit of red in it. Just one wall. Trees next to it. Benches to sit on. Night shadows from leaves on the stones. They sat for a while. Watched the old men and women come by. The children run through. All dark-skinned. Dark suits. Blue sweaters. Dark dresses. Shawls. Other younger women and men. In fashionable clothes. Done up perfect. Dresses with jewellery. Modest though. White shirts without a wrinkle. Creased black pants. A sweater maybe. V-neck pullover. Navy blue. Or red. They smoked cigarettes everywhere. One hand in the pocket. The other holding a cigar-ette. Smoking. Looking from one place to another. Younger couples sitting. In each other’s arms. Kissing like that was the only thing that ever mattered. Sitting on a bench and kissing for minutes at a time. Arms around each other. Lovers. Nothing else existed.
The rabbit they ate was killed and skinned out back that day. The vegetables were from the owner’s garden. The clay washed off. The peel still on. It was like a stew. It was just what he needed. Like eating in someone’s home. Welcome. Have what I have. What I own. Take it. I insist. The owner wanted to please. That was his life. Big rough hands from working. He laid the plates down himself. It wasn’t easy. What he did. Soil and animals. It made him happy to know. They were enjoying what he had given them. He stood by the table. Arms behind his back. Bent slightly forward. And watched. Not too long. Nodding. Smiling. Then he left them to each other.
“You like this?” Ruth asked.
“Yeah.”
She waited. Ate a bite. Chewed quietly. “Not just the food.”
“I know.” He felt that it was time. Time that it was said. Before he felt it come on. The tension. Lockdown. But he wouldn’t look at her. His eyes on his food. “I’m sorry.”
Another stretch of silence. “There’re vipers everywhere. It’s not your fault.” She said his name.
Her voice made him look. There was candlelight on her skin. In her eyes. A small fire lit in the corner. A comfortable heat. Light touching her hair in places. She was like a painting. Still. She sat still and watched him for a while. While he kept his eyes on her face.
“What?” she finally said.
“You know.” He was feeling something more for her. It was joyous. Joyous. That was the word.
They went for another walk after dessert. Something called flan. Pudding in caramel sauce. It was like the perfect dessert. He wanted to take as much of it as possible. Home with him. Where could he get some? Ruth said she could make it. Anytime he wanted. It wasn’t that difficult.
A slow walk. No hurry. Because they had eaten now. They were full. They barely spoke. They went into a café where two old men were sipping coffee. Little white cups on saucers. At a small table with each other. One of them was talking. Explaining something. Carefully. The old man’s hand patiently out. Speaking patient words. The old man’s voice rough. The bartender was friendly. Both hands on the bar. Ready to help. A huge leg of meat hung to one side. Behind the bar. Tied up by a hoof. It caught his eye. The flies he noticed next. Swirling out into the air. Landing back on the meat. One of the old men pointed at the leg. The bartender nodded. He opened two bottles of lemon drink for them. He used a bottle opener. Old-fashioned. The bottle caps falling into a slot. On top of others.
“Caz limón,” Ruth had said. “Dos.” Two fingers held up.
The bartender didn’t ask for money right away. He smiled and turned to slice a piece of meat from the leg. A big sharp knife. Easily cutting. Another slice. He didn’t mind the flies. He laid the slices neatly on a big white plate. A real one. Not styrofoam.
Ruth drank from the glass bottle. They stood at the bar and then Ruth looked over her shoulder. Moved to a small table she saw. Little blue tiles on the top of it. People came and went away again. They were visiting. They came by every night. It seemed that way. They were all from here. They spoke loudly. Argued it seemed. But nothing came of it. Loud talk that was almost playful. More bottles opened. Glasses of wine poured. Coffees in little white cups. More meat cut from the bone. No one seemed to mind the flies at all. He wondered how long the meat had been hanging there. It scared no one in the room. Except him.
Back at the hostel. Upstairs. Ruth sat on the edge of the bed. She seemed shy. All of a sudden. Gone shy. What was in her mind? He came out of the bathroom. Listening to the strange toilet flush. She was sitting there. Hands on her knees. She kicked off her sandals. One at a time. The new ones she had bought from outside a shop. Newspapers for sale there too. From all over the world. The ocean across the street. Back at that town where so much was meant to be bought. The sea. He was used to the ocean. The Atlantic. This was a sea. The Mediterranean. It was hard to wear anything else in this heat. Never was much for shorts. But it was necessary here.
He stood still. Waiting for her to speak. He thought something might be the matter. He was always expecting it. Things to be over. People realizing. How wrong things were. How actually wrong. What was inside him. Really. Ruined. The danger of him. Doreen Stagg. Shut it down. No one ever knew. How much he was trying. People kept changing. What was needed to keep things straight? To fit together forever. Things to be over. Finally.
He went to the window. Opened the wooden shutters. He could see right down into the street. Small cars parked there. Yellow. White. Red. People still walking around. Quietly. The night a part of everything down there. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to escape. It was just life. Darkness. Why was that different here?
“How long are we staying?” She’d turned her head to look at him. Her voice came clearer when she said his name. Still on the bed.
He shifted to face her. “You want to go home?” Always a reaction.
“No.”
He leaned back against the wall.
“Why don’t you ever touch me?” She said it right away. Then she said his name. Two different things. What she meant and then his name again. Like it mattered. Those letters. That word. His first name. He hated it. His father’s name too. Given to him by his father. To make certain.
Mister Myrden.
He cleared his throat. Looked toward the window. This place they had flown to. An experience that had nothing to do with life. Like he knew it. Life. Then he looked back at her.
“It’s okay. But, you know.” She smiled. Hinting at something. Almost embarrassed. Her sweet voice. “I’d like you to.” She was like a young woman. A teenager. It ripped at his heart. I’d like you to.
He didn’t know what to say. Nothing was any good for him. Nothing excited him. How did he explain it? Then he thought of Larry’s wife. Lawrence’s wife. He didn’t remember her name. Larry said it once at dinner. Introductions not important. She had done something for him. What was it? It was ugly. It was awful. What she thought of him. What she knew. Not what could be saved. What could be taken. What he deserved. Punishment. Greed. There was no difference between them. Punishment and greed. Plugged black in the mouth. He could have bitten right through her. That would have fixed him. Ruth wasn’t like that. How could she know?
He looked at her. He loved her. He couldn’t love her enough.
“Is there something the matter?”
He sighed. Folded his arms.
“With me,” she added.
“Ruth?”
“Yes?”
He didn’t answer. He wondered who she was named after. What she was like as a girl. Who were her friends then? Where was her house? She watched him. She stood and went into the bathroom. This he took to mean crying. He listened. His body expecting that sound. Locked in the bathroom. A safe place. Crying. After the hurt. You’re not hurt. You’d know it if you were hurt. But she came out in a while. Dry-eyed. In just her underthings. Baby-blue panties. Baby-blue bra. Her hair pinned up at the back. She walked over to him. Kissed him. Just the kiss. Her lips. Slow on his. Gently pressed there with meaning.
He looked at her eyes.
“I love you,” she said. The kiss had done that.
He couldn’t help staring at her eyes. How they drew the words out of him. “I love you,” he said. But it wasn’t any good. Was it? What it did to him. Nearly wrecked him. But it was good. He had to tell himself. It was honest. Convince himself. “I love you, Ruth.”
Her wet eyes. Her lips seeming fuller. Warmer when she kissed him again. Just the kiss. The way she meant it. Her hands on his face. Her tears against his cheeks. He could feel the flow of them. Hers and his.
That kiss. It was enough. It was almost enough. The harmless rising in his chest.
“I’m ovulating,” she said. In a voice as small as what she was thinking.