You, the Writer

The weather report for the day was stretches of clear sky alternating with sudden showers. A few boats would make the crossing farther south, Emma said. Once Rodrigo woke up, he would drive us to one of the beaches, and I could begin to feel useful. Even this early in the morning, she smelled delicious, a subtle mélange of jasmine and cinnamon. She had great taste in perfumes and used them liberally, as though she would never wish to give off an odor that was her own. Eat, she said, nodding toward my bacon and eggs. I was going to need the energy. She chugged down half a mug of American coffee. The food was mediocre. I could imagine quite a few Germans who could give this cook a few pointers.

Emma then told me that she’d forgotten to mention it the night before—she was, you know, busy with Rodrigo—but she had seen you. I didn’t know what she was talking about at first.

“You know, your writer,” she said. “The Lebanese one. You sent me one of his books for Christmas, unreadable, worst gift ever. Why would I care about an old woman who doesn’t leave her apartment? Didn’t make any sense to me. That’s not a story, that’s just stupid. Anyway, he was here. Yes, in Skala Sikamineas. The day before yesterday. He looked familiar, but it took me a while to figure out who he was. I couldn’t remember where I’d seen him. Who remembers author photos? With normal people I’d have gone up and asked whether we knew each other, but he’s not normal. It was as if he had a sign around his neck that said closed for business. He didn’t talk to anybody. He took walks from one end of the beach to the other, back and forth, always silent, constantly observing and judging. Yes, always judging. He’d move from one café to the next. He took walks when it was raining, for crying out loud. How strange is that? His eyeglasses were fabulous, though. Then all of a sudden he disappeared. He was here for a little more than twenty-four hours. I saw him eating dinner all by himself, the nervously smiling man whom no one seemed to know or want to, and then he was gone. Wait, I’m wrong. He did speak to someone, to that homely guy in the dress. I saw both of them sitting under the same tree, just like you.”