Matala (12 page)

“Darcy,” Matthew said, “I'm so glad you called.”

“And I'm so glad that you're so glad.”

“Listen. It's time to stop screwing around. You may be in trouble.”

“Well, there's a news flash.”

“I don't mean with your father. I mean danger.”

“What kind of danger?”

“Justine and Maurice. We're starting to get some information on them, what they may be involved with.”

“Which is?”

“Why did they tell you you were going to Crete?”

“To deliver a package.”

“And where is it? The package.”

“I have it hidden.”

“What's in it?”

“I don't know.”

“You haven't looked?”

“No.”

“God, Darcy.”

“It's not drugs. She told me that.”

“It could be anything.”

“Such as?”

“Or worse. It could be nothing. Have you thought of that?”

“I don't understand.”

“Darcy, look at it. Open it.”

“They'll know.”

“Fuck them!”

She waited. He was angry now. Not angry—he was frightened. She could hear that. “Matthew,” she said, “tell me what you know.”

“I don't know anything. I'm just getting bits and pieces of things that don't make sense, but they make me think you may be in great jeopardy.”

“Will is with me, you know. He wouldn't let them do anything—”

“Will is involved in it, too, somehow.”

“Will? He's clueless.”

“He may be clueless, but he's involved. With them. With her—Justine.”

“They've been traveling together. They were lovers.”

“Before that.”

“Before?”

“Long before.”

“What—He would've said something.”

“If I'm correct, he doesn't know.”

“Matthew, I'm really confused.”

“Tell me where you are?”

“I'm not ready yet.”

“Darcy—”

“I'm in the south. I'll tell you that. I'm not in Iraklion.”

“And you're with Will.”

“Yes.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yes.”

“But they know where you are?”

“This is where she said to come, to this town.”

“Where?”

“I'll call you tomorrow. How about that?”

“Are you in Matala?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Are you?”

“No, but I saw it on a spoon today.”

“Is this another clue?”

“Tomorrow,” she said and hung up.

O
N THE FIFTH MORNING IT
was still dark when I opened my eyes. The sun had begun to rise, but the sky was heavily overcast and the air felt heavy and dead. It had turned chilly, too. I rested against the cool plaster wall and watched Darcy sleeping in the other bed, one arm flung above her head. Her hair had lightened with the ocean and the sun so that it could be called blond now, a careless sort of blond. She wore nothing because we had made love again after we came in from drinking and then slept together for the first hours of the night, as we had each night, until she woke at some point and went to the other bed. The sheet was pushed down to her waist so that I could make out the hardened nipples, each nestled in the pendentious convexity of its great mother ship, and even some of the definition of the muscles in her arms. She worked out, she told me—aerobics and running and weight lifting. She had a private trainer in Cleveland. She was, it turned out, a rather violently healthy girl.

I thought about what they felt like, those biceps, deltoids, and pectorals, not only their strength and heat but the quality of the darkening skin. It was like a kind of hide. Justine's skin was pale and soft and so tender it burned even in moderate sun.

As I watched, Darcy shifted and made a sound in her throat, then pushed with her legs so that the sheet rode down further, exposing the tangled top of her pubic nest. She turned her head and made another sound, and now I could see her hips moving, just perceptibly, thrusting upward. I wondered if she was dreaming of me or if, maybe, it was the man she had danced with in the bar last night or some other man altogether.

She had a remarkable clitoris, so large and turgid that I had taken to calling it her little penis, which only made her laugh. Justine's thin blade of a one lay in such a deep valley that I had to move the folds of her mons to even glimpse it, like some exposed little treasure. She had liked for me to do that.

I had an erection now, which I regretted. It ached because we had made hard love not too many hours before. Darcy, it seemed, always wanted it that way—simply hard and often. I had tried to be subtle, tried to use some of the small maneuvers, the tiny touches I'd learned from Justine that she loved for me to do, commanded me to do, sometimes for an hour or more before she would let me move on. But they were lost on this girl even when she was sober. “Just
fuck
me,” she would say and grasp her ankles, straighten her legs, and tell me, “Harder” or “Faster” or “Deeper.” Sometimes, for variety, she said things in French—
“Plus profond!”
or
“Baisezmoi!”
—and once, I believe, something in Italian, though I couldn't really make it out.

Even when I gave up and just tried to pulverize her with my thrusting (thinking that at some point it would be too much), she only cried out for more, and the longer I lasted (it was taking longer and longer the more we did it), the harder and more wetly and more loudly she came. She had surprised me yet again with this newest manifestation of her true nature—and, frankly, shocked me a little, as did the fact that for the first time in the short history of my sex life, I felt weary of it.

I looked away, toward the wide window and the weak light over the southern sea, and thought of what I had done, how I had come to be in this place with this endlessly horny woman, and how we had lost Justine somehow, and of what I might say to her if she ever found me again.

No one had contacted us. Maurice did not seem to be here or any of his people or Justine, and so we just did what we wanted or, anyway, what Darcy wanted, which was to eat and drink and fuck and walk and fuck and maybe swim a little and then fuck.

As the light struggled to rise, I looked at her again and drew in my breath when I saw that she was looking back. She'd pushed the sheet down further so that she was entirely uncovered, and she lay with her legs parted.

“Merry Christmas,” she said. “Would you like your present?”

“It's not till tomorrow.”

“Oh. Then you still have time to shop.”

“As long as it's for a dead fish. Do you want a fish?”

“Mmm. What kind of fish?”

“What kind do you want?”

“One that's shaped like your cock and that tastes like it.”

“A cock fish,” I said.

“But not just any cock fish. A big old Will-shaped cock fish. Then when you're gone, it can keep me company.”

“Where will I be going?”

“I don't know, but we can't stay in this tiny room forever no matter how cheap it is. You'll have to get a job or something someday.”

“You're not going to support me?”

“It'd be bad for your self-esteem. Plus, if you never go away, you'll never miss me. You might even get tired of me.”

“Will you miss me?”

“Oh, yes. But I'll have your cock fish to help me get by.”

“But I might only be gone for a little while.”

“It doesn't matter. I can't be without it. I'm obsessed with it. The taste of it. The shape. Having it in me. I could have some right now.”

“But you just had some.”

“That was hours ago. I told you—I really am insatiable.”

“I believe you.”

“You like it, don't you?”

“What?”

“My insatiability.”

“I'm not complaining.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I've just never known a girl quite like you.”

“How many girls have you known?”

“Not all that many.”

“Well, however many you meet, none will be like me.”

“I believe that, too.”

“So do you want to?” She spread her legs further and combed the nest with her fingers.

“We could, or we could be good and then reward ourselves later.”

“Hmm,” she said. “That sounds awfully ascetic and spartan.”

I rubbed my face, stretched, sat up, lifted my jeans from the floor, and pulled them on. “Come on,” I said. “We can get in a nice walk before it gets warm.”

O
N THIS MORNING THERE WERE
fresh eggs, which there had not been for several days. Darcy ordered them cooked for four minutes, and when the white crockery cups arrived, they came not only with a plate of toast but a thickly oiled slice of feta as well, courtesy of the proprietor. Darcy spread the cheese on the bread and spooned the runny yolk and albumen onto it. She purred at the complex mingling of the flavors.

After she paid, we sat sipping the coffee and watching out the front window over the cobbled street.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Mmm.”

“You're not talking much.”

“Just full,” I said. “And tired. All that partying. And that other thing we do.”

“I don't have any idea what you mean.”

“You seemed interested in that guy at the Korus last night.”

“I didn't see you for a while. Where did you go?”

“I picked up some chick and screwed her on the beach.”

“Not really.”

“I smoked part of a doob with some people.”

“And you didn't invite me?”

“Well, you were busy with that guy.”

“Because you wouldn't dance. I'd rather have been dancing with you.”

I watched her eyes follow someone past the window.

“Did you want to do him?”

She shrugged. “Not especially. I have this guy, see.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. He's a pretty great guy.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, lots of ways. Except that he teases me about how he picks up strange girls and fucks them on the beach.”

“I bet he just says that to make you jealous.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“Because he's insecure, I suppose.”

“Insecure? But why? He's got a big old fish, that boy. And he's beautiful. He's got nothing to be insecure about.”

“Maybe those aren't the things he's insecure about.”

“Well, what then?”

“I don't know. Maybe he doesn't know.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Are we ready for our reward?”

“We just ate. Shouldn't we digest first?”

“I don't need to.”

“I'm tired.”

“Then we should go take a nap.”

“It's barely past nine.”

“We don't have to just sleep.”

“Do you really want to?”

“Of course I want to. I always want to.”

I nodded. “Are you happy?”

“I love it here,” she said. “But do you?”

“I'm just waiting.”

“Maybe that's what's wrong. Stop thinking about it. It'll find you when it's ready for you. Until then, just take it in. Just love it.”

“I have been. Really, I have.”

“Maybe if you don't look for it, it won't come.”

“It'll come. Anyway, shall we go take a nap?”

“Only if you'll fuck me.”

“I said I was tired.”

“You've been up for only three hours. You must have one good fuck in you, no?”

“Maybe when we wake up.” I looked at her.

“Are you getting bored with me?”

“I was just thinking how this makes you look. The sun and the ocean work for you. You're darker and your hair's lighter. And you've got those little lines by your eyes when you smile now.”

“God, don't tell me that.”

“I like them.”

“I'm never going outside again.”

“Well, maybe they have a cot for you in the back here. You'll probably have to start doing dishes, though.”

“Maybe, but I bet I could get a good fuck here.”

“Probably quite a few.”

When we got up, the waiter smiled and asked if we'd be in for dinner that night. “We have maybe the
koliós,
yes?”

“Mackerel,” said Darcy.

“Ah,” I said. “How?”

“We do the…slice.” The waiter drew his hand, palm up, through the air in front of him.

“Filleted.”

“
Néh,
yes, on the grill, with haricot beans and vegetables.” He said the last word as if it were three.

“Mmm, yes,” I said, stroking my chin. “Nice.” I nodded, and she laughed and said, “The Galloping Gourmet.”

“Or the gutter eater.”

She said, “Come on. Let's hurry. I'm ready for dessert.”

“You don't have dessert after breakfast.”

“You do here.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Nap time.”

“Just come on,” she said, taking my hand and dragging me out into the light.

T
HAT EVENING, AFTER IT HAD
been dark for some time and we had eaten the mackerel and sat after dinner over shots of ouzo and unshelled peanuts, we again walked back to the room. Only the bathroom light was on. Darcy undressed in silence, pulling harshly at her sweater and jeans and throwing them in a ball on the floor.

“I can't believe you're this pissed off,” I said. She'd been angry since our mid-morning nap when I did not make love to her either before or after.

Still, she did not speak but unsnapped her bra, threw it on the bed, and pulled her panties off, too. The room was chilly and her nipples puckered, and even in the dim light I could see goose bumps along her arms and legs.

“Do you think I don't want you anymore? Do you think I don't find you attractive? I'm just tired. All I said was can't we give it a rest for a day?”

She looked at me, letting me take in her nakedness, then took a shortish black dress from a hanger. It was chilly outside now. It was December, after all, and even here in the Mediterranean the winds came at night and dropped the temperature down sometimes into the forties. But where we were going wasn't more than fifty yards from the room, and it would be very warm there.

“Okay,” I said. “Fine. Let's do it. But can we try something different, maybe? A different position?”

“I told you, I can't come that way.”

“What way? We haven't tried it yet.”

“I've tried other ways. It's not like you're my first guy.”

“No kidding.”

“And they never work.”

“Well, maybe there are some ways you haven't tried. Or the guys you tried them with weren't any good.”