Sunburn (26 page)

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Authors: John Lescroart

Tags: #Suspense, #Thriller

BOOK: Sunburn
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“We’re here.”
She got out slowly and followed him through the entranceway, which was cluttered with old newspapers and smelled like dog. The concierge looked up as they passed through what passed for a lobby, and Lea thought she saw a leering smile on his face for an instant. She wanted to go over and tell him she wasn’t one of the neighborhood tarts, but what would that do? He wouldn’t care either way.
The room was up two winding flights of stairs. There was no elevator, and she followed Mike silently, with her head down. Inside, the room had two windows facing the street, a dresser, a sink and bidet, and a run-down double bed.
Mike put the things down and turned to face her.
“What do you think?” he asked with a weak smile.
“I won’t stay here.”
“Now, Lea, sit down.”
“No. I won’t stay here.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to sit on the bed.
“What did you expect, the Ritz?”
“Anything,” she said. “I don’t know, but not this.”
“What’s wrong with this?”
“It’s a dump. It’s horrible.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“It is. Look around you. Smell it.”
He sat next to her, putting his arm around her.
“Look,” he said, “you’re tired. Why don’t we get into bed? You’ll feel better after you’ve slept a little.” He began kneading her shoulders and felt her muscles loosen. “Come on, lie back. Relax.”
She did what he said. He took off her shoes and rubbed her feet.
“I just want to sleep,” she said. “Would you get out my pajamas? They’re in the suitcase.”
She sat up and, while he was looking for the pajamas, took off all her clothes. He turned around then, and saw her.
“Are you sure you want these?”
“Yes.”
She stepped into the pants. They were like men’s flannel pajamas, with a floral design. She didn’t put the top on, but flung back the blanket and arranged herself in bed, tucking the covers up just under her breasts.
“Come,” she said. “Aren’t you getting into bed?”
She watched him taking off his clothes through half-closed eyes. He was aroused when he got in beside her, and she crossed her flanneled leg over his, taking him in her hand. She kissed his neck, and liked the way he smelled.
They kissed deeply, and his hands began to move over her body, but she stopped him.
“Do you want to sleep?” he asked.
“Let’s talk a little first.”
“OK,” he said, his hand resting on her flat, warm stomach, “talk.”
“I really just wanted to find out a little of how it’s been going since you’ve come here. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself, I keep forgetting why it is we’re both here. Have you had any luck?”
He put his arm under his head and rolled onto his back.
“With Sharon, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t started to look.”
She felt the beginning of fear, or anger, building up in the pit of her stomach.
“Why not?”
He took a deep breath. “I might as well tell you now as later,” he said. “I’m not sure that I want to find Sharon anymore. I’ve thought so much about it in the past couple of months, I don’t know what I’d do if I did run into her. We wouldn’t know each other anymore. It’s been so many years, and I’ve got to believe that she’s dead.”
“And you don’t care if you find her?”
“I don’t see what would be the point.”
“Then why did you bring me here?”
“I didn’t bring you here,” he said, raising his voice. “You came here yourself. Today. Remember?”
“But why? Why did you let me?”
“What are you, crazy? I wanted you to come.”
“But why?”
“To be with me, goddamn it. Why do you think?”
She was crying now, and turned her back to him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Just leave me alone.”
“Well, fuck, Lea, what’s the problem? You wanted to come.”
“No. I had to come. I had to help you.”
“Bullshit. Why are you in bed with me then?”
“I don’t know.” She was sobbing now. “I don’t know.”
Someone knocked on the door and yelled something angrily in French.
Mike put his hand on her shoulder, and pulled her around to him.
“Don’t you understand?” he whispered. “I wanted you to come because I didn’t want to lose you. We can get to know each other here. What difference does it make so long as we’re happy together?”
She let him go on, and let his hands start to move over her body again, but she felt dead now, used up, lied to. He kissed her, and she let him, trying to let her body take over. His hand went under the elastic of the pajamas and she began thrusting her hips rhythmically. Yes, she would just forget about him. It was her body now. That was all. His mouth went to her breasts and down her belly. Then she came out of her trance and grabbed his hair, pulling him up.
“No. You can’t do that. Not tonight. Here. Just come inside me. There, that’s a good boy. It’ll be fine now. Okay. Good. Slower, now, slower.”
Then she was talking to herself.
Okay. Steady, now. Fast. Not too fast. Okay. Faster. Harder, now, and harder . . .
Before she went to sleep, she made a mental note to stop at a bank the next day. She’d need more cash for a better hotel.
Twenty
 
“What’s on for today?” I asked Jay as we walked down the gangplank.
“I’ve never been laid in Morocco,” he said, “and I try to make it a point to get laid in every country I visit. You never know but you might not make it back.”
I laughed. The sun was out and it was warm, even though still before eight in the morning. We’d been docked already when I woke up, and both Jay and I had decided to skip breakfast on the ship and spend as much time as possible ashore.
“I’ll see you this evening, then.”
“I could meet you somewhere in the afternoon,” he said.
So we decided to rendezvous at the gate to the port at around two, and I went to a café while he went off with a smile to his other pursuits. I had a delicious breakfast of ham and eggs, three glasses of orange juice, and the most enjoyable couple of cups of coffee I could remember in a long time. Then I sat at an outside table with a copy of the
International Herald Tribune
and passed another fine hour, watching the city come to life around me.
The café was on the main street leading up from the dock—a broad, palm-lined avenue nearly empty of automobile traffic. The men who walked by were dressed in everything from caftans to business suits, and I was surprised to see several women in veils. They didn’t seem to jive with the modernity of the Casablanca that fronted this main street, but after I’d finished the paper, I walked through the crowded markets off the main road, and those veiled women seemed perfectly in place.
It was a strange city to me, after the months in Spain. While it wasn’t especially clean, it lacked the gutter smell that I’d come to associate with cities in Spain, and its overwhelming whiteness, living up to its name, left me with an impression of a nearly antiseptic, heat-dried cleanliness. Then, too, it was hot. The sky was perfectly blue, and the heat seemed as though it must permanently reside there. I couldn’t imagine a different kind of day in Casablanca. At the markets, the crowds were large and noisy. Children ran about freely and there seemed to be constantly the sound of tambourines and bells, wafted on the air along with the smells of spices and hashish, and occasionally what I came to recognize as the green, foul, mucky breath of a camel.
I walked my way around through the backstreets and came out on a cliff overlooking the public beach, which was filled with bodies. For a moment, I thought of going down and taking off my shoes, but decided I had better start back to the dock, since by the way I had come it was about four miles. I checked my wallet, which I’d stuck into my front pocket in the market, and still had several hundred pesetas, which were accepted here, and so I realized there was nothing I had to do, and began ambling back toward the port.
I’d been expecting, ever since Franco’s death, to hear news of the revolution in Spain, which I’d come to believe was inevitable. Though it had been only two days since I’d been in Barcelona, somehow it seemed much longer, and I expected events to have moved along. But the paper that morning had had no news of Spain at all, and as I walked under the Moroccan sun, I thought of Tony and his plans, and the passion with which he’d discussed them. He must be frustrated now. But he was young, and there would be time for his revolution. Spain might even become modern without it.
I met Jay and we went to eat at a place he’d passed coming back to meet me. Small and hot, it was not a restaurant I would have picked myself, but the food was good. We had a hot chicken and cinnamon pie covered with sugar, and some dish made with mutton and honey. The bread was flat and tasteless, seemingly there only to mop up grease and to dip in the mouth-burning red relish they served. We drank a lot of wine, and left in high spirits, though the thought of another night on the
Antoinette
loomed menacingly before us. We walked back slowly, savoring the warm dusk. Stopping once, we bought a large sack of oranges and carried them back with us.
“This has been great,” I said.
“You sound almost surprised.”
“I guess I am. A couple of days on that ship and you don’t feel like you’ll ever be out in the air again, walking along more or less carefree.”
“You know,” he said, “I really don’t feel that way. Oh, I know where you’re coming from, but somehow the ship isn’t negative for me. I mean, it’s a drag in some ways, but it’s also a good counterpoint.” He took out one of the oranges and began peeling it. “Look. There’s a lot of shit everywhere, and it seems to me there are three ways to deal with it. You either concentrate on it, or you deny it altogether, or you’re aware of it, but don’t let it become the focal point of your life. There’s also good things, you know, and I find they all sort of balance out. But,” he said disarmingly, breaking the orange and handing half to me, “I am but a callow youth, and defer to your experience. Good orange, huh?”
I thought about what he’d said, and about the past few months, and there was no way that the good and the bad balanced out at all. But then, I had to admit that a few months was not exactly the long run.
“Look,” he said. “Didn’t you find that today you were, I don’t know, more aware of things than you would have been if you’d, say, flown in?”
“It’s possible, I guess.”
“Well, just take this orange. Can you believe how good it tastes after what we’ve been eating?”
“That’s true.”
“Sure. The main thing you want to avoid is the rut. That’s the killer. Everything becomes the same and the good and the shit kind of blend into gray and nothing means anything.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
He clapped me on the back. “Hey. Who am I to be telling you anything? But it’s been a hang-up of mine and I get off talking about it.”
“So talk. Who’s stopping you?”
“What I don’t understand is why everybody seems to view the rut as the ideal. I mean, get a job and stay at it and avoid highs and lows, right? Fuckin’ A. I got a job right out of college and had zoomed right on through college and was a good little boy, but after two years of that, I thought I had lost it forever. I mean, everything was so fucking bland, and all the people I hung out with were bored and boring and talked about how they were going to quit soon and do something else, and nobody ever did. Kee-rist! Nearly sent me over the edge. I’m not kidding. So I decided to quit and do this Peace Corps thing, and not ’cause I’m idealistic, and I didn’t talk about it at all. Didn’t even give notice. Just got on the plane when the time came and took off. And even this is structured, but it’s better than it was. But in six months I’m through and then I’ll try something else.”
“Do you know what you’ll do?”
“Not really. Probably travel for a while. I don’t really care that much.”
I laughed. “That’s amazing.”
“Why?”
“Where’s it all leading?”
“Where should it lead?”
“I don’t know. You’re a smart guy. Seems like you could really do something.”
“I am doing something.”
“No. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, but what you mean is crazy. I mean, it’s not like you win a prize or something at the end. You just go on doing what you’re happy with. Maybe someday I’ll get into something I really enjoy that makes me stay in one place, and then I’ll stay in one place. Besides, it’s not really what you do that makes any difference. The worst thing is that feeling that you’re finished. That you’ve done all you’re going to do. That’s why that job drove me crazy. It wasn’t the job. There were a few guys there that were thrilled and delighted every day, but it wasn’t for me. I wasn’t me, and if you’re not you, then what do you have to offer to anybody, right?”

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