Sunburn (9 page)
I sat down across from her. “That’s nonsense.”
She crossed herself. “No.
Es verdad
.”
Es verdad
.”
Then she finally noticed my lack of attire, and looked down.
“You’re not dressed.”
“I heard you scream.”
She got up with the broom. “Please,” she said, and turned back to the kitchen.
I was tempted to tease her about her long black outfit on such a hot day, but thought better of it, and went back up to resume my shower. On the way upstairs, I chuckled. So she was, after all, a woman, in spite of herself. I wondered if it made her nervous.
The bird had certainly upset her, but somehow, in Spain, superstition didn’t seem so ludicrous as elsewhere. It was almost believable.
But these thoughts disappeared under the cold shower. In minutes I was back downstairs at the table, drinking
café con leche
with a bit of roll and butter. I asked Berta to come and sit with me.
café con leche
with a bit of roll and butter. I asked Berta to come and sit with me.
“Are you feeling better?”
She nodded. “It is not a good omen, still.”
“Probably just wanted to get out of the heat. Where is everyone today, by the way?”
“Señor Sean is not out of bed yet. The two se ñoras have gone to town together. Señora Lea said for me to tell you she would be back in the afternoon.”
“Did she say where in town she was going?”
She shook her head no.
I thought that strange, but not exceptionally so, and let it pass while I resumed my breakfast.
Berta poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped at it, looking distracted. “Do you want to go into Tossa today?” she asked. “Because a taxi will be up soon. I am going in for shopping.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’d like to.”
We bumped and swayed in the usual manner all the way down to Tossa. Berta and I sat in the backseat and talked, trying to ignore the ride as we weaved from side to side.
I was feeling much better, though still slightly hungover, and with the windows down, the heat wasn’t so bad. I looked over at Berta and was surprised again to find her so handsome. She had a fine face, neither young nor old. I wondered if, before Kyra, she and Sean hadn’t . . .
“Were you married, Berta?” I asked abruptly.
“Sí.”
“What happened?” I didn’t mean to press, but suddenly I badly wanted to know.
She looked down at the floor. “He went away.”
“Long ago?”
“Eighteen years.”
The driver swerved, throwing her against me, but she stared hard, straight ahead at the road, and I was content to be silent as we wound our way past the cork trees and vineyards, back down to Tossa.
I got out at the main crossroads near the back of town, and Berta went on to the market to do her shopping. I decided to walk through the town to the
ramblas.
It was near noon and the heat was stifling, but I knew down by the beach it would be cooler. Also, I’d be more likely to run into Lea down there. I didn’t normally come in to Tossa without a plan, but it was a good town to browse in and, despite the heat, I enjoyed winding through the streets, with their empty
graffa
bottles, their grand summer
pensións,
now for the most part closed up until the next spring, their stray dogs, and their faint but ever-present smell of urine and decaying garbage.
ramblas.
It was near noon and the heat was stifling, but I knew down by the beach it would be cooler. Also, I’d be more likely to run into Lea down there. I didn’t normally come in to Tossa without a plan, but it was a good town to browse in and, despite the heat, I enjoyed winding through the streets, with their empty
graffa
bottles, their grand summer
pensións,
now for the most part closed up until the next spring, their stray dogs, and their faint but ever-present smell of urine and decaying garbage.
The season was over, and Tossa was once again a town of Spaniards. Prices had dropped markedly even since we’d arrived, and the shops were closing for the winter one by one. Down at the
ramblas,
though, most of the bars and discos were still open, and it was here that I expected to find Lea. I knew that Tony often hung out at a bar called the Tiki, where Mike tended bar. It was a good place, with a vined terrace fronting the sea. By the time I arrived, drenched with sweat, a light breeze had come up, rustling the vines overhead.
ramblas,
though, most of the bars and discos were still open, and it was here that I expected to find Lea. I knew that Tony often hung out at a bar called the Tiki, where Mike tended bar. It was a good place, with a vined terrace fronting the sea. By the time I arrived, drenched with sweat, a light breeze had come up, rustling the vines overhead.
There were customers scattered about, but no sign of anyone I knew, so I sat down, pulled a mystery from my pocket, and made myself comfortable.
A white-jacketed waiter came up and asked me if I’d like coffee. I told him I’d prefer a beer. During the last months of the season, Tossa invariably runs out of fresh drinking water, and they let sea water into the city water supply, so that all showers, drinking water, and, hence, coffee, is slightly, or sometimes very, saline. It was an acquired taste that I had decided to do without.
The beer came, and as I drank it my head cleared.
It was pleasant, sitting there under the vines with the light breeze blowing across me. The beer was good. But I found myself falling victim to what Lea and I had spoken about the day before—all this free time. It bred thoughts which, while not exactly useless, were certainly impractical. Day-dreams came and went apace. Chance feelings and vague uncertainties could ferment and grow into full-blown emotions. Else why had Berta so affected me this morning? Why had Mike’s song?
Where the hell was Lea, anyway?
Where had I heard that phrase which now seemed so apt—burned out under the magnifying glass of introspection? Ha!
On the beach, a girl was being thrown into the water, and her cries carried back to me like a memory. My thoughts turned back to my earlier marriage, and to my child, Becky. I’d met, wooed, and won Nancy in a whirlwind six weeks. After the wedding, we settled into a quiet neighborhood on Long Island. I’d been making a good living doing small articles that I then thought important. She’d become pregnant immediately, and we lived happily, domestically.
I remember especially the summers, when we’d drive out to fish in the Sound, or go up to Connecticut. But there’d been only two of those summers. Becky had gotten polio in one of God’s little jokes and had died a few months before the vaccine had been discovered. After that, Nancy, too, had begun to fail—stopped eating, laughing, caring, and, finally, living.
I finished the beer and got up. They were loading the one boat for Lloret de Mar, and I decided to take it. These thoughts were doing me no good.
There was a wooden walkway to within about fifty yards of the boat and, after that, one had to trudge through the gravelly sand. The small blue and white boat played tourist Spanish music—I will never forget “Y Viva L’España”—through a loudspeaker in front. In season, a small fleet of three or four of these craft traveled every hour or so to Lloret and back, but now there was only one. It pulled up right onto the beach and lowered a gangplank. It was a steep and slippery climb, and nearly every loading saw a sprained ankle or skinned knee, from which the crew members appeared to take great joy.
I managed the boarding, though, walked to an empty spot on the bench that lined the sides, and took off my shoes to pour out the sand that had filled them. There was an air of slapstick about the whole boat trip to Lloret, and I enjoyed it. My spirits lifted and, as we began the ride, I sat hypnotized as I always was by the unfathomable blue of the sky and water. Looking back to the land and its bleached white buildings was nearly blinding. Then there was that pleasurable but incongruous feeling of relief that I always got when pulling away from anything.
The boat wasn’t crowded, and we’d barely cleared the small bay before I spotted Marianne on the bow. She sat cross-legged in shorts and a halter top, tan and alluring. Ah, the irony, I thought, smiling. Knowing I’d begin to brood again if I stared at her, I got up.
“Marianne.”
She asked me to sit with her, and I did. “I wanted to tell you that I had a wonderful time last night, politics or no.”
“So did I,” I said, “but we’re only guests of Sean’s ourselves.”
“I know. But I wanted to tell you.” She smiled. “What are you reading?”
“Just a mystery.”
“You like them?”
I shrugged. “Some.”
“Passes the time?”
“Why do you say that?” I snapped at her, surprised at myself.
She didn’t seem taken aback. “I don’t know. There is that feel about you.” The sea was dead calm. Some bathers waved to us from the rocks. She waved back, laughing. “It’s beautiful today,
n’est-ce pas?
I thought the summer was over.”
n’est-ce pas?
I thought the summer was over.”
“It is nice out here.”
We lapsed into silence for a moment.
“I wanted to tell you,” she began, “that I’m not so bloodthirsty as I sounded last night. It’s just that I like to argue and playact a bit. Tony is nice, but I’d scare him if I didn’t act just a little dumb sometimes. You see, my English isn’t really so bad either. But these Spanish boys . . . well, he is attractive, and not nearly so bad as most of them. You see? Yes, you do.”
She laughed infectiously.
“I see.” I laughed, too. “What did you mean, just now, about me passing time, that I had that feel about me?”
“Oh, it’s nothing you say,” she said, touching my arm. “Don’t worry—you’re not giving yourself away.”
“Giving what away?”
“Now don’t pretend. No one as controlled as you are isn’t concerned about letting people see him. I mean, the real him. But you seem—I don’t know—maybe too much the observer, as if you’re just trying to make it until you see something that will free you, but which you’re not sure is there.” She stared toward the shore.
“You’re a wise little girl,” I said.
“Don’t tell Tony.” Her face brightened. “Here. Get out your book and let me put my head on your shoulder and close my eyes.”
We finished the short trip to Lloret without talking. I pretended to read, but was always conscious of the weight of her head against my arm and the young, clean, intoxicating scent of almonds coming off her.
Strangely, there was no sexual undertone. I felt we were old friends, as though long ago we’d been lovers and it hadn’t worked out.
The boat landed roughly, and we got up.
“Read much?” she said, smiling.
“Can’t fool you, can I?”
We got off the boat and started trudging over the hundred yards of Lloret’s beach.
“Why’d you come here today?” I asked.
“Meeting Tony for lunch. Want to join us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, you do. What did you come here for?”
“No reason, really.”
“Then join us.”
I laughed. “OK.”
“OK.”
“By the way, Mike wouldn’t be eating with you, would he?”
She stopped and looked at me. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” I said.
She saw Tony on the
ramblas
and waved. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s run.”
ramblas
and waved. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s run.”
We ate at the Calamic Tavern, which was really not a tavern at all. Owned by a Frenchman with a Spanish wife, it served the best steaks on the Costa Brava. Sitting outside and drinking the ridiculously cheap
tinto,
we spent a while talking among ourselves and to all and sundry who passed on the narrow street. Tony seemed to know everyone—Pedro, who owned the English bar down the street and who was being divorced by his wife for, in Tony’s words, “countless adulteries”; Andrés, his Dutch bartender, famed for being the friendliest man in town and an incurable drunk; Lisa, who owned the disco around the corner, and who normally spent the winters coming down off the pills she’d consumed during the summer, though this winter she didn’t appear to be bothering; another Tony, the cook across the street, trying to decide, according to our Tony, whether or not to go underground rather than serve in the military.
tinto,
we spent a while talking among ourselves and to all and sundry who passed on the narrow street. Tony seemed to know everyone—Pedro, who owned the English bar down the street and who was being divorced by his wife for, in Tony’s words, “countless adulteries”; Andrés, his Dutch bartender, famed for being the friendliest man in town and an incurable drunk; Lisa, who owned the disco around the corner, and who normally spent the winters coming down off the pills she’d consumed during the summer, though this winter she didn’t appear to be bothering; another Tony, the cook across the street, trying to decide, according to our Tony, whether or not to go underground rather than serve in the military.
Ramon, more or less officially the town ombudsman, sat down and joined us along with Trish and Ilse, two prostitutes. When they’d all gone, I asked Tony if Ramon knew all that went on, all about the dope and insanity.
He patted my hand. “He knows, and he doesn’t know. It’s a resort town here. If he likes you, he doesn’t know. If not, he knows everything. I’ve personally seen him smoke marijuana, for instance, but I wouldn’t suggest joining him.” He stopped to drink his wine. “But if you think this is a group with stories, you should be here in the summer. Then it’s a crazy place, which is why I leave—go to Barcelona.
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