Departures (2 page)

Okay, Albert said, you can put her down here.

The buck kicked when Albert lifted it out, one hand gripping the base of its ears, the other grasping the loose skin on its back. I heard its teeth striking metal as he pushed its head down, into a cage so unfit for the both of them that small squares of pelt were pushed out through the mesh. When Albert stood up, rubbing his hands, a tuft of mahogany slowly descended, tumbling dreamily on long spider legs, and I followed its tentative passage while I listened to the rattle of metal rocking. The sound of the pigeons rose behind me, the air shrill in their talons and bright background laughter in the noise of their wings. Then an acrid smell of discharge rose from the cage, and it was over.

Albert reached in again and pulled the buck out. Give it
a month, he said. If there's no litter by then you'll know nothing happened.

What do we owe you? my father said finally.

Would you listen to him, Albert said. You owe me nothing. I reckon nothing'll come of it anyway.

Somebody called for him then so he left us. I stood by my father as he gazed at the doe, feeling the weight of his hands on my shoulders and the twitch of his fingers each time his lips failed to find something to say.

You stay here, he said after many minutes, don't you move. I'm just going to go thank him properly. I'll be back straight away.

When he was gone I went to the doe. I tried to hold her the way he had shown me, cradling her hindquarters in his oversized hands, but as she was heavier than I had expected it was all I could do just to press her close, feeling the comfort of claws in her protest, the gradual relaxation in her shoulders and ears. I knelt down then, slowly, laid her out on my knees, examined the places where his teeth had bitten her, exposing the intimate undersilk to the surface like so many delicate, floss-tufted seeds. She did not flinch when I touched her, when I lifted her feet and observed their texture, the way the thick fringes of hair curled round to cushion her toes. She lay still when I held her ears to the light and traced the orchid spread of her veins, petal soft and just as intricate, the faint throb of her pulse against my hand. By the time my father returned to collect us, she had placed her paws on my chest and stood up, looking all around her with dark, intelligent eyes.

The Start of the Season

It was close to five when they returned to the hotel. They'd spent the day hiking in the hills above the lake, following thin, sandy roads from which dust rose all day like steam. They'd passed the lemon trees that the brochure had described, the olive groves and vineyards, the orchards heavy with fruit and the odour of ripening.
Dear Mum,
Jean wrote as she sat on the balcony, propping the postcard against her knee.
Italy's beautiful and our room's much nicer than we'd expected. It's wonderful just to get away.

For their first trip together outside the U.K., they'd wanted to go somewhere neither one of them had been already, where everything they saw or did would be fresh and exciting and new to them both. It'd been Martin who'd suggested Italy. Jean watched him idly as he sawed at the plastic strips which bound their luggage. Israeli? the porter had asked her cheerfully as he carried their bags to their room. Tel Aviv? No, she'd told him. Belfast. They seal your luggage there, too.

She turned back to the collection of postcards in front of her. According to the guidebook they'd borrowed from the library, the post would take at least ten days to reach Britain; there was hardly any point in writing when they were only going to be there a week. The thought depressed her.
Dear Sandra,
she composed mentally as she considered another card.
So glad you're not here.
No, she couldn't write that. It wasn't her sister's fault they had to share a bedroom; she and Bill had no privacy either, after
all. Jean smiled. Maybe she would write it. Knowing Sandra, she probably felt the same way.

She gathered the cards and went back inside. From the bathroom came the tap of metal on porcelain and a sudden, forceful gush of water, the sounds of Martin completing his shave. She went in and stood behind him, tracing the changing curve of shadow from his throat to his shoulder as he toweled himself dry, delighting in the smell of him, the feel of her fingers against his skin, their unaccustomed proximity to each other during rituals which they had, until then, always performed alone. In their two years together, Jean reflected, they had never shared a shower until that evening, never been able to sleep through till morning and find the other beside them, still there.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Mhm. You hungry?”

“Famished. What about you?”

She nodded absently as he tucked in his shirt, checking that the room was presentable in their absence, that all the lights were switched off and the towels in the bathroom were hung up properly to dry. Martin sighed.

“Jean, they pay a maid to do all that. You're free! You're on holiday!” He squeezed her playfully and she laughed.

“Alright,” she said, “come on. Let's eat.”

Faint strains of music from the courtyard near the swimming pool drew them outside when they reached the lobby. There were people dancing in the garden of the hotel opposite, the couples circling slowly among heavy earthen pots of hibiscus and bougainvillea, their faces lit by the small, coloured lanterns which swung from the surrounding trees. This was the way she'd imagined the evenings, standing on a promenade above the village, watching the lights come on in the shops and restaurants which
lined the marina below. That morning had been as she'd imagined it, too, the air full of fragrance and the sound of conversation from people taking coffee on the patio by the pool. It had made her ashamed of her initial disappointment, the sinking feeling she'd experienced on the coach ride from the airport the day before. For more than an hour they'd driven by houses with their shutters drawn, past deserted streets and empty marketplaces—because of the heat, the rep explained finally. Everyone's inside from noon till four. A woman in the seat in front of them had snorted indignantly, and said if she'd wanted siestas she would have gone to Spain.

The dining room was empty apart from a handful of people seated at tables beside the windows. Jean recognised some of the faces from the airport—two single ladies traveling together, a pair of middle-aged couples from the Midlands, a sizable party of athletic-looking Germans who had arrived on a separate flight but had taken the same coach to the hotel.

“Looks like we're late,” Martin said as a waitress passed with several small plates of salad and a few egg mayonnaise. He glanced around the room, assessing their options. “How about that table by the back wall?”

Behind them the glass doors to the lobby opened inwards, and Jean stepped aside to let the new arrival pass. “We can't,” she said, smiling politely as the man edged past her, “it's all prearranged. We're supposed to look for our room number.”

The man ahead of them hesitated.

“Ah,” he said, turning to Martin, “I think you're with us. You're Room 27, aren't you? There's been two places set at our table since the first meal. I'll lead the way; we're just over there.”

It took a moment to sink in. The prospect of having
company did not appeal to Jean; she'd been looking forward to enjoying the evening on their own. She looked at Martin helplessly, but he only shrugged and grinned.
Very little bothers him,
she noted as he took her hand, and wondered why the realisation left her less comforted than annoyed.

They followed the man past the Germans to a table towards the far end of the room where a woman sat alone facing the window, her hands folded across the handbag in her lap. She smiled at the man but looked startled when they, too, sat down.

“My wife,” the man explained. He and Martin shook hands across the table, and Jean nodded politely to the other woman as they were introduced. She didn't catch their names.

“We were beginning to think we'd have the table to ourselves for the week,” the man said, looking at his wife. Jean glanced up, surprised. His tone, she was certain, had been faintly hostile, and she felt a vague antipathy surface in response.

“Yes, sorry about that,” Martin said pleasantly. “We didn't have much appetite after the flight, and we couldn't seem to get out of bed in time this morning.” Jean looked at him crossly.
Why apologise?
she asked him silently.
We're the ones with our backs to the window. They could have left at least one seat with a view.

“You're newlyweds, aren't you?” Martin asked, reaching for the wine. “Somebody told me you're on honeymoon.”

“Yes, that's right. We were married last Saturday.”

“How lovely for you,” Jean said, but no one seemed to notice. She watched the comings and goings of the kitchen staff while the other three chatted about the size of the wedding, the great expense involved, the trials of farmers in Britain today, and the implications of the new Europe,
but the exchange was awkward and soon lost momentum. A pair of entrées went past en route to the Germans, whose appetite was apparently insatiable and who greeted their arrival with an appreciative cheer.

“Have you been married long?” the woman asked. Again Jean felt her irritation surface. The query was, of course, entirely innocent; anyone recently married was bound to assume that all other young couples were just like themselves. Nevertheless she found the question intrusive; if the woman had wanted to avoid confrontation she needn't have phrased it quite that way. She met the other's gaze head on.

“We're not. Married, that is.”

“We're engaged,” Martin added quickly.

“Really?” The woman's expression was so genuinely delighted that involuntarily Jean slipped her hands between her knees. “When's the wedding?”

“We haven't set a date yet,” Martin said easily. Jean's corroborative smile was tight. “Sometime soon, we hope.” He pulled a portion from the warm loaf at his elbow, offering it to her with his eyes. She shook her head, suddenly conscious of the intimacy which could make speech between them unnecessary.
And we're not engaged,
she told him irritably,
so don't tell them we are.

“How is the food, anyway?” Martin asked.

The woman grimaced. “A bit rich, actually. We made the mistake of eating Italian the first night—couldn't sleep for hours afterwards.”

“We've been ordering the European option ever since, though, and that's been alright,” her husband said. “Just be sure to ask for it well-done.”

Behind them the conversation was animated, the couples delighting in the discovery of mutual friends and acquaintances and the recollection of experience shared. At
the table in front the two women had pushed aside their plates and napkins to make room for the brochures they'd collected during the day, pointing out to each other the places they'd just visited and sorting through postcards to decide which to send. Jean found herself thinking of breakfast that morning—the cheese, the fresh fruit, a few rolls from the flight, what was left of the spumante from the previous evening, the kick of her heart as they'd let the cork fly. . . . She sighed. Still, it wasn't fair to leave Martin to cope on his own. He was being so patient, too, so charming and polite, while she kept fighting irritation and the urge to be unkind. With an effort she returned her attention to her own table.

“That's right, the Franciscan mission,” the man was saying. “There's a museum of local history in it now. Under it, actually. In the catacombs. I can't imagine how you missed it; it was pretty well marked.”

“I'm surprised, too,” Martin answered. “We walked around the gardens, of course, and the chapel, but we never saw a sign for a museum.”

“I have the brochure here,” the woman said, pulling a folded leaflet from her bag. Jean leaned towards him as Martin examined it, resting her palms on his forearm for balance, using the moment as an excuse to make contact. Dark, aboriginal faces stared out from the pages, their portraits appearing between shards of pottery, bone and feather jewelry, the chipped and peeling implements of tribal war—all souvenirs from the heyday of the mission. The accompanying text described in detail the primitive peoples to whom the articles had once belonged: their passion for music, their addiction to drink, their idolatrous religions, and violent, unpredictable ways.

“Thank you,” Martin said, refolding the leaflet, “I'm sorry we missed it. I still don't know how we could have; we were right there the whole day.”

But we spent it in the gardens above the catacombs,
Jean thought wistfully. At the end of a trellis they'd discovered the chapel, a small room with stone walls and a low, wooden ceiling, lit only by candles and furnished with four wooden pews. A simple crucifix hung above the altar, its Jesus roughly hewn, the two arms of the cross bound together with twine. It looks like you're praying, Martin had said, showing her the photo, a product of the Polaroid Instamatic his family had given them as a bon voyage gift. He'd captured her with hands folded, her head at an incline, gazing thoughtfully up at the cross. As he emptied the camera and inserted new film, she'd noted with amusement how he placed the discarded cartridge and scraps of silver paper on the floor at his feet rather than hazard contact with the seat of a pew. He'd been curiously self-conscious, she realised suddenly, from the moment they'd come in.
First time in a chapel, was it, Martin?
The possibility hadn't even occurred to her until them.

Behind them, the foursome were choosing pastry, deciding which of the cakes to split between whom. What's your favourite, they asked the waitress who stood beside the sweet trolley with a silver cake knife in her hand. She shrugged, her expression amiable and relaxed. Every one,
delicioso.
But there's a whole glass of rum in that one there.