Epiphany Jones (24 page)

‘Is that a birthmark?’ I say, noticing she’s got a small brown splotch the size of a dime where her hairline meets her neck.

And as if it were a mosquito, she swats her hand over the mark and rolls onto her back. ‘All Portuguese have them,’ she blushes.

And this is when I realise I’m in love with her. She seems so strong. She knows what she wants, and what she believes in she never doubts. But she’s also vulnerable. She has her own insecurities, like everyone else.

As I smile at her in the glow of the pumpkin light, she pulls the covers aside.

‘Keep me warm, alleegator.’

She’s taken to calling me
‘alleegator’
when the mood strikes her.

I drop my towel and slip into bed. As I lay on top of her, she takes my face in her hands and kisses me. Then, running a hand down my back, she says, ‘I tell you about my mark, now you tell me about yours.’ She gently caresses my stab wound. The last time I checked it in the mirror the stitches had dissolved and it had closed up but the scar was still red and jagged, like it’s Epiphany’s attempt at pumpkin-carving me.

I smile as best I can at a bad memory and look into Bela’s eyes – they’re a wonderful blue with green flecks. ‘Can I tell you about it another time?’

She understands and kisses my mouth. ‘Of course, alleegator.’ And that understanding, it makes me want to tell her how she saves me from my figments; how she, and she alone, can single-handedly reverse the tide of my life.

‘Come here,’ I say and flip onto my back. Bela nuzzles her body into mine and before long her breath has gone into the regular rhythmic wheeze she makes when she sleeps.

I
wake to a scream. My scream. The candle in the pumpkin on the nightstand has melted away into a little pile of wax. In the dark I reach next to me and place my hand on Bela’s warm back. I slip out of the bed and creep over to the window. Moonlight illuminates the street below. The café’s awning is retracted and its outdoor tables and chairs are folded against the wall.

‘Sometimes a dream is just a dream,’ a shark told me once. But this one … Epiphany held Bela’s limp body as a wine boat ferried them down the Douro. I screamed from shore for Epiphany to give Bela back, but she remained silent as she shuttled Bela towards the Underworld.

Bela stirs in the bed. I creep across the floor to the kitchen and scan the alley from the back window. My heart stops as I see Epiphany outside. The moonlight dances across her as she stumbles around the alley. Then another woman rushes up to her and wraps an arm around her neck. The other woman is holding a bottle of wine. I look closer and see that the first woman isn’t Epiphany. It’s just two drunk friends walking home after a late night.

‘The biggest regrets in your life will not come from the things you did,’ my shrink once told me, ‘but from the things you didn’t do.’

If Epiphany were to ever harm Bela … I could have … in the alley … I could have taken care of her – made sure she couldn’t hurt me or anyone I love, ever again.

But no, that’s fear talking. She hasn’t done anything to Bela. Bela is with me. She’s safe. And Epiphany, she said the festival starts in only two days. She’ll have to be on her way to France soon – where she’ll either save her daughter or be killed trying.

I slip back into bed and cradle Bela in my arms. I taste her skin on my tongue. I smell her hair on my nostrils. In the darkness the pumpkin grins over us and I foolishly hope that it does have the power to ward off ghosts and goblins and all kinds of evil, because I can’t escape the fear that in the same city there’s an angel in my arms and a devil on the streets.

T
he clock on the nightstand reads 13:01. Can it really be one in the afternoon already?

I wasn’t able to get to bed until almost daybreak. I kept thinking of everything Epiphany told me in the alley: her daughter being moved to Cannes; Matthew somehow finding her in Spain.

If she’s right about any of this, Matthew will be in Cannes for the film festival. Epiphany said it started in two days. She won’t stick around here. She’ll rush there to make that party. And Cannes is a pretty long trip from Porto; she’d need a few days to get there if she weren’t flying – and she can’t. Her fake passport isn’t authentic enough to get her on a plane. She’ll need to take a bus or train. Which means, if she’s going to make it, she has to be heading there now. Epiphany’s ‘you’ll regret this’ was nothing more than an angry, empty threat.

I hear Bela moving around in the kitchen. She’s singing a song in Portuguese. If I am going to make a future here, with her, I need to do this. I slip out of bed and enter the kitchen. Bela’s at the sink. She’s got an apron tied around her and her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. Her hair is pinned up. I put my arms around her waist and pull her close, kissing the birthmark on her neck. ‘Good morning.’

‘Good
afternoon
, alleegator,’ she replies.

Fruits and vegetables of every kind lie on the counter: red and green peppers, melons, onions, cucumbers and some gourds I don’t even recognise.

‘That’s a lot of food,’ I say, squeezing her tight.

She turns in my arms so we’re face to face and places her hands on the back of my head. ‘I make you surprise,’ she smiles.

‘Making me lunch?’

‘You get up too late for lunch,’ she quips. Then she kisses me softly and tells me not to come back until dusk.

‘Making me dinner then?’

Bela squirms free from my arms. ‘Don’t ruin surprise!’

‘Bela,’ I say, not knowing exactly how I’m going to phrase it, ‘I wanted to talk…’

But she’s engrossed in our dinner preparations. ‘Out!’ she says, working with her back towards me. ‘We talk later. Not nice to ruin surprises.’

I kiss her behind the ear and she shrugs in fake irritation. In the reflection in the window I see her smile. It’s best to leave, however. I could use more time to think about how I’m going to tell her.

‘Good afternoon, my friend,’ Paulo says as I leave the apartment. He’s sitting in his usual chair outside the café. ‘I know what you’re thinking.
“Does this man never leave his seat – or his cigars?”’
and he takes a big puff from his stogie. ‘That’s the beauty of being your own boss and living a simple life. You can do what you like. And I like to sit and people-watch and smoke my friend here.’ He admires the stogie’s glowing ember.

‘Sounds like a good life,’ I say.

‘And you, my friend, where are you off to today?’

‘I don’t know, actually.’

‘Good then,’ Paulo smiles. ‘I need to walk to the hardware store. You can help an old man get there – if you don’t mind?’

Paulo walks with the help of a rather odd cane. It’s carved with images of carnations painted bright red. ‘I injured my leg badly many years ago,’ he says as we stroll along the river. Out of politeness I don’t ask how, even though I’m wondering. I don’t know much about him. Even though he’s talkative, he’s the type who’s private about his past.

As Paulo espouses the joys of owning his own café, I watch small boats glide back and forth, transporting large barrels of wine down
the river. Paulo speaks of the pleasure he receives from chatting to the regulars; of waking early in the morning, before dawn has broke, to help the young baker he employs knead the dough.

I listen with polite interest and in no time we’re at the hardware store. ‘Well, my friend, thank you for accompanying me,’ he says and shakes my hand with both of his. ‘What will you do now?’

‘I don’t know.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘What do you recommend?’

Paulo shrugs. ‘Go back to the river and take a ride on a
rabelo
. You think you’re strong until you try to steer one of them.’

I shiver as I recall my dream about Epiphany ferrying Bela’s body.

‘Maybe I’ll go to the beach,’ I say.

‘As you wish,’ Paulo says and climbs the store’s steps – foot, cane, foot, cane. When he reaches the door he turns back and says, ‘Oh, I almost forgot. A man came around this morning. He spoke Spanish. Asked if anyone had rented the place upstairs in the last few weeks. It seemed like he was looking for someone.’

A chill shoots down my spine. But Abdul’s boat left weeks ago. Could he have returned with Epiphany? ‘Looking for someone?’ I try to say casually. ‘Sounds like a guy who’s looking for his cheating lover.’

‘Could be,’ Paulo says, with a slim smile.

I fidget a little. I don’t want Paulo thinking the wrong thing and I don’t want anyone telling Bela what’s happened but me. ‘It’s–’

‘Jerry,’ Paulo stops me, ‘I’m just an old man who likes to people watch. But I’ve been face to face with horrible men. You’re not one of them. I know because Bela wouldn’t be with you if you were. So get that look like you’re worried that I think you are off your face.’

I relax a little and nod my head.

‘I told the man that a German couple had been renting the room and that they ate at my place a few times, but they left days ago,’ Paulo says. ‘When I told him I knew the landlord and could get him a good deal on the flat, he left.’ Paulo turns towards the store. ‘Anyway, I better get inside,’ he says and continues his ascent up the steps, foot, cane, foot, cane.

‘Paulo?’ I call after him.

‘Yes?’ he turns.

‘Do you think … It’s just … I’m not familiar with–’ and I say it out loud for the first time, ‘– with love. Can people still love you even if they find out you aren’t … perfect?’ When the question comes out, I feel so silly. It makes me sound like I’m a fifteen-year-old boy.

And Paulo, he descends the steps of the store all the way – cane, foot, cane, foot – just so he can place his hand on my shoulder and look me in the eyes. His silver-rimmed glasses shine in the sunlight. ‘Jerry, you are looking at a man who did some bad things in his day. I was scared to death, too, but I told my wife about them and she still loved me until the day she died. Not because she agreed with or even fully understood what I did, but because she knew people never stop changing. A man could be a devil one year and a saint the rest of his life. It’s the change and the growth that make people good, not the stuff in their past that keeps them bad. I see Bela every day with you. She’s just like my wife.’

I sink my eyes to my chest before looking at Paulo again. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘Don’t worry about it, my friend. Now go on a walk or a boat ride. Just please, don’t go home yet. Bela made me promise to keep you out of the house until later,’ he winks.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘She’s cooking me a big dinner.’

‘
You
know?’ Paulo laughs, ‘She came to the café this morning and begged me to give her all of my vegetables!’

I
avoid the boats and the river and I spend my time walking around the centre of Porto waiting for nightfall. I find Epiphany creeping into my mind more than I like. I hear her scream,
‘You’ll regret this!’
over and over. On more than one occasion I see her out of the corner of my eye – standing on the side of the road or sitting in a café – but on a second glance it always turns out to be my mind playing tricks on me;
it’s always someone who barely resembles her and my mind fills in the gaps with what it fears the most.

More than once I get the urge to run home and check on Bela, but I resist. Paulo’s café is always packed and the only door to my apartment is right beside it – and it’s locked. If Epiphany were to try to get in she’d have to break down the door in front of a dozen diners.

I walk down Avenue da Boavista, past a concert hall that looks like a huge, white monolith carved at irregular angles from a building-sized meteorite. I follow da Boavista past Parque de cidade and find myself at the beach where I first came to shore. Abdul’s freighter is nowhere to be seen. The man who spoke to Paulo really was someone else.

As the sky turns a glowing red I head home. And it’s funny: this little apartment feels more like a home than any place I’ve ever lived. And I don’t kid myself – I know it’s only because Bela will be waiting for me. She’ll be waiting with the dinner she’s worked on all day. I’ll open up to her and then we’ll eat and we’ll make love and she’ll help me forget my shitty past. But how much do I tell her?

‘Everything,
Jerry,’ my own voice answers. ‘She deserves to know everything.’

As I approach the apartment Paulo isn’t sitting outside. Then I remember it’s Sunday. The café closes early on Sundays. Paulo’s probably in bed already. But then I notice the apartment lights are out and, though the windows swing open, there’s no noise coming from them. No pots clanking or plates being set. And then I see it – the flutter of a shadow. And from the bedroom window I catch a glimpse of someone peeking out, but they pull back before I can make out who it is.

That’s when the cold terror sets in. That’s when I hear Epiphany in my head again shouting,
‘You’ll regret this!’
That’s when I realise I’ve underestimated her. She found me in Chicago, she followed me in Mexico, and just yesterday she pulled me into an alley. She could always be near and I would never know it.

You’ll regret this!

‘Bela!’ I yell as I run up the stairs. At the top the apartment door is ajar.

‘Epiphany!’ I yell. ‘Bela!’

The living room is empty. A faint light shines from under the kitchen door.

You’ll regret this!

My heart beats wildly as I swing the kitchen door open.

Bela stands at the counter holding a glass of wine, a large smile shining on her face. The room is bathed in an orange glow. The glow comes from vegetables. Dozens of vegetables: cucumbers, gourds, tomatoes, there’s even an onion – all carved like mini jack-o-lanterns. Each vegetable wears a different face. Some of the cucumbers are carved length-wise and have wide smiles and tiny eyes. The tomatoes sport round eyes and lopsided grins. A cantaloupe has slanted eyes and a jagged mouth.

‘Surprised?’ Bela says.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I breathe, frozen in place, my heart still thumping in my chest.

‘I make Jack Lanterns for you.’ Her smile is broad as she places her arms around my neck. Her touch melts me. ‘Because you liked them as a child.’ And she kisses me. ‘And,’ she adds, holding my gaze unflinchingly, ‘it is because I love you, you see?’

Since Emma died no one has told me they’ve loved me in any convincing way – not even Mom. To hear those words again, it makes me feel like I’ve been living without oxygen for the last sixteen years. The words, they give me breath. I tell Bela I love her and we kiss this long kiss, like we’re both trying to crawl into the other to be kept safe and secure and together for all time. And in that kiss a whole future – a whole world is created. I will never leave Bela. I will follow her anywhere. I will father her children. I will die for her. I would even kill for her.

I gaze into her blue-green eyes. Her pupils are dilated large and they have a glassy look.

I say, ‘You’re a bit drunk.’

She laughs a little laugh. ‘Yes, my alleegator.’

‘And what happened to dinner?’ I smile, holding her in my arms.

‘We have wine,’ she answers, ‘and some bread. And if we get desperate, we can eat our Jack Lanterns.’

B
ela squeals a little as I collapse onto her. Our bodies are wet with sweat and our chests heave in unison as we catch our breath. ‘We gave them a show, no?’ she smiles exhaustedly.

We moved most of her jack-o-lanterns into the bedroom after we finished the wine. The pumpkin on the nightstand we carved the night before looks like he’s a proud father now, surrounded by all his little, glowing children. Bela kisses my mouth and gets out of bed. She walks in the dark, the light from her jack-o-lanterns dancing over her body. Her little paunch glistens with sweat. Her nipples are soft once again. When she walks past the glow of a cantaloupe I spy where my hands have left a bruise on her hip.