Sunburn (19 page)
It didn’t really much matter to me if we actually found our dinner in town. It had grown next to impossible for me to be around Lea, and any excuse to leave was good enough. The morning was exceptionally clear, and we drove slowly, watching the passing scenery, the lifting mist, the occasional white house with smoke rising from the chimney.
When we got into town, I parked just off the main road, and we walked together to the market, a group of stalls set around a square on the water side of town. There were a few permanent buildings with their faces open to the square, but the majority of the marketing was done in the little stalls, most of which closed for the day by siesta time. It was not crowded in the square, but a few people were up and about. We saw the fish booth we wanted, and crossed to it.
A small, fat man with an enormous mustache was filleting some white fish for display. His wife toiled over a sink behind him. The counter was piled high with fish, and on the right was a pile of the black mollusks we’d come for. The man seemed in no hurry to wait on us, and we stood and talked while I drank more of the wine. Finally, smiling patiently, I caught the man’s attention and offered him a drink from the bottle. Kyra spoke to the wife, while he joined me with the wine, and in a moment we had our plastic bag filled with a kilo or two, while the woman opened a few dozen and laid them on the counter. They ate them with vinegar and black pepper, and I saw no reason not to do likewise. When we’d paid and eaten quite a few each, I left him the bottle, and we walked back to the center of town.
There wasn’t really much to do so early in the morning, so we decided to stop in at a
tapas
bar for more to eat. I hadn’t had breakfast, and the mussels had whetted my appetite. Kyra said she’d just watch, but didn’t mind accompanying me. I ordered a tortilla and a beer, and we settled down at a booth across from each other.
tapas
bar for more to eat. I hadn’t had breakfast, and the mussels had whetted my appetite. Kyra said she’d just watch, but didn’t mind accompanying me. I ordered a tortilla and a beer, and we settled down at a booth across from each other.
“Jesus, this is a degenerate life.”
“I don’t think it has to be.”
“Is that directed at me?”
“Take it as you will.”
I finished the tortilla without speaking. Neither did I look up at her, though I sensed her eyes on me. I went to pick up my plate, but she put her hand, rather roughly, I thought, over mine.
“Just what is it,” she said, “that you don’t like about me?” When I started to protest, she went on, stopping me. “I don’t ask because I think about it often, or because I have any strong feelings for you either way, but it’s just a little weird. I’ve never had much trouble getting along with men. Is it that you can’t have me?”
“Well, aren’t we presumptuous?”
“Answer me, then.”
She had immediately taken her hand away from mine, but I found myself wishing that she hadn’t.
“You’re conceited,” I said. “Or maybe it’s Sean. I don’t know.”
“What about Sean?”
“You’re not good for him.”
“And what makes you the grand arbiter anyway? What’s he to you?”
“A friend,
comprendo?
”
comprendo?
”
“You know, you’re a nasty and vindictive little man. You’ve got some nerve telling me—”
I got up. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
She nearly screamed. “Yes, you do. Sit down, would you? Now, let me tell you a thing or two about Sean. And about being conceited, while we’re at it. Men find me attractive. What am I supposed to do about that? Act like I don’t know it? Since I’ve been a child, I’ve had men trying to fondle me, get close to me, talk to me. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t act like I knew it. Sure, I come on. It scares a lot of men off, and that’s a relief to me. Who needs it? But Sean—I don’t—I won’t have you thinking that I’m no good for him. I am what he needs, and though you may find it impossible to believe, I need him. Not just feel good about him, or want him to be my sugar daddy. There’s more going on inside him than in any ten men I’ve known before. Now you, with Lea acting her docile self in front of you—don’t you get up; I’m not done—you don’t have any idea of anything besides that stereotyped idea of a woman supporting her man. You know—and this isn’t the first time I’ve thought it—it occurs to me that that’s the whole problem with you two: there’s no way she can get to you without completely breaking away. There’s nothing else. She’s either with you in calm waters, always ready to support you, be the dutiful wife she has been, or she’s against you, and if you ask me, she’s gone over now. But Sean and I—well, we’re not like you. We fight, maybe too much. We try to stop. We’ve even succeeded to some degree since—since that Barcelona night. But you know, we feel things. Don’t you tell me I’m no good for him. You don’t go to bed with him. You don’t see the man I know. Sure he complains to you. What the hell can he do? Your whole frame of reference is master-slave, and maybe his used to be. That, and he’s been afraid, almost as afraid as I am, and that’s hard to overcome, but, believe me, we will overcome it. I’m not against him, but there’s a person inside me that counts. Maybe you should give your wife the same credit.”
I wanted to get up and run. I wanted to get up, hit her in the face, and run. She stopped for a moment, then went on.
“I’ve got a theory, you know?”
“Do you want me to ask about it?”
She paused. “You really are a small man.”
“Thank you.”
“And it’s funny, ’cause you’re not a bad man, I don’t think. I wonder if it’s just defenses.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is.”
She seemed to soften, staring at me. “Give me your hand.” I put my hand on the table and she took it in hers, kneading my palm softly. In spite of myself, I relaxed.
“Let me tell you my theory. I think I represent something that you envy. No, now don’t pull away. I’m not seducing you, and you know it. Let’s be calm now. I want you to understand.”
Her hand was closed now around mine, and the small physical contact took the tension away. I no longer wanted to run.
“See, Sean and I, we’re taking a chance, and we know it. And I think it’s pretty obvious to you, and maybe to Lea. You’ve been around us enough. And sometimes—no, all the time lately—I get the feeling you’d almost rather have Lea go away, or leave yourself, or at least have something change, but you don’t think it would really matter. So you do nothing. And you see us, fighting and being too loud, and laughing, and even getting beat up, and it all seems to make a difference, and you say to yourself, ‘Those children, isn’t that cute,’ but the other half of you thinks Sean is a fool, and resents me for being part of it, for bringing it out in him. And I’m glad I do, Douglas. He’s alive now. I know he’s happy.”
I knew she was right. And she did love him. I couldn’t keep myself from feeling that they were fooling themselves, but now I felt it, or was beginning to, with a certain sympathy.
About Lea and me, I didn’t know. The whole fabric of my life had been woven into a suit that maybe had become out-of-date. And part of that suit—maybe the left front pocket, ha-ha—demanded that externals be unruffled. Keeping that exterior up has taken its toll. Even if something did touch me, hurt me, reach me, would I admit it? Would I let it in?
Kyra sat across from me, holding my hand, earnest, and even as I took pleasure in her touch, I was amused by her sincerity. But kindly, now, kindly.
Let her love Sean. It would run its course. Lea had loved me, and it should matter more. So what was I? A victim of the age, an age that couldn’t produce tragedy? God, I really was out of date. Did I want to believe that it all related? That some cosmic order would be restored? Ha! A little personal order would do well enough.
But I saw then what I needed, and didn’t give it much hope. I needed to see some connection, some way that I could believe that everyday life counted for something, and like circles growing out from a rock hitting a pond, little events, perhaps meaningless in themselves, would take on some significance beyond themselves, if only to make us feel more in it all together.
But I looked across at her, intense and protective, angry that I felt the cold passage of the years in her warm hand, and saw her retreating back, further and further, surviving, until she was alone, too.
I smiled and squeezed her hand. “Can I meet you back at the car at around three? I want to do some thinking.”
“Sure,” she said. “I’m happy in town.”
I stood. “Thanks for trying.”
Fifteen
Sean wasn’t in the mood to talk. He had things to do, and he was annoyed that he’d given the car to Doug and Kyra. Besides, his head hurt, as it had since he’d been beaten, and he was seriously worried that he was going deaf.
He sat huddled in the backseat of the cab, buried under his jacket. He hadn’t taken many cabs since he’d moved here, and these men drove like maniacs. Worse, he was convinced they actually were maniacs.
How could he be so stupid as to forget his appointments today? You’d think the ear alone would have kept it on his mind. In spite of himself, he smiled. Nice to be disorganized for a change. But he shook his head to clear that thought away, and it throbbed anew. Not today. Today was for getting things done.
The cabbie took a corner too fast, and the car skidded, then left the road and slid for several yards, half fishtailing on the roadside. They bounced to a stop and the driver turned around with a ridiculous grin. Sean frowned at him.
“Slower, eh?” he said in Spanish.
The man shrugged his shoulders as though what had happened had been completely beyond his control. Then they began rolling again.
First he had to see the doctor in Blanes. Then he was meeting Tony and Marianne for lunch. And finally he’d made an appointment with his lawyer to check over his tax situation, his will, and his resident status, which seemed to change with the seasons, though he’d taken all the proper steps months before.
As soon as the cab reached Blanes, Sean stopped the driver and paid him off. Even if it meant a long walk, it was preferable to negotiating the streets in a taxi. Besides, he liked the city. It wasn’t only a resort town, although the hordes coming in daily from the beaches during the season gave it some of that character. It had its own downtown, and seemed to struggle successfully against the tourists. Here there were, to Sean’s mind, “real”
tapas
bars filled with genuine Spanish businessmen who felt the link between their work and their home-land, whose lives had changed little since the late ’50s, when the Costa Brava had “caught on.”
tapas
bars filled with genuine Spanish businessmen who felt the link between their work and their home-land, whose lives had changed little since the late ’50s, when the Costa Brava had “caught on.”
Of course, the air here wasn’t as clear. From time to time, when the wind was right, the whole city choked under a sulfur cloud from the factory by the train station. Today, he didn’t much care. Whenever he started smoking cigars in the morning, he would normally continue all day, and now he smoked as he walked, inhaling sometimes, and coughing.
Dr. Caldez was a man of about Sean’s age, with snow-white hair and a wispy mustache stained brown on one side from tobacco. He spoke in whispers only, and didn’t appear to have many patients. Sean always got right in to see him, and went back to him because he liked his style. He cared about medicine when he had a patient, and when he didn’t, it was the last thing on his mind. They’d gone out drinking together after one of Sean’s visits, which were infrequent, and the doctor had confessed that he liked his free time too much to have a really successful practice. Oh, when he’d been young, it had been different, but now he’d rather not work much. He preferred to sit in a park and observe things. He was an avid bird-watcher. In a couple of years, he planned to retire, and move to Madrid with his wife. Or maybe he’d go to Seville. It didn’t really matter. The change was the thing.
As usual, the office today was empty of patients. It was on the third floor of a six-story building that fronted the river, now dry, which, in season, ran through the town. Sean took the steps two at a time and greeted the elderly secretary courteously. The doctor, she explained, had only just arrived for his appointment, and would see him immediately.
They shook hands and talked for a while before Sean got down to his troubles. He sat deliberately close to the doctor so he could hear him.
“Really,” he explained, “it’s only the right ear that seems to have gone, although I’m not sure about that. The balance is wrong, you see.”
The doctor took out his instrument and looked in the ear.
“Ai.”
“Look bad?”
“Pretty badly infected. Does it still hurt?”
“I guess I’m pretty used to it.”
Caldez patted him on the shoulder. “That doesn’t make it better, now, does it? What are all these other bumps on your head?”
Sean explained about the beating he’d taken in Barcelona, making light of the episode as much as possible. The lumps had gone down significantly, though his head still hurt.
“Do you hear ringing? Do you black out?”
“Nope.”
“Any change in the ear after the beating?”
“No.”
The doctor sat down and lit a cigarette. He shook his head. “I’ll prescribe something for the infection, and it should clear up in a week or so. You should be more careful, you know.”
“I think the beating was just a fluke.”
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