The Last Time They Met (28 page)
Read The Last Time They Met Online
Authors: Anita Shreve
Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Adult
—
We enjoyed the fuck.
We enjoyed the fuck.
He smiled.
So we did.
So we did.
He let his gaze shift slightly toward the beach. Something had caught his attention, something he hadn’t noticed before: at either end of the bathing area, the beachgoers were nude. A man with saggy buttocks had his back to him and was speaking to a woman lying on a blanket. He could see her hair, but not her body.
—
Was it ever easy?
he asked.
Was it ever easy?
he asked.
—
You mean light?
You mean light?
—
I mean not serious.
I mean not serious.
—
No.
No.
He rubbed his face. Sunburn had tightened his skin. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. They were wasting precious moments together. He wanted to return to the house, where they could make love again, but he knew they might have to wait until it was cooler. Perhaps there was a military truck returning to the village.
—
The one thing I miss,
he said,
is music.
The one thing I miss,
he said,
is music.
—
You don’t have any tapes?
she asked.
You don’t have any tapes?
she asked.
—
I had tapes. But they were stolen. The tape recorder, too. I wonder what’s popular right now.
I had tapes. But they were stolen. The tape recorder, too. I wonder what’s popular right now.
They sat in easy silence. A dhow skimmed the horizon. Ancient. Unchanged for centuries.
—
What was Rich’s visit like?
What was Rich’s visit like?
—
Oh, it was wonderful, apart from the fact that he got sick with malaria. We’d told him to take the pills in advance, but, I don’t know, he’s only sixteen.
Oh, it was wonderful, apart from the fact that he got sick with malaria. We’d told him to take the pills in advance, but, I don’t know, he’s only sixteen.
—
Is he OK?
Is he OK?
—
Yes. He’s recovering in Nairobi.
Yes. He’s recovering in Nairobi.
—
Are you making any progress with Ndegwa?
she asked.
Are you making any progress with Ndegwa?
she asked.
—
Well, there’s the embassy party at the Intercontinental. Will you come?
Well, there’s the embassy party at the Intercontinental. Will you come?
—
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
—
You’d come with Peter?
he asked.
You’d come with Peter?
he asked.
She glanced away. She seemed exhausted. The bus from Malindi would have been grueling. He remembered a long trip to Eldoret that he and Regina had once taken on a bus, and how the driver had stopped so that all the passengers could get out to piss. The women, including Regina, had squatted, letting their long skirts cover themselves.
—
You never had a problem with the letters?
she asked.
You never had a problem with the letters?
she asked.
—
No,
he said.
I loved them.
No,
he said.
I loved them.
—
I find them frustrating,
she said.
Inadequate.
I find them frustrating,
she said.
Inadequate.
He sat up, a sudden anger straightening his spine.
How could you?
he asked, tossing his cigarette onto the cement floor.
How could you?
he asked, tossing his cigarette onto the cement floor.
She flinched, startled by the non sequitur, the sudden change of tone.
How could I what?
How could I what?
—
Sleep with Peter.
Sleep with Peter.
—
Sleep with Peter?
Sleep with Peter?
Thomas refused to retract the question. He thought it a reasonable one: how could she, after that Sunday in Njia, be with another man?
He combed his hair with his fingers. He needed a bath. Jesus, he must stink. An ugliness that had no place at that table, a stench more sickly sweet than the open sewers of Lamu, was suffocating him. He made an effort to breathe in the ocean air.
—
You expected on the strength of one meeting after nine years apart that I would tell Peter our marriage was over?
she asked, her voice conveying her incredulity.
You expected on the strength of one meeting after nine years apart that I would tell Peter our marriage was over?
she asked, her voice conveying her incredulity.
—
Yes,
he said.
Basically.
Yes,
he said.
Basically.
—
I can’t believe you’re saying this.
I can’t believe you’re saying this.
—
Why not?
he asked.
Would you walk away from this now? Just tell me you could go back to a life with Peter and never see me again.
Why not?
he asked.
Would you walk away from this now? Just tell me you could go back to a life with Peter and never see me again.
She was silent a long time.
—
So,
he said.
Then.
So,
he said.
Then.
She put her fingers to her forehead. He saw that she had gone deathly pale.
—
Are you all right?
he asked.
Are you all right?
he asked.
—
I need to lie down.
I need to lie down.
______
It was the water or the lobster or the drinking or the walk in the heat or the ridiculously painful questions he’d been asking her. She’d grown so pale so quickly that he thought she might faint. She said,
Please,
and he didn’t know if she meant please stop talking or please help me. He did both. She leaned her weight on him and let him help her inside. But once inside, she lurched away, spoke rapidly to a middle-aged blonde behind a desk, and then disappeared around a corner. Thomas stood in the middle of the small, trim lobby wondering what had just happened.
Please,
and he didn’t know if she meant please stop talking or please help me. He did both. She leaned her weight on him and let him help her inside. But once inside, she lurched away, spoke rapidly to a middle-aged blonde behind a desk, and then disappeared around a corner. Thomas stood in the middle of the small, trim lobby wondering what had just happened.
—
Has she been ill?
the woman asked. British accent. Polka-dot dress.
Has she been ill?
the woman asked. British accent. Polka-dot dress.
Thomas shook his head.
—
Pregnant?
Pregnant?
The question rattled him. It was a moment before he could respond.
I don’t know,
he had to say, admitting that he might not know her that well.
I don’t know,
he had to say, admitting that he might not know her that well.
—
What did she eat?
What did she eat?
—
Here? Grapefruit and water.
Here? Grapefruit and water.
—
Well, it’s unlikely to have been the grapefruit. The water is bottled. Anything earlier today?
Well, it’s unlikely to have been the grapefruit. The water is bottled. Anything earlier today?
Thomas thought about their lunch at Petley’s.
Chicken,
he said. And then he remembered.
Lobster. She had lobster cocktail.
Chicken,
he said. And then he remembered.
Lobster. She had lobster cocktail.
—
Where?
Where?
—
Petley’s.
Petley’s.
—
Oh,
the woman said, as if that settled it.
Oh,
the woman said, as if that settled it.
But had Linda actually eaten the lobster? He tried to remember. And how could either she or he have been so foolish as to have ordered lobster in the first place? Never eat shellfish that you didn’t know positively was fresh, they told you in the training sessions.
—
Let me see to her,
the woman said.
Let me see to her,
the woman said.
He waited on a camelbacked couch and watched bathers come and go in varying states of undress. One woman had tied a kanga at her breasts and was clearly naked underneath, the cloth barely covering her. An elderly gentleman in a pale blue seersucker suit sat beside him and said, by way of a pleasantry,
Lovely day.
Lovely day.
—
Yes, it is,
Thomas said, though he didn’t believe it. Many words might apply to the day
—
momentous; heart-breaking; wrenching
—
but
lovely
was not among them.
Yes, it is,
Thomas said, though he didn’t believe it. Many words might apply to the day
—
momentous; heart-breaking; wrenching
—
but
lovely
was not among them.
The man’s eyes watered some. He had high color and white hair, and Thomas thought the words
Old gentleman.
A peculiar smell of age, masked by cologne or hair tonic, seemed to emanate from deep inside his body. His cheeks, blotchy pink and red-veined, might have to be described as rosy. An elderly woman entered the lobby, and the old gentleman stood, waiting for her. She walked with slow steps, her back slightly stooped. Her white hair had been carefully combed and pinned, and she wore long ropes of pearls over a peach-colored silk blouse. She had the high waist of middle-age, but still there was a waist. Her mulberry pumps moved slowly forward in short steps.
Old gentleman.
A peculiar smell of age, masked by cologne or hair tonic, seemed to emanate from deep inside his body. His cheeks, blotchy pink and red-veined, might have to be described as rosy. An elderly woman entered the lobby, and the old gentleman stood, waiting for her. She walked with slow steps, her back slightly stooped. Her white hair had been carefully combed and pinned, and she wore long ropes of pearls over a peach-colored silk blouse. She had the high waist of middle-age, but still there was a waist. Her mulberry pumps moved slowly forward in short steps.
She took the old gentleman’s arm, and Thomas noticed that he put his hand over hers. Together they walked out to the verandah. Were they widowed? Were they married?
Christ,
he thought, turning.
he thought, turning.
Another man, nearer his own age, dark-haired and good-looking, took a step backward into the lobby from the verandah. He seemed to be trying to take a picture of the ocean. For a moment, he fiddled with his camera, pressing buttons and trying levers; but then the camera, with a life of its own, popped open, surprising him. The man extracted the film from the camera and tossed the now useless canister into the wastebasket.
The blond proprietress returned from the bathroom and went directly to her desk. She unlocked a cupboard.
—
How is she?
Thomas asked, standing.
How is she?
Thomas asked, standing.
—
A bit peaky,
the woman said. Thomas wondering if this might be an example of British understatement. She poured a brown liquid into a tiny paper cup.
A bit peaky,
the woman said. Thomas wondering if this might be an example of British understatement. She poured a brown liquid into a tiny paper cup.
—
What’s that?
Thomas asked.
What’s that?
Thomas asked.
—
Oh,
said the woman, turning.
Best not to think about it.
Oh,
said the woman, turning.
Best not to think about it.
Pure opium, Thomas thought, deciding to think about it.
—
Is there a doctor we could call?
Is there a doctor we could call?
—
No, I shouldn’t think so,
the woman said.
You’ll want to get her home, though. Not tonight, but first thing in the morning. We have a provisions lorry that goes into the village at six forty-five
A
.
M
. Get you there in time for the seven-thirty to Nairobi.
No, I shouldn’t think so,
the woman said.
You’ll want to get her home, though. Not tonight, but first thing in the morning. We have a provisions lorry that goes into the village at six forty-five
A
.
M
. Get you there in time for the seven-thirty to Nairobi.
But she’s not going to Nairobi, Thomas thought.
—
In any event,
the woman continued, still holding the spoon in her hand,
you’re in luck.
(No, I’m not, Thomas thought.)
A man and a woman who came separately have decided to share a room.
In any event,
the woman continued, still holding the spoon in her hand,
you’re in luck.
(No, I’m not, Thomas thought.)
A man and a woman who came separately have decided to share a room.
—
Optimistic,
Thomas said.
Optimistic,
Thomas said.
—
Yes. Quite. But it leaves a room free.
Yes. Quite. But it leaves a room free.
—
Thank you. Is it ready now?
Thank you. Is it ready now?
—
Take the key,
the woman said over her shoulder as she walked to the rest room.
It’s in the box there. Number twenty-seven. I’ll bring her in.
Take the key,
the woman said over her shoulder as she walked to the rest room.
It’s in the box there. Number twenty-seven. I’ll bring her in.
Implicit in the instructions: She wouldn’t want you to see her now.
______
The room was surprisingly simple and appealing. Done almost entirely in white. White walls, white bedding, white curtains, a khaki-colored sisal rug. A dressing table with an ivory skirt. The lack of color drew the eye through the windows to the ocean, to the turquoise and navy of the water. A good room to be sick in, he reflected. Easy on the eye. Though it was impossible not to think of how it might have been: a night in that room with Linda feeling well. Feeling happy.
He walked to the window and examined the view. Could they ever be happy? he wondered. All their meetings
—
assuming that there would be any meetings at all
—
would have to be furtive, a framework in which neither of them could be truly happy. And if they allowed the catastrophic to happen, could either of them live with the consequences? What chance for happiness then?
—
assuming that there would be any meetings at all
—
would have to be furtive, a framework in which neither of them could be truly happy. And if they allowed the catastrophic to happen, could either of them live with the consequences? What chance for happiness then?
At a table not far from his window, the elderly man in the seersucker suit gazed with rheumy eyes at the woman across from him. No one would doubt that he loved her. Thomas might have drawn the drapes, but he was reluctant to shut out the tableau of the older couple, who might be secret lovers themselves. They seemed reassuring, a good omen.
It would be easy to say how unfair it had all been. Yet it was he who hadn’t driven to Middlebury; she who hadn’t written to him that summer. Why hadn’t he broken down doors to get to her?
—
I’m so sorry,
Linda said behind him.
I’m so sorry,
Linda said behind him.
—
Don’t,
Thomas said, going to her.
Don’t,
Thomas said, going to her.
She averted her face, unwilling to be kissed, even on the cheek. She sat on the bed. The British woman, who had helped her in, set open bottles of mineral water and Coca-Cola on the dressing table.
—
Give her sips of the Coca-Cola,
the woman said.
It will help to settle her stomach. Though I’d be very surprised if she didn’t sleep now.
Give her sips of the Coca-Cola,
the woman said.
It will help to settle her stomach. Though I’d be very surprised if she didn’t sleep now.
When she left, Thomas removed Linda’s sandals. Her feet were hard and dirty, lined at the heels. Her legs, the color of toast, contrasted sharply with the milk-white of her face; the legs and the face seemed to belong to two different people. Already, he could see, her lips had gone dry and were cracked and split at the center.
—
You need water,
he said. He brought her a glass of water and held her head, but she was almost too tired to swallow. Some trickled onto her neck, and he wiped it away with the sheet. He didn’t try to remove her dress, but laid her under the sheet. She drifted in and out of consciousness, seemed lucid when she came to, saying his name and
I’m sorry,
which he let her do. He propped pillows against the headboard and sat with his hand on her head
—
sometimes stroking her hair, sometimes just touching her. Whatever storm had blown through her earlier appeared to have passed, though Thomas knew it would come again, and it might be days before she could eat. He hoped it wasn’t shellfish poisoning. (And she must have had a cholera shot, he thought.) Despite the crisis, he felt content just to sit there with her, nearly as content as he’d felt at the museum house. And thinking of the house, he remembered Mr. Salim, who might worry when Thomas did not return for the night. He thought of calling, but then realized he knew neither the phone number nor the name of the owner of the house. Checking his watch, he saw that it was too late for any museum to be open.
You need water,
he said. He brought her a glass of water and held her head, but she was almost too tired to swallow. Some trickled onto her neck, and he wiped it away with the sheet. He didn’t try to remove her dress, but laid her under the sheet. She drifted in and out of consciousness, seemed lucid when she came to, saying his name and
I’m sorry,
which he let her do. He propped pillows against the headboard and sat with his hand on her head
—
sometimes stroking her hair, sometimes just touching her. Whatever storm had blown through her earlier appeared to have passed, though Thomas knew it would come again, and it might be days before she could eat. He hoped it wasn’t shellfish poisoning. (And she must have had a cholera shot, he thought.) Despite the crisis, he felt content just to sit there with her, nearly as content as he’d felt at the museum house. And thinking of the house, he remembered Mr. Salim, who might worry when Thomas did not return for the night. He thought of calling, but then realized he knew neither the phone number nor the name of the owner of the house. Checking his watch, he saw that it was too late for any museum to be open.
Other books
Forgive Me by Eliza Freed
Ruining Me by Reed, Nicole
A Soul's Kiss by Debra Chapoton
Starlight(Pact Arcanum 4) by Arshad Ahsanuddin
Dark Moon by Elizabeth Kelly
Dark of the Moon by Karen Robards
Lark by Cope, Erica
Dirty Tricks One Up On You html by Myla Jackson
Death Watch by Berk, Ari
Falling Away by Devon Ashley
