The Unforgiving Minute (16 page)

would be hard to duplicate anywhere. I smiled happily and took

in a deep breath of the cool, crisp air. I was as much at peace

with the world that morning as I’d been for a long, long time.

Chapter 6

The horse loped easily over the harder ground adjacent to

the beach. The Algarve, in southern Portugal, is an awesome

sight. The exquisite beaches are lined by high sandstone cliffs

and the rock formations edging the beach are fascinating to see.

They resemble the work of an avant-garde sculptor and each one is

different. There are tiny, hidden coves everywhere. I imagined

sunbathing and swimming with Lee in one of them, where we would

be hidden from the world and would spend hours taking pleasure in

each other’s bodies. She would arrive in about three days and I

was counting the minutes.

I had taken a suite at the Hotel Do Golf Da Penina. In

English the Penina Golf Hotel. The hotel featured twenty-seven

magnificent golf holes, tennis courts, a riding stable, and a

huge pool with sun decks and a great bar. The decor and setting

were dazzling and were a comfortable distance from the beach.

I kept myself busy playing golf, riding, swimming and

jogging. The temperature was quite warm for the fall but not at

all oppressive. I kept up my vigorous exercise schedule and

watched my diet religiously. I found myself admiring my tanned,

slim body and thinking that at last I was truly worthy of Lee.

As I rode, I looked at the girls on the beach in their

string bikinis. I had no desire for any of them. I only wanted

Lee. We would stay at the hotel for a week or two and then motor

on to the Costa Del Sol in nearby Spain and then northeast to

Barcelona.

I hadn’t written to Ann Marie to tell her of my

whereabouts and it suddenly dawned on me that if an emergency

were to occur back home, no one would know where I was. How

stupid of me. I was again letting romance fog my mind. I turned

the horse toward the hotel and spurred him to a gallop.

As I passed the desk I stopped to see if the mail had

arrived yet. There was a letter from Lee postmarked Switzerland.

When I arrived at my room I put the letter down, unopened, and

decided to save it until after I had written to Ann Marie, so

that I could properly savor it. My legs tingled in anticipation

but I sat and wrote a cordial letter to Ann Marie telling her

exactly where I was and where I intended to go. Again, I did not

mention Lee. I took the letter to the front desk and posted it

and returned to the room to read Lee’s letter in delicious

solitude. I could almost feel her perfect skin under my hands as

I opened the letter. I unfolded it slowly, prolonging the

anticipation. As I started to read the letter, my hands were

trembling and I broke into a cold sweat.

Dear Robert:

I thought that when we met, I had finally found

a man I could give myself to with no fear of betrayal. It

turns out that you are the most despicable man I have

ever met.

You knew when we met that I had been badly

hurt and had withdrawn from life in fear of being hurt

again. When I think of you, holding me in your arms,

telling me how hurt you were when your wife left you, I

get sick.

I called the Dinsmores to tell them of our

happiness and they told me the real story. It seems that

one day you just decided to leave your wife and family

and drop out of society. The Dinsmores couldn’t believe

that you would betray your wife. They told me you are a

wonderful couple. They also advise me to run from you

as fast as I can. This is exactly what I intend to do.

Don’t try to look for me. You won’t find me. I am not

going to New York or London but instead to a place

where I cannot be found.

I am trying to think of something nice to end

this letter but I cannot think of a thing. When I think of

you it only makes me ill.

Goodbye,

Chen Lee

I was in a daze. I felt lightheaded and nauseous. I lay

on my back and tried to escape through sleep but could only stare

at the ceiling. I felt sorry as hell for myself but I was really

ashamed at what I had done to this warm, beautiful, and tender

woman. It was yet another play in the Robert Boyd theater of the

absurd, yet another role I had played to perfection while

destroying the life of another human being. What was it about me

that allowed me to do these things, all the while thinking I was

making the other person happy? What I didn’t understand was that

they didn’t want to be in my play. They wanted it to be real.

There was no one to discuss this with, least of all the

Dinsmores, whose friendship I had most certainly lost. I thought

of Lee and tried to muster up the smell of her perfume, the taste

of her lips. I couldn’t not at all. The play was over and I

didn’t write the ending. I was all at once back to the

distraught shell of a man I had been in London. I was determined

not to put myself through the depression of yet another broken

romance but I could feel a pall coming over me. For the first

time in weeks, I wanted a drink desperately.

I slipped on a pair of black bikini-length trunks and a

terrycloth robe and headed for the outdoor bar near the pool.

As I descended in the elevator, I kept thinking of her and

what she must be going through. I really did care about her very

much. If I had told her the truth to start with, neither of us

would be in this predicament.

When I arrived at the pool, I looked at other couples

laughing or people by themselves, all seemingly content and

happy. I knew it couldn’t be possible, but I felt like the only

miserable person there. I vowed to scratch romance from my

agenda. Surely it was possible to have sex with a woman and not

possess her. It was strictly going to be sport fucking for me

from now on. Of course, the trouble with that was that I would

have to inform the lady of my intentions or lack of same from the

very beginning and, of course, they liked to play make-believe

too.

I ordered a large gin and tonic with a slice of lime and

retired to a chaise lounge. The drink felt great and by the time

I was on my second I was feeling no pain and mentally undressing

some of the ladies around the pool. There seemed to be a

plethora of attractive ladies around the pool who looked to be

unaccompanied, and I was determined to have a brief fling as a

transitory aid for my mental condition. I bypassed all of the

beautiful people and concentrated on those that I knew I would

never put into the goddess category. In a matter of minutes I

selected my prey.

She was on the heavy side but without flab. She was

possibly in her late forties or early fifties and showed a few

silver strands in her black hair. Her face was not beautiful but

had a classical look that would make one call it interesting.

I had no idea what her nationality was but I approached

her and spoke English.

“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help noticing that you’re alone

and I came here by myself to play some golf and I’m going kind of

crazy looking for someone to talk to.”

“That would be fine,” she said, with a decidedly French

accent. She reached out and shook my hand firmly, as a man

would.

“My name is Yvonne Metrier. I’m from Brussels.”

We chatted for some time with no semblance of flirting.

She was an architect and was in the area to design a villa for a

wealthy Englishman who loved the proximity of the golf courses

and the beach. She was married to a businessman who remained in

Brussels and had a grown son who was a university student in

England. She was extremely friendly but certainly not

flirtatious. I sat there in the hot afternoon sun, desperately

trying to seduce this plain, heavy woman. When the conversation

got around to what I was doing here, I did something novel for

me. I told the absolute truth. She listened intently as I told

the story, leaving out not a detail.

“Robert,” she said, pronouncing it in the French style,

“you Americans are so filled up with guilt that it’s no wonder

you feel you are going mad. We Europeans have more of a live—

and-let-live attitude. If my husband has a mistress, so be it.

Surely, I don’t want to know about her, but if she exists, c’est

la vie. Conversely, when I come home from my trips abroad, he

never questions where I’ve been or who I’ve been with. All we

know is that we have a marvelous relationship when we are

together and that is all that counts.”

I sensed an opening here. “Are you telling me that you

have affairs on these trips abroad?”

She looked at me with a look of mild amusement. “I’m

saying nothing of the kind. All I’m trying to say is that there

is no mistrust in our marriage, because the only trust necessary

is the trust that the marriage will last and we know that ours

will because it is devoid of petty jealousies. Jealousy does not

always apply to sex but sometimes it rears its ugly head over one

person working harder than the other or one person having more

fun than the other.

“I know that I could never love anyone else and neither

could Jacques and that, as you Americans say, is the bottom

line.”

“And how often do you check in with each other?” I asked.

“Never,” she said. “We both know where the other is in

case of an emergency and we don’t feel it necessary to call each

other to say that we love each other. We already know that.”

I kind of envied this attitude. I wondered whether I

would have woven the tangled web that was my life if the European

attitude prevailed.

When I looked at her with the perspiration dripping down

her face and her hair made stringy by the heat and dampness, I

found her not in the least sexually attractive. In addition, I

could see her obviously overweight body outlined in the black,

one-piece bathing suit. I had to admit, though, that her mind

and supreme authoritative confidence gave her an aura of power

that was very sensuous. Combined with her excellent accented

English spoken deeply and softly, I was still considering her as

a bed partner. I knew one thing though she was in charge. I

couldn’t remember another woman in my life who had that aura,

except possibly Ann Marie by virtue of her being ten years older

than I.

As I sat there, sipping gin and tonics and engaging in

this most interesting conversation, I found myself totally

relaxed.

All through the conversation, she kept looking at me with

an amused air. In my current state of mind, I wasn’t in the

least bit insulted.

I ordered another round of drinks from the bar. A gin and

tonic for me and a Pimms Cup with a slice of cucumber for her.

She took a sip and stared at me intently. “You should

really find something else to amuse you. It seems that games

with women and sex are your passion. You don’t seem to want to

relieve your physical desires like some men but rather to play

romantic roles, one after the other.”

“Pretty good,” I said. “I’ve kind of put that together

myself … but how do I stop and what do I replace it with? And

don’t tell me sports, because I do that anyway.”

“I don’t really know. I’m not a psychiatrist, you know;

I’m an architect.”

With that, she lay back and closed her eyes, seemingly

dismissing me. I lay there, looking around the pool and drinking

in the beauty of the surroundings. Soon I drifted off to sleep

and, when I awoke, she was gone. I looked at my watch. It was

six o’clock. I seemed to be the only one left at the pool and I

dejectedly left the area and returned to my room.

I ran myself a bath and sat luxuriously steeping myself in

the hot water while reading the Tribune. I realized I wasn’t all

that dejected this time. Maybe I was getting used to it. I lay

there in the hot steaming water, trying to plan my evening. I

was exhausted enough from my day of sun and mental strain to

retire immediately after my bath, but I knew that if I did that I

would awaken at one or two in the morning and toss and turn until

dawn. I was bound and determined not to be neurotic about this

latest broken romance and managed to keep my brain reasonably

free of any thoughts at all.

When the phone rang loudly, I realized that I was actually

nodding off in the bathtub. I couldn’t imagine who could be

calling me as I rose, dripping wet, to pick up the instrument

hanging on the bathroom wall.

“Hello,” I said tentatively, eagerly anticipating the

caller’s identity.

“How about joining me for dinner this evening,” Yvonne’s

unmistakably French accent came across the wire.

I was flabbergasted. My appraisal was that she found me

to be an amusing boob she couldn’t wait to shake.

“I would be delighted, Madame.” I hoped that my eagerness

and gratitude didn’t show too blatantly.

“Bon,” she said, “Meet me in the dining room at ten.”

I’d forgotten how late people ate in Iberia but I would

hold out until ten.

It was six-thirty and I was already starving. I remedied