the eye patch. “Watch out for her,” he said.
“Why?”
“She is sometimes my lover.”
We walked through the warm, dirty streets back to my hotel. Fabio took my arm, a gesture I didn’t expect, and walked me up the steps of the Pamplemousse. Inside, he steered me into the seedy bar off the lobby, where we sat down on a vinyl sofa and he ordered two coffees. I’d been on the island for about five hours and felt amazed by the progress I’d made.
“What do you do here?” I asked him.
“How do I say? I am sometimes a gigolo,” he said. He took my hand when he said it, his face very serious. “You understand?”
“You mean women pay you to make love to them,” I said.
“Sometimes, yes,” he said, “it’s true.”
“Well, I’m not going to pay you to make love to me,” I said.
“Not necessary,” he agreed.
Ordinary conversation was impossible between us. That helped. He wore his body like beautiful clothing made just for him. He covered me with it, then pulled back so we both could see. It was the first time I felt part of a human transaction, sexually, and not as if I’d simply given over the insistently desired thing. He put one hand between my legs and said, “Show me her.” And I did. A dense, surprising pleasure ran like current between us. Communication improved. Against the silence of the room I listened to the sounds we made—wet, generative sounds, as if we were actually melting into each other. I realized what this was: I invited Fabio to enter me, and he entered the vast, indefinite interior. For a little while the terrible lonely immensity of my body was colonized, filled with Fabio’s uncircumcised and lively penis and something else, my heart fluttering in the dark space like a cornered butterfly. I envisionedmy individual life as a dark belly from whose depths I might occasionally reach a hand to another person. My body spoke to Fabio with thrilling directness. His fingers entered my mouth and ear, and moved communicatively.
In the morning, my new lover was gone. I put on my bathing suit and dropped a towel, suntan oil and
Moby-Dick
into my straw bag. While I brushed my teeth, I found a watch on a shelf above the sink, a heavy, expensive-looking lattice of gold and platinum. It chilled me to find a piece of Fabio left behind, and I left the watch where I’d found it. On the ferry, I wondered, What if the bellman steals the watch? What if Fabio blames me? On the island, a long allée of palm trees led to a loud knot of sunbathers on the beach. As Fabio had suggested, I walked until the bathers were no longer in the picture and laid my towel on the sand.
I opened up
Moby-Dick
and read “not clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment.” The line’s delicate resonance induced a pang of complicated pleasure and opened up new vistas in my mind, from which I was immediately distracted by Fabio standing above me, serious in the sun.
He peeled away his jeans to reveal a European bikini. A waiter from the cabana walked the quarter mile down the beach with an empty tray on his palm and offered cocktails. Fabio said no, the beach was not to drink, and the waiter retreated.
“You will have lines on your body if you wear a bathing suit,” Fabio advised.
Your body
. He removed a watch from his wrist and laid it on my straw bag.
“Is that your watch?” I asked him. “You left it in my room.”
“No problem,” he said. “I go there.”
“How did you get in?”
“The bellman is kind and allows me to enter,” he said, and untied my top.
In the afternoon, we walked back to the boat together. Fabio said he had a
faccenda;
he would come to the hotel later. I took myself out to dinner at one of the overpriced cafés along the promenade and read
Moby-Dick
until the words grew too dim to see.
Hours later, the door to my room opened suddenly—a bright window in the dark. I thought it must be Jess just back from her carrel at the library. But Jess turned into the bellman
“Why?”
“She is sometimes my lover.”
We walked through the warm, dirty streets back to my hotel. Fabio took my arm, a gesture I didn’t expect, and walked me up the steps of the Pamplemousse. Inside, he steered me into the seedy bar off the lobby, where we sat down on a vinyl sofa and he ordered two coffees. I’d been on the island for about five hours and felt amazed by the progress I’d made.
“What do you do here?” I asked him.
“How do I say? I am sometimes a gigolo,” he said. He took my hand when he said it, his face very serious. “You understand?”
“You mean women pay you to make love to them,” I said.
“Sometimes, yes,” he said, “it’s true.”
“Well, I’m not going to pay you to make love to me,” I said.
“Not necessary,” he agreed.
Ordinary conversation was impossible between us. That helped. He wore his body like beautiful clothing made just for him. He covered me with it, then pulled back so we both could see. It was the first time I felt part of a human transaction, sexually, and not as if I’d simply given over the insistently desired thing. He put one hand between my legs and said, “Show me her.” And I did. A dense, surprising pleasure ran like current between us. Communication improved. Against the silence of the room I listened to the sounds we made—wet, generative sounds, as if we were actually melting into each other. I realized what this was: I invited Fabio to enter me, and he entered the vast, indefinite interior. For a little while the terrible lonely immensity of my body was colonized, filled with Fabio’s uncircumcised and lively penis and something else, my heart fluttering in the dark space like a cornered butterfly. I envisionedmy individual life as a dark belly from whose depths I might occasionally reach a hand to another person. My body spoke to Fabio with thrilling directness. His fingers entered my mouth and ear, and moved communicatively.
In the morning, my new lover was gone. I put on my bathing suit and dropped a towel, suntan oil and
Moby-Dick
into my straw bag. While I brushed my teeth, I found a watch on a shelf above the sink, a heavy, expensive-looking lattice of gold and platinum. It chilled me to find a piece of Fabio left behind, and I left the watch where I’d found it. On the ferry, I wondered, What if the bellman steals the watch? What if Fabio blames me? On the island, a long allée of palm trees led to a loud knot of sunbathers on the beach. As Fabio had suggested, I walked until the bathers were no longer in the picture and laid my towel on the sand.
I opened up
Moby-Dick
and read “not clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment.” The line’s delicate resonance induced a pang of complicated pleasure and opened up new vistas in my mind, from which I was immediately distracted by Fabio standing above me, serious in the sun.
He peeled away his jeans to reveal a European bikini. A waiter from the cabana walked the quarter mile down the beach with an empty tray on his palm and offered cocktails. Fabio said no, the beach was not to drink, and the waiter retreated.
“You will have lines on your body if you wear a bathing suit,” Fabio advised.
Your body
. He removed a watch from his wrist and laid it on my straw bag.
“Is that your watch?” I asked him. “You left it in my room.”
“No problem,” he said. “I go there.”
“How did you get in?”
“The bellman is kind and allows me to enter,” he said, and untied my top.
In the afternoon, we walked back to the boat together. Fabio said he had a
faccenda;
he would come to the hotel later. I took myself out to dinner at one of the overpriced cafés along the promenade and read
Moby-Dick
until the words grew too dim to see.
Hours later, the door to my room opened suddenly—a bright window in the dark. I thought it must be Jess just back from her carrel at the library. But Jess turned into the bellman
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