standing in the door. I jumped up and ran at him violently with my fists. “Get out! Get out!” The door closed in my face. “Sorry, sorry—wrong room,” the bellman said, and left me pounding at my own door.
Thereafter, I slept less.
I spent the next day at the same spot on the beach, reading
Moby-Dick
in the sun and vaguely expecting Fabio. The man from the bar walked the quarter mile across the sand with a tray balanced on his palm and asked if I’d like a drink. Out of compassion, I ordered a rum and tonic. (He walked back across the sand, then returned again with the drink, then walked back across the sand to the bar again. Still later, he returned, inquired about my well-being and took the glass away.) I went for a swim. Later, while I ate a conch burger at the bar, the stool next to mine toppled over with a great noise. I’d been too engrossed in my book to see what happened—maybe I had kicked it. I recognized the Chinese woman with the eye patch walking calmly away from me toward the ocean. She wore a red bikini and a rope of pearls around her waist and enormous sunglasses and tall espadrilles. I picked up my napkin and saw that someone had scratched the words
FUCK US
into the wood of the bar with a knife.
At the hotel, I found Fabio sitting at my desk, looking out the window at the swimming pool.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I came to make love to you,” he said.
“You take your work too seriously,” I said. “You’re too used to being needed.” I sat down on the bed and took off my sandals.
He stood up and held out a small box wrapped in paper. “For you.”
I didn’t reach for the box—for some impersonal, irrelevant gift.
“You are married in the U.S.?” he said.
“Of course not.”
“So why do you come to the island, to meet new people?” He ran one finger slowly down my face and put the box in my hand. It wasn’t really wrapped; all I had to do was lift the lid. Chocolates.
“Baci,”
he said. “Sweet kisses to remember me.”
“Thank you,” I said, repelled by all these ideas—chocolate, sweet kisses, Fabio as a memory.
He put his cool hands around my sunburned back. “I don’t want that you forget your boyfriend,” he said. “I want only to feel hot with you.”
Next day the same: Fabio gone when I woke. I took the boat to the island again, walked through the allée of palms and spent the day reading
Moby-Dick
in the sand. I returned to my room around four o’clock and found Fabio sitting in the window, watching the women swim in the pool. He had a kitten in his lap, scruffy and black, wild and terrified—he must have picked it up in the street on his way. “I have you a gift,” he said.
“Are you crazy?” I said. “What am I going to do with a cat? I’m leaving in two days.”
He made a gesture with his hands that demonstrated the infinite possibilities of a kitten. “
La chatte
keeps you companywhen you are here, and then you can take it home on the airplane,” he said.
“I can’t take
la chatte
on the plane.”
He shrugged. “When you go, you put it on your little balcony and tell it to find a new house.”
We sat on the bed in our underwear, the kitten purring between us. “I cannot stay with you tonight,” Fabio said. “The Chinese lady feel jealous. This because she have buy me a car, a nice Trans Am.”
La chatte
’s legs and paws stiffened and trembled as it dreamed. Fabio swept it from the sheets with the back of his hand and the creature meowed and ran under the bed. I reached out for him from the dark well; I could almost see my hand rising up from that darkness, groping its way toward Fabio’s skin.
We spent the next day sunbathing. He watched while I read
Moby-Dick
. Fabio never read anything; he was a master of repose. Late in the afternoon, he said, “You became red as a langoustine.” It was true. That night, he stayed in the room and ran ice down my back. The ice felt cold, but Fabio’s body radiated a
Thereafter, I slept less.
I spent the next day at the same spot on the beach, reading
Moby-Dick
in the sun and vaguely expecting Fabio. The man from the bar walked the quarter mile across the sand with a tray balanced on his palm and asked if I’d like a drink. Out of compassion, I ordered a rum and tonic. (He walked back across the sand, then returned again with the drink, then walked back across the sand to the bar again. Still later, he returned, inquired about my well-being and took the glass away.) I went for a swim. Later, while I ate a conch burger at the bar, the stool next to mine toppled over with a great noise. I’d been too engrossed in my book to see what happened—maybe I had kicked it. I recognized the Chinese woman with the eye patch walking calmly away from me toward the ocean. She wore a red bikini and a rope of pearls around her waist and enormous sunglasses and tall espadrilles. I picked up my napkin and saw that someone had scratched the words
FUCK US
into the wood of the bar with a knife.
At the hotel, I found Fabio sitting at my desk, looking out the window at the swimming pool.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I came to make love to you,” he said.
“You take your work too seriously,” I said. “You’re too used to being needed.” I sat down on the bed and took off my sandals.
He stood up and held out a small box wrapped in paper. “For you.”
I didn’t reach for the box—for some impersonal, irrelevant gift.
“You are married in the U.S.?” he said.
“Of course not.”
“So why do you come to the island, to meet new people?” He ran one finger slowly down my face and put the box in my hand. It wasn’t really wrapped; all I had to do was lift the lid. Chocolates.
“Baci,”
he said. “Sweet kisses to remember me.”
“Thank you,” I said, repelled by all these ideas—chocolate, sweet kisses, Fabio as a memory.
He put his cool hands around my sunburned back. “I don’t want that you forget your boyfriend,” he said. “I want only to feel hot with you.”
Next day the same: Fabio gone when I woke. I took the boat to the island again, walked through the allée of palms and spent the day reading
Moby-Dick
in the sand. I returned to my room around four o’clock and found Fabio sitting in the window, watching the women swim in the pool. He had a kitten in his lap, scruffy and black, wild and terrified—he must have picked it up in the street on his way. “I have you a gift,” he said.
“Are you crazy?” I said. “What am I going to do with a cat? I’m leaving in two days.”
He made a gesture with his hands that demonstrated the infinite possibilities of a kitten. “
La chatte
keeps you companywhen you are here, and then you can take it home on the airplane,” he said.
“I can’t take
la chatte
on the plane.”
He shrugged. “When you go, you put it on your little balcony and tell it to find a new house.”
We sat on the bed in our underwear, the kitten purring between us. “I cannot stay with you tonight,” Fabio said. “The Chinese lady feel jealous. This because she have buy me a car, a nice Trans Am.”
La chatte
’s legs and paws stiffened and trembled as it dreamed. Fabio swept it from the sheets with the back of his hand and the creature meowed and ran under the bed. I reached out for him from the dark well; I could almost see my hand rising up from that darkness, groping its way toward Fabio’s skin.
We spent the next day sunbathing. He watched while I read
Moby-Dick
. Fabio never read anything; he was a master of repose. Late in the afternoon, he said, “You became red as a langoustine.” It was true. That night, he stayed in the room and ran ice down my back. The ice felt cold, but Fabio’s body radiated a
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