White Vespa (20 page)

“Things!” Anne exclaimed, teasing.

“And for you, for your depth in the world of things. The body needs depth, and shadows, to really be there. And I think we've got to be there in our bodies. Well, maybe not for romance, but for Eros, for the real god, creator, destroyer.”

“Want me to destroy you?” Anne asked, coming closer.

“I want to be destroyed. Not by you, with you. I want you to be destroyed, too. That we should get up from the bed different people. It's what I always want.”

“You want a lot,” she said.

“I do,” he whispered, “give it to me.”

“Don't I try?”

She had covered him with her wet hair. Then she had his head in her hands, and she was kissing him. “Come on,” she said, “the shadows are deeper in there.” She nodded toward the alcove then led him toward the narrow bed still rumpled from another night's sleep. “You used to be such a neat man,” she whispered, her eyes mischievous as she lay curled on the bed next to him, looking into his eyes. “Then one day you got up a different man, a not-so-neat man.”

“That's true.”

“And tomorrow?” she asked, suddenly serious.

“A different man again.”

“So who do I love?”

“I don't know,” Myles said.

“I don't want to destroy you,” Anne suddenly sobbed.

“Oh Anne! But you have, and I want you to.” Then he said, “Come to me,” and she rolled over against him, her hips warm against his thighs. He pushed her hair away and ran his teeth over the nape of her neck, and she shivered, and they were through with talking.

 

“Myles?”

Myles propped open one eye and looked into Anne's face.

“Could you take me back to my place?”

“You sure you want to?” Myles asked.

“I don't want to but I can't get to sleep. Will you take me?”

 

Myles kicked the Vespa to life. He switched on the light and the yellow beam
cast a garish glow on the great boulders that littered the landscape. As he swung the white Vespa out from under the olive tree the light washed over the yard and settled on his small house, on Anne just coming out the rust-red door, tall and dark and suddenly looking gaunt again. Myles rode slowly to her, stopping in front of the door then wheeling the bike around to face the track out to the road. Anne got on, slipping between Myles and the upright spare tire.

The air chilled them as they swam through the curves into Yialós; it was late, very late, and the heat of the day had given way long since to a sea-cooled night. They sank into it, into a town submerged in sleep and spectral in the Vespa's lamp and the shimmering cones under the streetlights. Everything shut up. The streets empty and the alleys empty. The low puttering of the Vespa came back to them as a muted echo as they rode past the still walls. At the harbor Myles turned left and they ran along the water where small fishing boats were riding out the night and then by the yachts, now dark, too. The lit clock tower hung in the sky in front of them and then they were to it, again bearing left. Myles pulled to a stop at the foot of the stairs that led to Anne's rooms and she got off, leaning on him heavily, her arms around his neck and her mouth at his ear.

“Will you come for me tomorrow?” she said, the sound of her voice mixing with the sound of the idling Vespa. “For a picnic. Just you and me. And a grill.”

“Grilled what?”

“Fish.” Anne said. “I'll buy something good in the morning.”

“What should I bring?”

“The rest! Surprise me.”

Myles was backing the Vespa in a tight arc, ready to go, when Anne came back down the stairs. “About two?”

Myles nodded and yawned, though he tried to suppress it. Anne grinned at him, looking indulgent, tender.

 

Sometime before dawn the rain came in a clamor of thunder, crooked lightning illuminating the neoclassic facades of Sými town for a flash before the darkness swarmed back. Myles stood in the ruins of an old house high over the harbor, taking shelter. He'd stayed out after dropping Anne, preferring to walk out the night rather than try for the sleep he knew would elude him. The storm had caught him far from his Vespa and far from home, again walking the high alley where he'd once seen the leaping woman between buildings. Now he looked out over the buildings themselves to the town as it appeared suddenly lit up by a flash of lightning. He closed his eyes, watched the afterimage of the buildings glow and fade, beautiful and ghostly. He shook his head, no camera. He hadn't grown tired of Sými's beauty, still wanted it, more of it, and maybe the camera didn't really help him hold it. He looked, but he was cold and ready for the sun, large and yellow, to warm him after the long dark night. Then the rain did stop and the clouds opened, and the last of the stars shone pale over the town lights also going pale in the glow of the coming day.

Myles stepped away from cover, retracing his steps over the shining cobbles to the Katarráktes, the backstairs down to Sými town and the Vespa he'd left propped on its stand out in the open. The little town, for all its grand staginess, had taken him in, felt like home to him now, if only for awhile. The summer world would not last. Even if he stayed, it would go. His friends would go. He'd known it from the beginning. But people coming, people going, Myles didn't think it made the summer world any less real. What else did people ever do? What was life if not transitory? And life finally did not admit of understanding. Even the small life of an island is unknowable. Myles wondered idly as he walked the steps down if it mattered what you called that final unknowing. He thought it did. He thought it was best to think of it as mystery. He thought love made it mystery, and that you had to love to really live, for living to matter.

The Vespa stood at the foot of the stairs looking frail and abandoned. Myles squeegeed the rainwater off the bike's wide seat with his hand and grimaced, the seat was sodden. Not so mysterious, he thought, getting on, but real. He laughed although he was alone.

 

“You're not leaving because of that?” Jim asked, quizzically. “We all wanted to.”

The rooms had the disordered look of departure, things not packed but gathered into piles. Jim sat edgily on the couch, watching Michael, who was pacing, glancing uneasily toward Blue's closed door.

“No, not just because of that,” he said at last. “I'm glad I gave him a shot. It's just that this surrogate dad stuff has gotten, well, less fun. I think there's a reason dads get years to prepare for teenagers. I, anyway, sure as hell am not prepared.”

“Come on, you make a gallant dad,” Jim said.

“Ha, ha. Anyway, it's about time to deliver Blue back to her real dad, and, as long as she's here, I think she should see a little more of Greece.”

“But what about us, Michael?” Jim had gotten very quiet.

“That's the other thing. She's kind of in the way, don't you think?” Michael had stopped behind Jim's chair and pressed a hand to his shoulder.

“Of course, but she's been in the way all along, and being together seems far better than being apart.” Jim was looking down, between his knees, at his hands, which seemed to hang there like a mason's.

Michael crossed his arms around Jim's chest and leaned down next to his ear. “This isn't good-bye, you know? The other reason I want to get back to the States early is to start looking for a new job, in Columbus, or Cleveland . . .”

Blue's door swung wide, and she stood in it, looking a little flushed. “What is this?” She gazed at the two of them critically, “It
could
be an embrace. And Jim, you're looking kinda teary eyed.”

“Stuff it, Blue,” Michael shot back, but affectionately.

“Ah, some kind of big talk . . . I get it. But watch the sweaty embraces, please! Family values, don't forget.”

“Right,” Jim said. “Blue, you can call me uncle Jim, and I'll give you nothing but good sober advice on all of life's big questions. What do you say?”

“What do I say? Like, thanks!” Blue grinned, a little too bright-eyed.

“So, what's up?” Michael asked, watching Blue fidget with her watch then reach for the door handle.

“Just going out, to hang out. You know?” Blue said.

“Until when?” Jim touched Michael's hand.

“Couple hours? Not too long. Have we got a plan for later?”

“Maybe,” Michael said as Blue disappeared out the door, “a celebration . . .”

 

They ran down. The alleys were narrow and Yórgos ran flat out, arms spread as if to fly, his fingers brushing the crumbling walls here and there. Váso was running too, but losing ground, and she started to shrill, a high keening, that whistled down the alley in front of her and bounded back. When she crossed a side alley the echo broke and for a second she seemed to float through a sunny vacuum, then it was back, and she was in the shade, still running. She saw Yórgos turn his head when he hit the Kalí Stráta before bolting left, on down. When she leapt onto the steps herself she had to dodge two old ladies in black, their heads covered in shawls, who reached for her, trying to shush her.

Yórgos, she could see him below, was airplaning his way down, running a lazy meander between the walls, slower; she began to catch up, and she yelled, “Yórgos!” once, very loudly. She was almost up with him when they cut through Vapori
,
dodging the waiters, still running. Toward To Stenáki, Váso suddenly realized. When they saw Mr. Myles coming out of the bakery they veered away from him, looked away.

Myles turned his head, watching them go. “Huh,” he said, to no one in particular. He was carrying two fresh baguettes, each in its own sack, and when he turned back from staring after the kids he tied the bread to the back of the Vespa with a bungee cord. He stood next to his bike for a minute, searching the pockets of his khakis for a shopping list. Even as he looked for the list he knew he wanted more than what was on it. He wanted a gift, something exotic beyond what he'd be able to find on little Sými. He located the list in the loose pocket of his khaki shirt, and stared at it.
With fish
, he'd scrawled at the top of a scrap torn off a photograph that hadn't turned out, and nothing more.

He kicked the bike alive and swung forward and around, one foot out, skimming the ground, as he pivoted around his sandal. Then he rode down the alley, past the familiar shop fronts, some bustling, some sunk in an afternoon doze. At To Stenáki he waved to Paniyótis and saw the kids, still shy of him, duck through the open doors inside. Another odd thing, he thought, and rode on.

 

“It's nothing, Myles. Let it alone.”

“Nothing! What the hell happened?” Myles was trying to get a look at the right side of Anne's face, but she shied. “Jesus, Jesus. Nothing?”

He hadn't noticed at first, had been busy with the bulky packages he was tying to the back of the Vespa to make room for her. Then he had noticed, the awkwardness that came from keeping her head turned away, the puffiness around the sunglasses, and the purple bruise that spread from the glasses out over her cheek to a raw, half-moon cut over her cheekbone.

“I been hit harder. I'm gonna get over it.” Anne sounded exasperated.

“Yeah? But what happened? Tell me!”

“Tell you what? I got slugged, all right? Please, please, Myles. Let's just go. Get on the Vespa and ride.”

Myles heard the tears before he saw them, and he acquiesced. He couldn't insist in the face of her tears.

“I need to swim.” She'd stepped over the back of the Vespa and wrapped her arms tight around Myles' waist.

He could feel her tears on his neck. He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. He started the Vespa and rocked it off its stand, jumping away from the steps and onto the paraléia
.
He drove out, away from Sými town, by the boatyards and around the point, and down the gravel track that led to the beaches.

“I'll tell you, Myles. I promise. This doesn't have to be the whole day, does it? We can still live, can't we?”

“We can try,” he said quietly, too low for Anne to hear over the throb of the Vespa.

 

At a steep pebble beach, a small beach between rocky points, Anne leaned forward and said next to Myles' ear, “Here.”

Myles swung his head around, surprised. “Here?” It was a nude beach
already populated by day trippers off the excursion boats. They usually rode on. But Myles braked the bike to a stop and stepped through, holding the Vespa upright while Anne swung off and started down the stony beach, her straw bag over her arm and chaffing at her hip. Myles watched her out of the corner of his eye as he unstrapped the bags, the baguettes, a string bag full of groceries, and a canvas bag bulging with a small grill and a plastic sack of the rough, island charcoal. “Damn,” he growled, and he felt tears start in his own eyes.

Anne stood in her black one-piece, a rumpled white shirt open over the suit. She looked around, decided the spot was good enough, and sat down. The sky bent over them, hard blue. Myles pressed the legs of the grill into the pebbles, mounded the black chunks of charcoal into a little heap, doused the heap in lighter fluid, and put a match to it. The flames leapt up and an oily smoke rolled into the sky. A smudge. Anne moved a little away, trying to smile as Myles shambled toward her.