You Then, Me Now

by Nick Alexander

  We got back to Oia about ten thirty and, once Baruch had locked up the bike, I shocked myself by asking if there were still empty rooms in the hotel. Was that slutty of me? Maybe. But everything happens for a reason and I honestly think that I was feeling desperate for some physical sensation to connect me to reality, to connect me to my body. I just so wanted to step outside my head for a moment.

  We took beers from the minimart and Baruch got another friend in reception to give him a key. The room, number 12, was a good way from Mum’s, which I was grateful for.

  We drank our cans of beer on the little terrace before moving inside so that we could kiss. And it felt nice. Nothing revolutionary. Nothing earth-shattering. But it was nice. It felt really nice.

  Baruch was gentle and polite and occasionally funny. After quite a lot of mucking around we shifted to the bed and things moved on quite naturally from there. After a fairly marathon performance on his part, he got me to climax too, which felt like an unexpected bonus. Because in that instant, just for a moment, I managed to forget about the rest, and be present with him in that bed, in that room, in Santorini, Greece, planet Earth. And considering the state my nerves were in, that was no mean achievement.

  Once the deed had been done I had one of my usual bouts of self-doubt – self-hatred, even – about it. But then Baruch rolled onto his side and threw one heavy, hairy arm over me and I thought, No. This is fine. No harm. No guilt. No shame. It was the catchphrase of one of my girlfriends at college, and it had never seemed more appropriate.

  The next morning Baruch woke up and vanished before I’d even managed to yawn properly. The minimart, he reminded me, opened at seven thirty.

  As I lay in bed trying to summon the energy to get up, I took inventory of my feelings and decided that, despite my doubts, my night of passion with Baruch had done me the world of good. I was feeling infinitely less insane than I had been, and the afterglow of sex was still with me, making me feel cosy and soft and a little stretchy, where only a few hours before I’d had the impression that I was built entirely out of right angles.

  As I entered the minimart – with the aim of handing back the key – Baruch looked up at me and grinned, and I realised also that, despite my best efforts to avoid having feelings for him, I really rather liked the guy. There was something deliciously uncomplicated about him, about the situation and about us.

  There were no clients in the shop, so I sat on the checkout counter and chatted to him with ease.

  ‘I tried looking up that name again,’ he said after a while, nodding towards his laptop. ‘You said V-I-L, yes?’

  ‘That’s what Mum said.’

  ‘I didn’t find,’ Baruch confirmed, reaching for the computer.

  I squeezed in beside him to look and he reached around my waist and pulled me onto his knees, putting his arms around me to operate the keyboard.

  ‘You see?’ he said, once the listing was on-screen.

  I studied the list, reading random names out. I pronounced Johansen, Olsen, Pedersen and Simonsen before pointing out, rather obviously, ‘Most of them end in sen.’

  ‘Vilsen?’ Baruch suggested, opening a fresh window so he could google that.

  ‘Villonsen? Vildersen? Vilolsen?’ I offered. But none of our guesses came up with anything.

  ‘Maybe it’s one of these other endings,’ Baruch said, pointing at the screen to Spillum and Storstrand and Tennfjord.

  ‘Can you write those three down for me?’ I asked, pointing at Vang, Vinter and Vollan. ‘At least they begin with a V.’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey! What is happening here?’

  I jumped from Baruch’s lap, almost knocking the laptop from the counter, and spun to see Damon leaning in the doorway looking smug. ‘Nothing,’ I said. I could sense my skin burning and guessed I was probably blushing.

  ‘No, tell him,’ Baruch said, and I thought, for one awful minute, that he wanted me to tell Damon we had slept together. But then he continued, ‘He works in a hotel. He sees a million different names, right, Damon?’

  Damon moved towards a display rack and selected a packet of chewing gum before crossing to the checkout and laying it and a one-euro coin on the counter. ‘Tell me what?’ he asked.

  ‘Norwegian names beginning with V-I-L,’ Baruch said. ‘You’ll see. We call him Mr Google,’ he told me.

  Damon grimaced. ‘What?’

  ‘Norwegian names beginning with V-I-L,’ Baruch repeated more slowly.

  Damon shrugged. ‘How should I know? And why?’

  ‘Becky’s trying—’

  ‘—to win a prize,’ I completed. ‘It’s a quiz thing. And this is the only answer we can’t find.’

  ‘Google?’ Damon suggested.

  ‘We tried,’ Baruch said. ‘We found nothing.’

  ‘You could ask the guys in my hotel,’ Damon suggested. ‘We’ve got a couple of Scandi guys staying. I’m not sure if they’re Norwegian, but you could ask. Anyway, I’ve gotta go. I’m late.’ And Mr Google, who was not Mr Google after all, scooped up his chewing gum and was gone.

  ‘I’d better go and find Mum,’ I told Baruch. ‘It’s her birthday today.’

  ‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘But you should maybe do what he says. He might have some Norwegians staying. I bet they’d know the different names.’

  I nodded. ‘I guess,’ I said. ‘I might try later.’

  ‘It’s just up there,’ Baruch said. ‘The Blue Balconies. He’s on reception.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Can I see you tonight?’

  Baruch smiled broadly. ‘You can see me any time.’

  ‘It’s just, it’s Mum’s birthday, like I said, so it’ll have to be late.’

  ‘I’ll check for spare rooms,’ Baruch said with a wink.

  I started towards the door but then hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose you sell wrapping paper, do you?’

  ‘Wrapping paper?’

  ‘You know, pretty paper. For gifts.’

  ‘Oh, no . . .’ Baruch said, glancing around. ‘I have some brown paper from a delivery, I think . . .’

  I wrinkled my nose.

  ‘Down that way,’ he said, pointing again. ‘In the postcard shop. I think they might have some.’

  I waved my fingertips at him and stepped back outside and started to make my way towards the postcard shop he’d indicated. But as I reached the point where the Dreaded Steps headed down to the tiny port, I noticed, for the first time, the name of the hotel where Mum said she’d stayed. It was the Blue Balconies.

  I stopped walking and thought about this. For some reason I sensed a fluttering in my chest. I told myself I was being silly, but it seemed in that moment as if it was some kind of sign from the universe. And so I crossed the street and stepped, for the first time, into the ice-cool lobby.

  Damon was already behind the desk, so I crossed the marble floor and leaned my elbows on the counter. When he looked up, he grinned at me salaciously. ‘Hello, sexy lady,’ he said. ‘You bored with old Baruch? He’s doesn’t know how to satisfy the ladies. Not like I do.’

  I rolled my eyes at him. ‘Oh, perlease,’ I laughed. ‘How old are you anyway? Fourteen? Fifteen?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ Damon said. ‘Old enough. You’ll see.’

  ‘Yeah, right. So, you said you could fix me up with some Norwegians?’

  Damon sighed theatrically. ‘Oh well,’ he said. He nodded towards a group on the far right-hand side of the lobby, next to the entrance. There were three men and two women, all wearing sporty hiking gear. All but one were blond. ‘Try them,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure if they’re Swedish or something else. But they might know.’

  I started to cross the lobby towards them and as I approached I could hear that they were talking in what was definitely some kind of Scandinavian language.

  A shiver ran down my spine – I thought it was because of the powerful air conditioning – but then, when I was about six feet away, the tallest of the men turned his head to glance back towards the reception des
k, and I froze.

  He’d only glanced my way for an instant and had already turned back to continue the conversation with his friends, but my throat had gone dry and my heart was racing.

  I moved to an empty chair against the wall – my legs had turned to jelly. I tried to reason with myself: I was being crazy. I wasn’t thinking – or seeing – straight. But when, after a minute or so, he glanced my way again, I knew I was right.

  SIXTEEN

  LAURA

  She is in an airport, dragging her suitcase along a seemingly endless corridor, which leads, or so she hopes, to her boarding gate. She is late for her flight and has been alternating between trotting and walking rapidly. Her heels don’t permit anything more, but even at that speed, she can hear her heartbeat pumping in her ear, and sweat is pearling on her brow.

  They’ve been calling her name over the tannoy system, and she hears it ring out again now. ‘Final boarding call for Laura Ryan. Laura Ryan! Please make your way to gate one-one-five immediately!’

  Thinking that it will be faster, she steps onto the moving walkway, but for some reason it feels as if it is slowing her down. When she runs on it she actually seems to be moving at walking pace, yet when she stops running she continues gliding forwards, albeit even more slowly – the sensation is like moving through treacle. She checks the gate she is passing – it is number eighteen – and thinks, God, I’ll never get there in time! And so she bends down to remove her heels and, holding them in one hand while trundling her hated suitcase behind her with the other, she begins to jog. She runs and runs until she is breathless but at least the gate numbers begin to increase. Thirty-two . . . fifty-four . . .

  When she finally gets to the gate, there is no queue. Everyone else has boarded.

  The hostess looks up at her as she arrives and says, ‘I hope you’re Laura Ryan? We’ve been waiting for you.’

  She pulls her printed boarding card from her pocket and the hostess unfolds it and feeds it into a machine, but instead of beeping and flashing green lights, the machine shreds it into tiny strips, which drift to the floor and immediately start to blow back down the corridor along which she arrived.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says. ‘But that clearly wasn’t your boarding pass.’

  Perplexed and panicky, she checks her other pockets – she seems to have hundreds of them – and eventually finds another sheet of paper. ‘Oh, here it is!’ she says, handing it over.

  This time the machine chirrups contentedly. ‘You need to be quick,’ the woman says. ‘Otherwise you’re going to miss your flight.’

  She runs along the tunnel, only to be faced with a closed aircraft door, so she releases her suitcase and hammers on it with her fists until eventually it reopens. ‘Laura Ryan?’ the steward says. ‘You’re very late!’

  No sooner has she buckled her seatbelt than the plane starts to move backwards from the gate. She wipes the sweat from her brow and turns to the man beside her. ‘That was close!’ she tells him. ‘I thought I was going to miss it.’

  ‘You gave them the wrong piece of paper,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ she replies, wondering how he could possibly know this.

  As the plane changes directions and begins to taxi bumpily along the runway, the man adds, ‘And now it’s gone forever.’

  His words puzzle her at first, but then a sense of panic washes over her and she starts to check her many pockets all over again. But the man is right. The piece of paper – she isn’t sure what it was, but it was without doubt, the most important piece of paper in the world – is gone.

  And as she imagines the strips blowing along the windy corridors of the airport, she realises that she’s about to be sick.

  I was sitting staring into the distance when Becky arrived. There were clouds on the horizon to the west, the first clouds we had seen in quantity since we’d arrived, and I was wondering if they would cancel out or enhance the sunset that evening, and then wondering how often it actually rained in Santorini.

  I’d been up for almost two hours but, as often, the shadow of my nightmare was still hanging over me. I still felt vaguely nauseous and for this reason hadn’t yet eaten breakfast.

  She arrived, skipping down the stairs so fast I thought she would fall. Her face, despite the effort, was pale and her features looked tortured.

  My first thought was that Baruch had done something to her so I jumped up to take her in my arms, but that wasn’t what she wanted. ‘You have to come, Mum,’ she said, grabbing my hand and pulling on it. ‘Come quickly.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Please!’ Becky pleaded, jerking on my hand again. ‘And be quick.’

  I followed her far enough to see that whatever was going on, it wasn’t happening on the staircase, and then I broke loose. ‘My shoes,’ I said. ‘Wait! I need my shoes.’

  All kinds of images were flashing through my mind as I pulled on my trainers and rapidly locked the door. Perhaps Baruch hadn’t hurt her after all, but was hurt himself. Whatever was happening, it had Becky in a complete and utter panic. She was shaking her fists at her sides like a frustrated toddler as she urged me to get a move on.

  I jogged up the stairs and the memory of jogging in the dream came back to me and I wondered if that hadn’t foreshadowed this. But even jogging, I couldn’t get up the stairs as fast as my daughter.

  ‘What on earth?’ I asked her, when I reached the top and she quite literally started dragging me down the street. ‘Becky! Tell me what’s happening,’ I insisted.

  ‘He’s here,’ she said. ‘The Norwegian. My father. He’s here!’

  I froze on the spot and prised my hand loose. ‘Just stop and tell me what you’re talking about,’ I said, feeling a little annoyed now at her urgency. Because no one was dying after all.

  ‘He’s in a hotel,’ she said. ‘Down here. I just saw him. Come on!’

  I shook my head and started to walk behind Becky as she ran forwards a few paces then turned to walk backwards so she could urge me on. A few people had started to stare. ‘This is exactly why I knew I shouldn’t tell you,’ I told her. ‘I knew it would drive you mad.’

  ‘I’m not mad, Mum. Trust me. He’s here!’

  ‘But he isn’t, Becky,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who you think you’ve seen . . .’

  She had stopped in front of a hotel and as it was the same hotel I had stayed in all those years ago, albeit with the lobby rebuilt and with a different name and logo, I started to put a shape to Becky’s madness. The components were evidently all of my making. It was me who had told her she’d been conceived in Santorini. I was the one who had lied to her for twenty years too, telling the poor thing that her father was dead. And now she knew that he wasn’t, and I had told her this here, not a hundred yards from the place where I’d met him. How else could I have expected her to react other than with madness?

  ‘In there,’ she was saying. ‘Go look. The tall, blond guy.’

  I took her arm and tried to calm her down. ‘Becky,’ I said. ‘Listen to me.’ I wondered if she was having an actual breakdown and how I’d cope if she was. I wondered if there were mental health services in Santorini.

  ‘Just go and look, will you, Mum?’ she said. ‘He looks exactly like me. It’s freaky.’

  ‘Becky, this is all my fault, but . . .’

  ‘Just look!’ she said again, and because she was actually crying with frustration at this point, I told her I would.

  ‘I’m going to go in and I’m going to look,’ I told her calmly. ‘But you need to go and sit on that wall and calm yourself down, all right? Because I can assure you that it can’t possibly be him.’

  The doors slid open as someone stepped out, and Becky glanced indoors and said, ‘Him! He’s there. Look!’ But by the time I had turned my head, the doors had closed again and all I saw was a reflection of the souvenir shop opposite.

  ‘Just go!’ Becky said, sounding really quite hysterical. ‘Before he disappear
s or something.’

  And so, thinking that the only way to deal with this was to do as she asked, to satisfy her need in that moment, I rolled my eyes, released her arm, and stepped towards the doors. As they slid open, I turned to ask her over my shoulder, ‘Would you rather come with me?’

  By way of reply, she simply shook her head.

  I stepped into the lobby. It had been recently rebuilt and was far bigger than anything I remembered from my previous visit. The floor was a vast expanse of marble and the air conditioning, it crossed my mind, must have been unbearable to work in all day. It felt like stepping into the Arctic Circle.

  I looked around the room at the various clusters of people before spotting the man Becky had surely meant. And though I could see why she had thought what she had, I knew immediately, even from behind, that it wasn’t Leif. Of course it wasn’t. How could it be?

  My heart sank. In fact I had to gulp back a few tears, and I realised that even as I’d been insisting to Becky that it couldn’t possibly be him, I’d been hoping that just perhaps it might be. All the dreams I’d had for my life with Leif, the dreams I’d held on to for years and had eventually been forced to relinquish, had briefly risen up in me anew.

  I exhaled slowly and bit my lip, glancing back to look at Becky through the window. She was sitting on the wall opposite, alternating between smoking and biting her nails. I wondered how she was going to react when I broke the news.

  I almost walked straight back out but then I became intrigued to see the man’s face, this man that Becky had decided was her father. I wondered what image of him she had created. And so I crossed to the far wall and turned so I could look at him. He was tall and blond, and blue-eyed. That much she’d got right. He could even have been Norwegian, though for some reason my guess was that he was more likely German. But everything else about him was wrong. His shoulders were far broader than Leif’s and his nose, where Leif’s had one of those little blobs on the end, was incredibly pointy. I sighed again and started to return, heading for the door, but just as I reached it, a man’s voice called out, ‘Jens!’ and something about his tone made me stop dead in my tracks. The door opened and closed, then opened again in front of me. I could see Becky opposite but she wasn’t looking at me. She was busy lighting a fresh cigarette from the stub of the previous one. Over the sound of the crazed sliding doors opening and closing, I listened to the voices behind me. Tears started to flow: tears of hope mixed with tears born of the unspeakable terror that I was almost certainly wrong – that I was almost certainly being as mad as my daughter.