by Ronald Malfi
“Do you see that picture of you?”
He faced his own glowing image on the wall. Nodded.
“It is true?”
He said he did not understand.
“It is true?” she repeated simply. “It is reality, as reality is?”
“Shit, Isabella, I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re asking. Yeah, sure it is.”
“Foolish! Nothing is real and nothing is as it seems. Are we here or are we not here? Are we ghosts or do we live? Are we lovers or have we set out to destroy each other? Nothing is as it seems. Answer me—is your arm ruined?”
“Yes.”
“And that is reality?”
“It is the only reality,” he said.
“Stupid, stupid Nicholas.”
“I need—”
“To leave, yes—I’ve heard you,” she said. “With all that thinking you do, you have yet to come up with any answers. That is unfortunate for you.”
“What are you talking about? Answers to what?”
Isabella only shrugged. Said, “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps you are angry at your wife and her secret because you are really only angry at yourself and your secret?”
“I have no secret,” he said.
“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. Everything is candid and open with you, isn’t it? Everything,” she said, “is exactly as it seems to be.”
She stood from the bed and walked over to the slide projector, passing in front of the widening cone of light. The glowing image of himself vanished from the wall the second she pulled the slide from the projector, leaving a gaping white nothingness of light in its place. As he watched, Isabella turned the slide around and plugged it back into the slide projector backwards. The image appeared once again across the room—only this time in reverse. Now, very clearly, it was his right hand, his ruined hand that was no longer ruined, held up to the camera, shielding his face. A perfect right hand.
“See my magic?” she said from behind the slide projector. “See how nothing is as it seems?” To him, she was invisible in the dark. “Be gone. You are healed.”
Minutes later, he was climbing into his clothes in Isabella’s bathroom. Her silhouette hung in the bathroom doorway. The lights were still off.
“We can make love,” she offered.
“I think we already did.”
“Oh?”
“I think you lied to me. I can smell you on me.”
“Yes?” There was something in her voice he did not like.
“I don’t remember falling down any hill. My clothes aren’t even dirty.”
“We’re all dirty.”
“Whatever,” he said. “I can’t keep listening to your inane little anecdotes on life, Isabella.”
“Maybe because they frighten you.”
“You think a whole lot of yourself,” he said.
“If you stay,” she said, “then I will show you my gun. We can talk about those three men from tonight, and all the things we could do to them if we use a gun. Tonight was nothing. We should have used the gun.”
“Not interested,” he said.
“But you are healed,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I healed you.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Spoiled sport.”
At the bank of elevators at the end of the hall, it occurred to him that he had no idea what floor he was on. Likewise, for a moment he couldn’t remember what floor his own room was on, either. His brain apparently had surrendered itself some time ago.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he thought he could see Isabella watching him from one end of the poorly-lit corridor. But he couldn’t be certain.
To hell with it, he thought, and selected both the UP and DOWN buttons. He would get on whichever arrived first.
—Chapter XX—
The first of the periodical cicadas appeared, clear-winged and shellacked, against a sheet of window looking into the dark and cool restaurant den of the Paradis d’Hôtel. That morning, upon arriving alone at the restaurant, Nick paused and watched what must have been two young siblings, one boy and one girl, standing with their noses nearly touching the glass as they stared, mesmerized, at the underside of the large, black insect. It stuck to the glass and did not move. The children watched it for quite some time. However, as is bound to happen with children, the initial paralyzing sense of curiosity and wonder that defines the first few nanoseconds of all things new and unusual very quickly dissolved into disinterested fatigue. In a last ditch effort to recapture the fleeing wonder of the giant creature suctioned to the outside of the glass, the boy, at first, began tapping an index finger against the window, prompting the insect to move. When this provided no result (save for the tat-tat-tat-tat which echoed throughout the mostly empty restaurant), the boy, growing ever agitated, amplified the force of the tapping which, inevitably and in a matter of mere seconds, evolved into vicious hand-slaps against the window, causing the entire pane of glass to vibrate in its frame. Like the finale in an act of prestidigitation, a slim-waisted young mother appeared from nowhere and pinched the boy’s wrist between two fingers while also nabbing the little girl by the hand. She said something to the boy, which could not be heard from across the restaurant, and the look on the woman’s face was not a pleasant one. Then, with motherly efficiency, she led the two children away from the window and out of the restaurant. The cicada remained, undisturbed.
Nick took a table by the wall of windows. The day had brightened and the sun, he could see, was reflecting in the pools. Across the restaurant, Roger looked at him from behind the bar. The bartender had been wiping down the counter but paused when he met Nick’s eyes. Nick nodded in his direction. The bartender just looked on as if he did not recognize him before returning to his work.
James Sanders, the young waiter with the ponytail whose father had been in the Navy, came to the table. He was buttoning one of the cuffs of his sleeve.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”
“Hello, James. What happened to your chin?”
Automatically, James brought two fingers to his chin and touched the heavy scab there. He said, “Fell off my roof.”
“Ouch. What were you doing on your roof?”
“The storm clogged the gutters up with leaves. My mom said they needed to be cleaned out before they got too heavy and pulled away from the house.” Almost apologetic, he added, “It’s happened once before.”
“Good thing it was just your chin, then.”
“Good thing,” James agreed.
“Let me ask you,” Nick said. “Is something wrong with Roger? He’s been acting a little weird around me the past couple of days.”
James glanced at the bar from over his shoulder. “I don’t know,” James said with adolescent simplicity. “He might just be tired. I saw him out late on the beach last night, and again early this morning. He’d probably been out all night.”
“Out where?”
“On the water,” James said. “He takes his boat out every night.”
“Yes,” Nick said. “I saw him out there one night. He stays out till morning? Typically, I mean?”
“I don’t know about typically,” James said. “All I know is he’s been out there every night since I’ve been working here. Even in the storm.”
“Why?”
“Because,” James said, “he’s looking for his daughter.”
“Faye?” Nick recalled the name, recalled the dog-eared photograph of the beautiful little girl Roger kept in his wallet.
“Two years ago she was lost in the sound. Drowned. They never found her body, so every night Roger goes out and looks for her.”
“Oh, Jesus.” And quickly, he was trying to remember if he had possibly said something that, in his ignorance, had offended Roger. But no—what would he have said? He could think of nothing.
“You want me to say something to him, Lieutenant?” James said.
“No. Thanks, but no, James.” He waved a single hand. �
�Just pretend you never told me anything about it, in fact. Okay?”
“Sure.”
Nick ordered coffee and brioche, a light lunch, and ate by the windows. There were some people outside, moving down through the courtyard toward the beach. Emma had been asleep when he’d returned to the room last night, and she’d gotten up early this morning. He knew she had tried her best not to wake him, but he had been awake nonetheless, though he did not say anything to her as she rose and made her way into the bathroom. He heard the shower run for quite some time. He thought, too, that he must have fallen asleep while she showered, because when he opened his eyes again the sun had shifted position outside and he was alone. A note was left on the nightstand beside the bed. Now, as he ate, he took the note from his pocket and unfolded it on the table: too nice to stay indoors. will be on the beach. have a nice lunch. please shower.
Mr. Granger’s shadow fell across the table. Polite, the bell captain stood without expression and nodded when Nick looked up.
“Good afternoon, Nicholas,” Granger said.
“Hi.”
“How’s everything?”
“Very good.”
“Emma?”
“She’s down by the water.”
“Yes,” Granger said, “it’s lovely today.” He extended a hand toward the empty chair at Nick’s table, but did not sit and did not ask about sitting. Instead, he said, “I hate to disturb you during lunch, Nicholas, but I needed to speak with you. I didn’t want it to wait. I know you’re going back to paint once you’re done here, so I didn’t want it to wait.”
“It’s no problem. Have a seat. I wanted to ask you something, too.”
Granger sat and folded his hands atop the table. The bell captain looked very small and compact sitting across from him at the table.
“The hotel manager, Mr. Vastovets, spoke with me last night, Nicholas. He expressed some concern about the mural.”
“I know it’s taking a while. I’m a little rusty. If it helps, I can—”
“No, no—it’s not that. You can take all the time you need.”
“Oh,” he said. “All right…”
“It’s just, Mr. Vastovets,” Granger said, shifting his eyes toward the floor, “he’s concerned that the mural is leaning further and further away from what you’d originally proposed and more toward—well—toward being a bit—uh…”
“Yes?”
“It’s become violent,” Granger said, his voice flat.
“He said it’s violent?”
“It is violent. Have you seen it?”
“Of course I’ve seen it. I’ve been painting it all morning.”
Granger’s eyes fell on Emma’s note. Then they turned back to Nick. The bell captain said, “You are an excellent painter, Nicholas. I’m genuinely glad we were able to work this out, and I’m even more glad that I finally got to meet the great Lieutenant. Mr. Vastovets, he wanted me to speak with you, Nick. He’s hoping—we’re hoping—we’re—if it’s possible…”
“Have any of the guests complained?”
The question seemed to catch Granger off guard. “Complained?”
“Yes. To the manager. Have any of the guests complained?”
“Actually, yes,” Granger admitted. “I believe that was what prompted Mr. Vastovets to speak with me, and for me to speak with you.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know that.”
“Was it a woman—”
“I don’t know that, Nick. I wasn’t told. Mr. Vastovets simply said one of the guests commented to him that the mural was very brutal for the hotel. It is the first thing you see when you come into the lobby, you see, and it was our concern that, well, maybe…”
“I’m sorry,” Nick said.
“It’s just, it isn’t what you’d proposed when we first talked about the mural.”
“I understand.”
“It was supposed to be a serene—a serene, uh—”
“Yes, I understand.”
“You can fix it, right?” Granger looked hopeful.
“Of course.”
“We understand if it takes a little more time.”
“I will do it quickly,” he promised. “I’ll work all day today, fixing it.”
“Good,” Granger said, visibly relieved. “That’s good, Nick.”
For some reason, both their eyes had come to rest on Emma’s handwritten note. Self-conscious that all his and Emma’s innermost secrets could be betrayed by prolonged exposure to those few innocuous sentences, Nick gathered the note in his hands, folded it a number of times, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt.
“Is your hand all right?” Granger asked suddenly, nodding toward his bandaged arm.
“I sprained it. It’ll be okay.” But he wasn’t thinking about his arm; he was thinking about Isabella, and how she had made some comment last night down in Sea Pines about how his mural had become a topic of conversation at the hotel. Isabella Rosales. What had she said exactly? He could not remember…
“You said you wanted to ask me something, Nick?” Granger said.
Snapping back to reality, Nick said, “Oh, yeah. Yeah. And I hope—I mean, I hope this doesn’t sound insulting—an imposition…”
“Not at all.”
“Myles,” he said. “Your son. I know he wrote letters home to you from time to time when we were in Iraq.”
“Yes.” And something behind the elder Granger’s eyes appeared to immediately film over.
“I was wondering if you could recall Myles ever mentioning anything about, well…” He considered how to proceed. “Did he ever say anything about suffering from delusions? Like—I don’t know—like periods of time that seemed to slide together and make no sense? Or…or maybe that he was seeing things he couldn’t understand, or that didn’t belong in the real world?”
Granger only looked at him. After what felt like an eternity, the old man said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Nick…”
“Yeah,” he said, offered a nervous chuckle, “I’m not sure I know, either.”
“Well I don’t recall anything like that in any of Myles’s letters…”
“Maybe he mentioned severe headaches? Something like that?”
Shaking his head, the bell captain again said, “No, nothing like that. Not that I can remember, anyway.”
“Do you still have them?” Nick asked.
“The letters? Of course.”
“Would you mind if I took a look through them? I’ve just…I’ve…I’ve been curious about something lately and I, well, I just wanted to see…” He couldn’t say anymore.
“Are you feeling all right, Nick?” Granger sounded genuinely concerned.
“Yeah, I was just thinking…”
“Yes,” Granger said, not needing an explanation. “I can bring them to you this evening.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Nick,” Granger said, “there is still something on your mind. What is it?”
“Never mind.” He championed a smile. “You’ve been really good to me, Mr. Granger.”
“You were my son’s hero,” Granger said. “That makes you mine.”
The words resonated with profound irony.
After Granger had gone, Nick sat for some time by himself at the table by the window. To his right, he could see the cicada still on the glass, now joined by two others. Looking up, he watched for some time the drone of Roger back and forth behind the bar. A young couple had taken up two stools on the other side of the bar during his conversation with Granger; they were now talking to each other in dreamy, hushed voices. He hadn’t known anything about Roger’s daughter Faye having drowned in Calibogue Sound. Still, he could not help but wonder what he must have said to poor Roger that had caused him to retreat so completely from him. Should he say something?
Another shadow fell across the length of his table. He turned and squinted his eyes and looked out the window, suddenly anticipating either Emma or Isabella sta
nding on the other side of the glass. But no one was there; it was just the wind-rustled movement of the island palms.
After paying his bill and deciding to say nothing to Roger (at least for the time being), he found himself standing toward the rear of the hotel lobby, staring up at the mural. The passage of each minute strengthened in him the mounting certainty that it had indeed been Isabella who had complained about the mural to the hotel manager. Fresh anger flared up inside him. Yet, despite his anger, he could see the truth of it, too: that somehow, somewhere along the way, the mural had become a brutal, ferocious thing after all. How had it happened? He had taken a beautiful island landscape, lush and green and idyllic, and had marred it, ruined it—had transformed it into a desolate desert panorama. An outcropping of glossy stone had morphed into a heap of steaming tanks, still smoking with artillery fire; groups of sunbathers and adventurous young children, previously scaling the length of the bulkhead over the water, their arms splayed in representation of airplane wings, had turned into cold, faceless, helmeted soldiers hefting across the dunes with rifles in their hands and their packs on their backs. The black mark he had painted over the face of Myles Granger was still there—only now the figure simply conveyed a sense of brutal decapitation. Looking at it, he felt a chill emanate from the soles of his feet, straight up through his unsteady knees, and disperse throughout the entirety of his body. The distinction between tropical paradise and desert holocaust was suddenly nonexistent. Had he painted this monstrosity? Had he painted this?
Still, his anger toward Isabella would not subside. And two minutes later he found himself riding the elevator up to her floor. When the doors slid open, the hallway looked oddly dark. Peering down the corridor, he could see that most of the lights were out. Shadows of potted plants and a dusty Coke machine at the end of the hall crossed each other like latticework. Daylight fell dull and disheartening through the dirty windowpanes at either end of the hall.
For a split second, he thought he saw Isabella standing at the far end of the hall, staring at him. Blinking his eyes, he took a quick step forward and realized that he was, in fact, alone.
Yes, he thought, I am most certainly losing my mind.