Cocoa Beach

by Beatriz Williams

  “Yes, it is. You’re unhappy.”

  He touched my cheek with his thumb, the one holding the cigarette, and stroked along the bone to my ear.

  “My God, how beautiful you are. More now than yesterday.”

  “Lies.”

  “No, it’s true. It hurts to look at you. Like looking at the sun.”

  “Just look away, then.”

  “As if I could. That’s been my trouble from the first moment, hasn’t it? I can’t look away from you. I want to lie here looking at you forever.”

  “I thought you said you were tired of beautiful women.”

  “Do you really remember everything I’ve said to you?”

  “Every word.” I turned my lips into his palm. This strange delight, so early in the morning, in the face of Simon’s melancholy, was a thing of wonder to me. “Tell me what’s wrong. You’re not unhappy about this, are you?”

  “I believe I’m meant to be asking you that question, my pet. How are you feeling?”

  “Very well. I think.”

  “You’re sure? No aches and pains? I am a doctor, after all.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Ah, you’re only fibbing to save my pride. But then, you’ve never lacked for fortitude, have you? Virginia.”

  I loved the emphasis he placed on my name, each time he said the word Virginia, as if it meant something more than ordinary identification. As if some code were hidden in its syllables. How I worshipped that sound, the sound of my name in Simon’s throat. I never wanted it to stop. Last night he had said it over and over: as he kissed me, as he pushed inside me for the first time, as our flesh stretched and slid together, as he reached the limit of his patience and cried out Virginia! in a voice of almost agony. And I thought, at the time, this was the sweetest sound I had ever heard.

  Afterward he had reproached first himself and then me. He had taken advantage of my innocence; he had indulged his own passion at my expense; he should have restrained himself. I should have said something to stop him; one word, he said, one word from me, one raised finger would have stopped him in his tracks. And I told him that I hadn’t stopped him, I hadn’t wanted to stop him. I wanted the opposite. I wanted this culmination as much as he had. The promise of love wasn’t enough anymore. Before we parted, before we left each other and returned to misery and the relentless threat of death, I wanted to belong to him. I wanted the fact of love, the proof of it. I wanted to serve him, I wanted to give him joy.

  “But you’re wrong,” he said, eyelids dropping, voice slurring, “it’s I who belong to you, it’s I who am your servant now,” and I thought he was going to sleep, because the feat was accomplished and there was nothing else to do but rest until morning. In my ignorance, I never dreamed there might be a second act. I settled myself against him and tried to quiet my teeming mind, the strange restlessness of my thoughts. But a short while later he began to stir—hands sliding, lips murmuring—and showed me what he meant. What it meant to have your nerves overcome altogether and your body turned into a perfect physical instrument, plucked into music not by your own inefficient fingers but by those of a lover. A lover’s mouth. A lover’s flesh, invading yours, heavy and urgent, stretching you into infinity until you simply snapped from the tension. You couldn’t help it.

  That’s what I meant, he said, a little smugly, and his head dropped and he fell asleep, sliding into a natural position alongside me, his joints fitting into the cavities of my joints, his heart settling into the rhythm of my heart, hair and sweat and skin mingled together.

  Now here he sat, propped against the horizontal brass rail at the head of the narrow bed, solid and carnal amid the haze of his cigarette, smelling of tobacco and a scent I now recognize as that of human musk, speaking my name once more like a holy word, while his face—what I could see of it, in the half-darkness of a curtained room just after dawn—contained nothing but sorrow.

  Inevitably, we made love once more. Inevitably because there’s something so sensual about waking in the dawn with your lover, something primeval and hopeful. All your modesty is laid waste. The nakedness of his chest, and the nakedness of yours. I was like another Virginia, a new and lustful Virginia born from the old, rigid, fearful one. I had forgotten who she was. I pulled the cigarette from his fingers and kissed him violently until he surrendered and rolled me to my back on the narrow mattress and stretched my arms high above my head, holding my wrists in a tender grip against the brass rail, while his mouth nipped at my neck and breasts.

  It hurt terribly at first, but I didn’t let him know. I didn’t want him to stop. I angled my hips and endured the way he worked himself inside me, until my raw flesh softened and filled with heat; until I drove as ardently against him as he drove against me. In the end, I struck home before he did, crying out with great force, and at the sound of my shout, the arch of my neck, he opened his eyes and went still. Gazed down at me. Said something vulgar in an awestruck tone. Followed me, frenzied, a few minutes later. Roaring as if in anguish. Collapsing on my breast as if he had lost every bone.

  An absolute silence overcame the room. Only the valves of our hearts continued to move, in slow, giant, synchronized thuds that unnerved me. I thought he had fallen unconscious. I said his name softly. He roused himself and rolled away and gasped, hand on chest, “That’s it. Done for. You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? You’re going to wring me dry.”

  I was so innocent. I lifted my head and said anxiously, “You’re all right? You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?”

  “Irreparably, I think. But God knows, there are worse ways to go.”

  By the time we could move again, the room was much brighter. The furnishings took on color. Simon lifted himself upward and reached for his wristwatch, which he had wound the night before and left ticking on the bedside table, next to the ashtray. His cigarette had burnt out. He sat on the edge of the bed and lit another. I came up behind him and wrapped my arms around his chest.

  “What now?” I said.

  He covered my fingers with his left hand and smoked silently for a minute or two, staring at the nearby wallpaper. His thumb stroked my knuckles, counting out the seconds in precise little beats. From outside the window came the shout of a man, the honk of an angry horn. The shoulder beneath my chin moved in a massive sigh.

  “Right now, my dear, I expect we’d better bathe.”

  He didn’t enlarge on this humble suggestion as we bathed and dressed, taking turns in the well-scrubbed salle de bain down the hallway, nor as we breakfasted in the small parlor downstairs. My modesty returned with my clothes. I could hardly look at him across the table, instead stealing glances over the rim of my coffee cup. (The hotel resolutely did not provide tea.) Simon busied himself with his breakfast and remarked on the weather. His cheeks were pink and fresh from his morning shave—he had contrived, somehow, to borrow a razor from the hotel—and he looked remarkably unlined, for a man of thirty-six years who had spent most of the night in vigorous sexual congress. Who had taken a virgin to his bed and drained himself three times by dawn. His hair bristled upward, still damp from his bath, the gray strands glinting like tinsel among the tawny brown, and I looked away, because I couldn’t examine the texture of his hair without remembering how it felt on my skin.

  As he ate, his cheerfulness grew. Madame returned and asked if he wanted more coffee, and he smiled broadly and told her, in French, that he would take another cup with pleasure, that he could not get enough of this fine, strong brew. Her cheeks turned pink. She went obediently to the kitchen.

  “Right, then,” he said, coffee finished, rising at last, tugging at my chair, “we had better catch that damned train, hadn’t we?”

  We found an empty compartment on the 9:03 express to Paris and sat next to the window, across from each other. I couldn’t think of a word to say. My head was too full; my chest ached. Between my legs, I was now throbbing with soreness and above all a strange oversensitive awareness, as if I could identify by name each ind
ividual nerve beneath my skin. Simon absorbed my silence for several minutes, while the train gathered speed and the buildings flew by, lapsing into green, and then he turned from the window, leaned forward, and took my hands.

  “Why, you’re cold!”

  “Only my fingers.”

  “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

  He looked anxious. I smiled forcefully and said, “Very much all right.”

  “Good. I am a dreadful cad, you know. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

  “I don’t regret a minute.”

  “Now you don’t. But this afternoon, when I’m gone, all whisked off to my wretched surgical hut—”

  “I’ll be grateful, tremendously grateful, for every moment we spent.” The words were flowing better now, greased along by Simon’s expression of easy remorse.

  “So will I.” He lifted my hands to his lips and kissed them both. “In fact, I believe I desire nothing else in my life than to create a few more such moments, if you can spare them.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’ll keep on writing, of course, and I do hope you’ll read my letters this time.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “And the next time we meet, it will be a proper weekend, at a proper hotel. Here in Paris, or perhaps someplace on the seaside if we can manage a few more days. Although they’re a bit more strict in the provinces. We may have to think up some suitable little falsehoods, in that case.” He winked.

  “Falsehoods?”

  “Oh, Mr. and Mrs., you know. Don’t worry. I’ll sort it out. I can be very clever and deceitful, when properly motivated.”

  “I guess you’ve had heaps of practice at this.”

  “Don’t say it like that. This is nothing like that sort of affair.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “How can you suggest such a thing? You know how I feel.”

  “Do I? You haven’t said.”

  “Haven’t I? My God, what about yesterday? I poured my heart out.”

  In the face of his astonishment, my voice fell to a mumble. “But this morning. You seemed—you weren’t very happy.”

  “Oh, that. Haven’t you ever heard of the old Latin phrase? Post coitum omne animalium triste est. Common affliction, except among women and roosters, apparently. One perks up after a bit and sees the bright side. Namely, the fact that you’ve just made love to the most marvelous woman in the world, and might, if you happen to dodge the German artillery for a few more months, have the great luck to repeat the privilege.”

  “Oh!”

  “Virginia. Dear one. Don’t be afraid. Last night—you can’t imagine what it meant to me. What you have meant to me. I was only melancholy because—well, you know it’s going to take some time, all this wretched legal business. It may be a year or two before I am properly divorced, however willingly Lydia undertakes the matter. And then there’s my parents.”

  “Parents?”

  “I mean my family, and hers. They’ll be rather shocked, I suspect, at the whole mess. The scandal of divorce, when they thought everything settled exactly to their liking.”

  I drew my hands away. “Haven’t you told them anything?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to see you first. And of course they know nothing about Samuel’s part in all this. Nor will they, if I can help it.”

  “I see. I’m just an interloper, then. The woman who destroyed your happy marriage.”

  “No! Good Lord, of course not. I’d never put you in that position. As far as they’ll know, Lydia caught me in bed with a whore and demanded a divorce, and you came along later and reformed me. Back to a sober, faithful chap, a credit to his family.”

  “But until then—”

  “Yes. I’m afraid you must remain a bit of a secret, for now. At least from my own friends and relations. My parents and my sister.”

  “The one in the white dress? The photograph on your desk?”

  “You’ve got a splendid memory. Yes, that’s her. Two years younger. She’s an angel; I shall have to be careful how I explain things to her. I don’t think I can bring myself to besmirch her memories of Samuel.” He added, after a pause, “Her name is Clara.”

  The train clattered through a junction. I turned my head to the window and watched the buildings slip by, hot and bright in the August morning. Through an opening I glimpsed a street, and a fleeting image of a woman dressed in black, carrying a straw basket. “Yes, of course. I don’t want to create any trouble for you.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re not trouble. You’re the opposite. The trouble is mine, my own doing, though God knows I meant to do right. I promise you, as soon as the divorce comes through, we can be married. It’s just that it will take some time, that’s all. I need you to trust—”

  “Married?”

  “Yes. Married. Isn’t that what you want?”

  My heart seemed to seize in my chest at that unexpected word. I stared at his quizzical face and thought, as the panic ran up my throat and down my limbs, making me dizzy: Of course. Marriage was always the point, wasn’t it? Every girl wanted to be married. Home and hearth and a husband who loves you. Children and a large, well-appointed house and a servant or two to help manage the whole works. All that marvelous domestic machinery, stamping out families without a fault. Until it didn’t. Until an awful, irreversible fault occurred, and the machine trembled and groaned and fell to pieces.

  “No.” I locked my fingers together in my lap. “No, it isn’t. I don’t want to be married.”

  Simon tilted his head. Squinted his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “There’s no need.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I’m used to independence. I’ve never wanted to marry.”

  “A modern woman?”

  “Yes.”

  He observed me in disbelief. “You’re quite sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then why—I don’t mean to argue—but why, when you learned about Lydia why did you care? Why did you send that telegram?”

  “Because I’d never wreck another woman’s marriage. I couldn’t bear that. Even now, knowing she doesn’t care, it hurts to think what we’ve done.”

  “Virginia, darling, don’t. I promise you I’ll make it right, perfectly right. With Lydia’s blessing. You haven’t hurt anyone. There is nothing whatever sacred about this . . . this convenient legal fiction that constitutes my union with her. In God’s eyes, it isn’t even a marriage. What is sacred is my union with you. Which I mean, at the earliest possible moment, to make formal before God and man.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is to me.”

  “I just—I can’t be married. I’ve known that since I was a girl. I don’t want that kind of dependence.”

  “I see. And what if I do? Want that kind of dependence? Want to marry you?”

  “Then I’ll have to refuse you.”

  Simon turned his head and looked out the window. The gray light coated his skin. “What a surprise you are, Virginia. What a series of surprises you’ve given me, in the past thirty-six hours.”

  “I hope you haven’t—that you didn’t make this decision thinking—”

  “Thinking what? That we should be married? Of course I did. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. I’m afraid—naïve chap that I am—I assumed you had a more official connection in mind, when you decided to go to bed with me.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  He turned back to face me. “Then what do you have in mind, Virginia? How do you wish me to serve you? What sort of future do you imagine for us?”

  “Let’s not think about the future at all. Why should we? We’ll go on writing and meeting when we can—”

  “A tawdry affair, then. I thought you didn’t want that.”

  “It isn’t tawdry. It’s beautiful. Last night, it was so beautiful and right. And that’s why—oh, I don’t want to ruin it, I don’t want to darken everything—”

  “Marrying me wou
ld darken everything?”

  “No! Not marrying you. Marrying anyone. I can give you anything else, anything at all, but not that. I wish you would just understand—”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. I thought you were the kind of girl who wanted a husband. A family to hold her dear. I thought, after last night—”

  I felt my head grow dizzy, my fingers grow cold. My voice soared upward into a high, thin shriek, like a frantic animal, like some kind of cheap hysteric. “Well, I’m not that kind of girl. I never was. If that’s what you expect from me, then I can’t—we can’t see each other again, we can’t meet like this—”

  Simon reached out and grasped my face between his cool, dry hands. “No! Don’t say that. Don’t be upset. Calm down; it’s all right. No, I don’t understand, but I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll do anything that makes you happy.”

  “Don’t just say that—”

  “I’m not. Virginia! Listen to me. We don’t need to speak of marriage. Just don’t—for God’s sake, don’t disappear. Don’t go away again.”

  “You must understand.”

  “I’ll try. Of course. I’ll do whatever you want. Just—just allow me to see you again. On whatever terms. For God’s sake. Can you promise me that?”

  There was no looking away. He was so close, I could count his black eyelashes and the flecks of brown in his irises, if I wanted to; I could smell the trace of coffee in his breath. And yet his proximity, instead of increasing my panic, steadied my nerves. His fingers, instead of entrapping me, secured me in place. The pressure of his thumbs returned strength to my bones.

  I nodded.

  “I will do whatever you want, Virginia. There’s no other choice. I can’t be without you. The idea of never seeing you again is impossible. You know that. Don’t look away.”

  Well, I lifted my gaze, which had swept downward in relief at his words, and I remember thinking I had never seen an expression so earnest as his. Brows knit carefully together, irises bright.

  “I’ve got to run up to London next month. I’ve got to see this through, because I can’t go on pretending to the world, I can’t keep us—keep Lydia and myself—frozen in this damned morganatic tableau for the rest of our lives. And then I’m yours. Every possible chance, I’ll find you. With or without the prospect of marriage. Is that perfectly clear? Whatever you’re seeking, Virginia, I promise you, you’ve found it.”