Underwater Vibes

by Mickey Brent

  Just when Hélène started to apologize again, Sylvie’s features softened. In a gentler tone, she said, “Sorry I scolded you, Hélène, but I am a lifeguard. That’s part of my job.” To Hélène’s surprise, Sylvie leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  Hélène returned the kiss, but stiffly. Her instructor’s cheek was cold. Without knowing precisely why, something told her not to get too close.

  “How was your weekend?” Sylvie asked as they entered the shallow end.

  “Ah, just the usual. Cleaning, eating, shopping—”

  “Did you see those new flowers at the market? The red ones with—”

  Hélène shook her head. “I didn’t go. Marc went alone. I figured he could help out with the chores for once. I’m always doing them.”

  “So that’s why I didn’t see you.”

  Hélène’s eyebrows rose. She imagined Sylvie at the flower stand, spending her Saturday afternoon amidst sweet-smelling blossoms and glorious plants while Hélène was getting her hair chopped at the salon. She took a shallow breath, remembering her husband’s reaction to her new hairstyle.

  He had pointed his finger at her. “You looked better before. Before all that stupid dieting and exercising. That doctor’s full of—”

  Hélène had crossed her arms. “May I remind you that I’m doing all this for medical reasons?”

  “Don’t try to tell me medical reasons made you ruin your hair!”

  Something snapped in Hélène. “Ca suffit! Enough!” she had shouted, facing him squarely.

  Her thoughts jumped back to the pool as Sylvie thrust a kicking board into her hands. “You must have a mind-blowing imagination since you’re such a prolific poet, so let’s pretend it’s Monday morning and you’re at your swimming lesson, okay? Time to put your face in the water, Madame, and start kicking.”

  She’s like a captain at sea, barking orders to her swab. Blushing, Hélène complied with her captain’s orders by donning her mask and gently lowering her head into the cool water. Sure, I’ll play along. If I’m your swab, you’ve got to tell me when and how you want me…to wet your decks. Once her face submerged, Hélène caught a glance of her swimming instructor’s muscular thighs. How different she felt with Sylvie, compared to Marc. It was only Monday morning, but she could already sense that these private lessons were becoming the highlight of her week. The realization was both scary and confusing. Her lips began to tremble.

  *****

  After the early-morning lesson, Hélène’s legs propelled her bike forward like a powerful machine. She noticed the difference in her speed as her tires flew over the cobblestones. For once, her body had more than enough energy to obey her mind’s orders. After another fruitful swimming workout, she was on top of the world.

  When she stopped at a red light, she caught her reflection in a shop window. Her new sports outfit narrowed her waist and gave definition to her slimmer thighs. The only drawback was her hair. As usual, it was stuffed—more like wadded—into her helmet. It reminded her of her conversation with Sylvie, fifteen minutes earlier.

  After the workout, Sylvie had entered the locker room and approached her. “I like your haircut. It’s cute.”

  Hélène had flashed her a puzzled look. “Did you say something?” she had asked shyly, turning off the dryer.

  “I like your hair. It’s cute like that,” repeated Sylvie. Hélène couldn’t remember the last time anyone had used the word “cute” to describe her or any of her attributes. She had blushed, turned on the dryer again, and wished she could blow herself and her new haircut out of the locker room.

  A car honked nearby, yanking Hélène from her thoughts. “Eh, Eddy Merckx, get a move on!” a man yelled as he drove past in his black Mercedes. Hélène stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Why don’t you try cycling, imbécile!” she called out as she pedaled through the green light.

  Minutes later, when she trotted inside her office building, for the first time in her life, she felt light on her feet—just like an athlete!

  *****

  Sylvie did a few more leisurely laps and then got out of the pool. Goldie’s probably starving by now, she realized, grabbing her robe. Within a half hour, she was home for her favorite part of early-morning workouts—pigging out at breakfast.

  Goldie sat perched on a chair, her tail swishing with excitement as her mistress—legs propped on the balcony rail—dug into a huge bowl of muesli.

  “Who do you think it’s from?” Sylvie pointed to an envelope with her spoon. Goldie meowed. Sylvie’s eyes lit up. She loves getting news from home as much as I do, she mused, glancing at the tiny Greek letters printed on the back of the envelope that had just arrived.

  “You’re right, bébé,” she said, ripping it open with her spoon. “Let’s see what news Mama has this time.”

  *****

  Once in the ladies’ room, Hélène dove straight into a stall. A few seconds later, she emerged in front of the mirror. “C’est beau!” she cooed, fingering the fabric of her new outfit. Her silk blouse, with its deep neckline, subtly revealed the contours of her firm chest. She spun around. Her new, tight black pants emphasized the slimmer contours of her buttocks. All this exercising is worth it. And I love these new clothes. Who said money can’t buy happiness? She splashed water on her face. The coolness soothed her hot cheeks.

  After drying her face, she pulled her brush through her hair. Abruptly, she stopped. Her eyes darted from her new, shorter haircut to the oversized brush in her hand. She stared at the one thousand-pronged styling device, remembering the day her great aunt had given it to her as a communion gift. I was so excited because it was my favorite color: fuchsia. How old was I then? Her eyelashes fluttered. Twelve. Good riddance!

  After chucking the brush into the trash, she stuck her hand under the faucet and ran her fingers through her hair. Much better. Next, she began powdering her face, until beige clumps of coagulated powder congregated on her rosy cheeks. She gasped. Quel horreur! I can’t believe I’ve spent the past two decades caking this crap on my face.

  With a huff, she promptly tossed her powder case into the trash.

  *****

  Sylvie read each sentence ever so carefully, taking in her mother’s words as if they had been written in gold. She adored Mama’s letters, even though they made her homesick. Her mother had a special talent for arranging words. They went straight to her daughter’s heart. As Sylvie read each line, she imagined Mama standing on the porch of their home, talking to her.

  Halfway through the letter, however, Sylvie’s face fell.

  Goldie offered her mistress a concerned meow.

  Sylvie forced herself to continue reading. After ingesting all of Mama’s precious words, she folded the letter into tiny squares and stuffed it in her pocket. She shivered at the cool breeze passing through her thin cotton T-shirt. Squinting past her balcony, she looked over the trees and tall buildings blocking her view of Brussels. A dark cloud emerged in the sky. She watched it grow bigger, pondering Mama’s words until the cloud masked all the blue. She swept a tear from her eye and went inside.

  “Please be home,” she pleaded into the phone. After four rings, Mama picked up.

  Sylvie’s voice cracked. “Mama? It’s me. I…I just got your letter,” she stammered, choking back her tears. “I’m so sorry. What do you want me to do?”

  *****

  At least I still have these, Hélène reassured herself as she smeared red lipstick over her lips. Then she heard a snap. She held up the metallic part of her lipstick, but somehow, the red had disappeared. She looked down and gasped; it had smashed headfirst on the slippery tiles. It looked like just an injured beetle. She poked it with her boot to see if was suffering.

  After so many years, Hélène’s lipstick knew the contours of her mouth better than her husband did. But that’s not hard. When was the last time he grazed my lips with his mustache? She couldn’t remember. What had happened to those blissful days when they were just t
wo goofy students fumbling around? She was unable to rummage up the sensation of his lips on hers. Maybe her sensorial memory was numb. Or maybe Marc needed glasses, for he always aimed his kisses four inches above the target. Hélène pursed her lips. It’s always the forehead deal: Tight. Quick. Dry. And right before a meal.

  To squash these depressing thoughts, Hélène lifted her foot and aimed her heel at the red blob on the floor. Time to put the stunned thing out of its misery.

  Then she remembered her new leather boots. Non. Not in these. Someone else will have to do the dirty deed. With a triumphant flick of her wrist, she chucked her metallic lipstick holder into the trash. Next came the light-blue eye shadow. Then the trusty nose drops. Her eyes glistened as she tossed the items over her head; each entered the trash with a “plunk.”

  “Two points!” she exclaimed, fishing through her makeup bag for more ammo. After salvaging her mascara, she contemplated the empty makeup bag. Marc’s mother gave this to me, and it was so expensive. I couldn’t possibly… Then a wicked smile took over her lips. Oh, yes, I can. She chucked the tacky bag into the bin.

  With a triumphant smile, Hélène applied her remaining weapon—light brown mascara. “Voilà. Done.” She looked at her watch. “In one minute flat.” A record. Her mind did the math: it usually took her twenty minutes to apply makeup, twice a day. Multiply that by twenty years and…I don’t even want to know how much time I’ve wasted. She shook off the depressing thought. Who cares? Time to start living in the present.

  Donning her glasses, Hélène sped out the door. As she rounded a corner, she ran straight into Jérôme, a sales colleague who reminded Hélène of an asparagus, he was so pale and thin.

  “Mon Dieu!” Jérôme called out, right before Hélène crashed into him. The pair keeled backward and landed on the floor, with Hélène on top.

  “Brilliant way to say good morning, ma chère collègue,” said Jérôme in the suave voice he mastered to sweet-talk his clients.

  “Sorry,” stammered Hélène, pushing away from the young man’s bony chest.

  But Jérôme had another idea; he wrapped his arms firmly around her waist. “No problem!”

  “I was late and—” Hélène pushed harder against his chest.

  “No need for apologies, chérie.” Jérôme winked. “Your method works better than caffeine—what a jolt!” he exclaimed, peering into her blouse.

  “If you don’t let me off you this instant, I’ll teach you what a real jolt is, Jérôme!” spat Hélène, ducking under his elbow.

  *****

  Sylvie hung up the phone. As if on cue, Goldie hopped into her lap. Sylvie smoothed the fur over her collar, exposing “Marigold” embroidered in Greek letters on its yellow strap.

  “Remember when Yaya made this for you, ma puce?” The cat gave a slight nod. “Last Christmas, when…” Sylvie’s voice trailed off. “Mama doesn’t want me to go home, Goldie, but I feel so useless here. What should I do?” She wiped away the tears dripping down her cheeks. Goldie’s green eyes widened. She rubbed her moist nose against Sylvie’s finger.

  “You’re right. I’ll do what she says and stay here with you.” She frowned, contemplating the thought. Then her face perked up. “Let’s write Yaya a letter. Maybe it will make her get better.” She gently removed her cat from her lap. “We’ll send her some pictures too. She loves portraits of you, Goldie.” Since you’re the closest thing I’ve got to giving her a great-grandchild.

  *****

  As Hélène read the words out loud, her tapping fingers could hardly keep up. She was obsessed with finishing the translation before lunch. She figured that the faster she read the words from the source language, English, the faster she would type into the target language, French. In theory, this was true, but in practice, it wasn’t. Every few words she made a mistake. Sighing, she stared at the screen: “This lifting operation is done mechanically with a starting handle and a winch to completely clear away the straw, which falls freely from the…”

  Abruptly, she stopped. C’est ridicule. Who cares? She brought her coffee cup to her lips. Her tongue dove in, fishing for the sweet Arabica taste that had occupied the cup for two decades. But for the fifth time this morning, all her tongue caught was air.

  This isn’t fair. My brain needs this stuff to function.

  She frowned as she typed: “I am so sick of translating this crap. What’s the use anyway? Who cares about winches?”

  Leaning back, she gazed at her painting of Santorini. A chubby cat was napping on a white wall draped with plump red flowers. An olive-skinned woman stood next to the cat. An emerald sea with delicate white-tipped waves lurked behind the pair. A lone seagull flew overhead. Where the blue sky met the sea, soft yellow lines arched from the sun, raking the water’s surface.

  Hélène stared hard at the painting, imagining the sun’s warmth on her fingers. She heard the seagull’s cry piercing through the waves lapping in her ears. Her nose sensed the sea salt trapped in the cracks of the wall, lingering in the folds of the woman’s simple dress.

  She shut her eyes, treasuring these images, marveling at the Greek painter’s talent.

  Why am I sitting here, suffering with my boring translations? I’d have more inspiration over there, on that island. How I’d rather be there right now…

  To her surprise, a new image appeared: Sylvie was standing in the ocean, beaming.

  Hélène held her breath as her instructor’s muscular body, enhanced by her wet bathing suit, hijacked her imagination.

  Why can’t I be like her? So exotic and full of life, so sensuous…

  A loud ringing interrupted Hélène’s thoughts.

  “Salut, Cecile,” she said into the phone. “Ah, because it’s always you at noon. Besides, who else calls me? Who? You’ve got to be kidding, Ceci. He’s way too busy. Can’t even find time to call me, let alone take me to lunch. But who cares? I’ve got you, n’est-ce pas?”

  Ignoring her colleague’s ensuing monologue about Marc’s rudeness, and how she should dump him, Hélène cradled her painting of Santorini. With the tip of her finger, she stroked the cat’s painted fur and smoothed the ridges of the woman’s dark, curly hair.

  At last, Cecile stopped ranting about Marc. She brought up a more pressing topic: her rumbling stomach.

  “Okay, give me deux minutes.” After hanging up, Hélène winked at the Santorini woman.

  “See you after lunch. By the way, how do you say ‘bon appétit’ in Greek?”

  *****

  Cecile tapped her fingernails impatiently on the picnic table. Then she spotted her colleague inching through the grass behind the office.

  “About time, Hel, I’m starving.”

  “Nice to see you too, chérie.” Hélène plopped on the bench.

  Cecile unwrapped her jambon baguette sandwich. Before inserting it into her mouth, she uttered, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  Hélène emitted a nervous cough.

  “Everyone’s wondering. I mean, they’ve been asking me, ’cause I’m your best friend and all. And, of course, I should know.” Cecile flipped her hair. “Enfin, it’s just that…What have you been doing lately? You’ve completely changed, ma puce.”

  “I lost some weight.” Hélène sank her teeth into a whole-wheat sandwich overflowing with dark greens.

  “It’s not only that.” Cecile shook her head. “You seem so much happier. More carefree.”

  Hélène’s eyes glistened. “Well, I—”

  “They gave you drugs at the hospital, non?” Cecile brought her baguette to her lips.

  “Drugs?” Hélène shook her head vehemently. “Non. I just have to be careful what I eat.”

  Cecile sputtered as she chewed. “Ouais, but—”

  “See? I’m eating more healthily.” Hélène pulled some alfalfa sprouts from her sandwich. When she dangled the sprouts in the air, Cecile scrunched her dainty nose.

  “It was hard at first, especially cutting out the sugar, but I got
used to it. I might sound like a TV commercial, but it’s true.

  “Your loss!” Hélène added, gobbling the sprouts. “Now I’ve got way more energy than before. I swear.”

  Cecile opened a thermos. “So it’s not drugs.” She poured herself a large mug of coffee. “Speaking of energy, this will make you fly!” She thrust the thermos at Hélène, who blocked it with her hand.

  “I’m an herbal-tea-with-honey gal now.” Hélène dropped a red églantier teabag in her mug.

  “Beurk, looks like blood,” gasped Cecile, peering at the bright red water.

  “Well, it does improve circulation. Try some!” Hélène held her mug under Cecile’s nose.

  Cecile pushed it away. “Non, thanks. I need my daily caffeine fixes. But it’s true, Hélène, you look great. More natural. More confident. Your face has this healthy glow…I wish I were as disciplined as you, but I just can’t give up all of my naughty little habits.” Lowering her thick lashes, she gave Hélène a slow wink. “And speaking of naughty little—”

  “But it’s easy, Ceci. Just add more fresh fruits and vegetables to your—”

  Cecile waved her napkin. “Listen, chérie, I wasn’t going to mention this, but since I’m your best friend, I’m going to anyway. There’s a rumor going around…”

  Hélène’s eyes widened. “Tell me, Cecile,” she asked gravely, leaning forward.

  *****

  Time for a break, Sylvie decided. She had already given four swimming lessons, with two more to go. She slicked her moist hair back with her fingers, slid on her jogging suit, and left the pool.