The Magic In The Receiver

by Dillon, Paul

  As the man left, Ben flipped open the menu, squinting to read the scripted font.

  A woman shouted to her child, in the doorway of the souvenir shop, directly opposite Ben’s table. She ushered the boy away from a rack of belts, stooping to retrieve one off the floor.

  It was unclear to Ben, whether the store belonged to the restaurant. Outside, under a yellow canopy, a constant procession of people stopped to examine the displays of postcards, T-shirts, hats and caps. Ben’s attention alternated from people watching on his left, to the bay on his right.

  On the far side of the harbor, three fishing boats lay anchored in front of an official-looking white building that stood, conspicuous, against a hillside of pine and shrubs. Between the office and the gravel beach, a handful of cars, parked on a dirt lot, vied for shade under scrawny trees. Turning his head to the right, a cruise ship loomed in the distance over the top of the twin-engined Magdalena.

  “Ready for another beer?” The owner reappeared as Ben looked over his shoulder at the cruise ship.

  “Not just yet,” replied Ben, who looked across the esplanade and smiled. “Nice restaurant. Are you the owner?”

  “Yes, I’m Spiro. Where are you from?”

  “Los Angeles. I’m meeting up with some friends.”

  Spiro had visited cousins in California three summers ago, providing a topic for further conversation. In a leisurely manner, the host returned to his duty and asked whether Ben was ready to order.

  “I’ll have the shrimp saganaki—and I’ll get a bottle of water, please.”

  Spiro scribbled on a pad and left.

  Ben sipped his beer, watching the lazy harbor scene. Over on the gravelly beach, a fat, hairy-chested man ambled towards the waters’ edge. From the shade of a stunted palm, a scruffy dog got up and followed him to the shore. The mutt barked at two kayaks, which turned around before their hulls scraped the shallow bottom. Ben started to feel drowsy.

  A waiter, balancing a tray with a practiced hand, arrived and set the shrimp dish on a woven placemat in front of Ben.

  “Be careful, the plate is very hot.”

  Ben thanked the man, who opened a bottle of mineral water, pouring the fizzing liquid into a tall glass.

  The saganaki came served in a cast-iron skillet. Ben placed his finger on the metal for a split-second, just to sense the searing heat. Four large shrimp, unpeeled, lay sizzling in the juice of tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil. Feta cheese pieces melted on the surface, relinquishing their flavor to the dish. Ben dipped a piece of crusty bread into the sauce and began to dine. He ate slowly, extracting the shrimp from their shells with a sharp, serrated knife.

  ***

  As he pushed the plate into the center of the table, he looked up. That was when he saw her. The color of her dress, olive, struck him first, even before his eyes traced the fabric around the contours of her body…

  A boat named Magdalena, an iron skillet, a turquoise tablecloth … such trivialities are background noise, forgotten, even as they are seen. However, these images belonged to a pivotal event, one with the power to stamp sight and sound into memory; a memory ever to be associated with the place that first brought him acquainted with the girl in the olive dress.

  She appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, standing as though in a daze in front of the souvenir shop. Paying no attention to the merchandise, something clearly troubled her. Fascinated by the girl’s strange behavior, Ben’s preoccupation was such as to distort his perception of time.

  Her dress was knitted, with a crew neckline. By some trick of the mind, Ben was struck by the odd notion that the olive color was an illusion, a combination of black, gold and dark green threads. Its hem was short, revealing legs; perfectly formed, as though designed exclusively for him. She remained motionless, rooted to the spot—it must have been two minutes now.

  In her twenties, about five-feet-nine, she was standing less than ten yards from his table. He looked at her profile; a small brown shoulder bag hung down to her waist. The girl’s hand rested on top of the bag, holding the strap, which placed her arm to the side, allowing Ben an unrestricted view of the shape of her breasts.

  She knows I’m looking at her.

  It was Ben’s opinion that women possess an innate ability to detect observation, no matter how the onlooker disguised his attentions. Still the girl did not move. She continued to stare at the gravel beach, perhaps deciding whether to head in that direction or go back and become a mystery to him. He wanted her to stay, to turn round and face him.

  In the seconds before she moved, Ben studied her one more time; her face, her hair, the dark glasses. A brunette with highlights, she wore her hair straight, just above the shoulders. She had the look of a Mediterranean, perhaps Greek or Italian; he really couldn’t say. There was something about the shape of her nose that made her face extraordinarily perfect, embedding itself into his subconscious. It did not matter that he had only seen her in profile; unless there was some terrible defect yet to shock him, he was already hooked.

  The girl walked away towards the beach, almost colliding with Spiro who headed for Ben’s table.

  “How was the shrimp saganaki?” he asked.

  Ben’s eyes followed the escaping girl. Like a bird, wounded and unable to fly, she clearly did not know where she was going.

  Spiro spoke again. “Would you like another beer, a coffee maybe?”

  Ben bounced back and forth between his reverie and the conversation, finally landing back at the owners’ original question.

  “The saganaki was excellent, really delicious.”

  Switching his glance back to the disappearing girl, he took a long drink of mineral water before ordering. He spoke on autopilot.

  “I’ll have a cappuccino.”

  Spiro, assuming Ben didn’t want to chat, picked up the iron skillet and went back to the taverna. By the time Spiro reached the restaurant, the girl had passed the palm tree with the scruffy dog and was approaching the last building in the village. As Ben saw it, she had two options: either turn around at the car park and come back or continue around the bay to the fishing boat dock. He thought the latter option unlikely; he hadn’t seen anyone on the opposite shore.

  Suddenly Ben became thirsty and gulped down the remaining water. The girl reached the parking lot, he wouldn’t have long to wait. She turned around and faced him. From this distance, Ben couldn’t make out her expression but her body language suggested she would walk no further. She looked to her right, walking closer to the sea, eventually sitting on one of the large rocks lining the opposite shore. He felt sure she would come back his way.

  Her choice, to sit on the rock, allowed Ben a respite from second-guessing her movements, freeing him to contemplate his move when she walked back to the restaurant and past his table. He would have to say something; nothing was ever so preordained. As he waited for the moment to intercept her, he fantasized about an amorous island adventure.

  Maybe she could join him on the yacht; he could spend the week with her, and then head back to London. Seven days would be enough; after all, long-term relationships didn’t work for him. Perhaps what he needed was a pet, a female human pet. One he could love, as he would love a cat, a dog or a caged bird; a pet that he could leave with friends when he went on vacation, one he could take out of the house at his whim.

  Still the girl didn’t move.

  “Do you need anything else?” Spiro placed a cappuccino on the table and waited. Ben looked over to the rocks two hundred yards away. The girl had already started her walk back to the harbor.

  “I’m okay for the moment,” said Ben.

  He hoped he would not need the bill just yet.

  Chapter 11

  Even though Sophia had left the windows open, the air inside the car was hot and sticky. Elena turned the air-conditioning to the highest setting as they made their way down the mountain towards Fiskardo.

  “What did you think of Dimi?” asked Sophia.

  “I like him,” sai
d Elena. “I wasn’t sure at first.” Mixed emotions welled up; attraction, a touch of disappointment never to become his model, regret even. “I think he’s a nice person.” She changed the subject. “I dread to think what Pasquali is like. Are you armed?”

  The girls laughed as they reached the outskirts of town.

  Sophia turned into a steep narrow road leading to the harbor and pulled the car to a halt.

  “I’ll drop you off here. Vehicles are not allowed after this point,” said Sophia. “Just turn left and you’ll be at the waterfront. Be good, and have a great time, I’ll be back in a couple of hours—if Pasquali doesn’t get me, that is.”

  Elena waved her cousin goodbye and walked down the narrow lane, turning around one time to watch the car pull onto the main highway.

  She caught her first glimpse of the harbor through the garden of a small house. Tall masts poked up, like thin white trees over the flowering shrubs, inspiring her to take a photograph. Further along the street, she stopped at a gift shop, attracted by hats hanging from metal stands under the canopy. To pass time, she modeled a sombrero and cream fedora in a mirror sitting atop the rack.

  Sophia won’t be back for at least two hours, thought Elena. Without a plan, she decided to find a cafe, relax, and read for a while.

  The harbor was close, less than two hundred yards from the gift store. Elena sat on a wooden bench, by the quayside, admiring the flotilla in the bay. Tavernas, housed in pastel painted buildings, competed for her attention with their extravagant, flower-covered walls. She chose a beige gable-fronted cafe.

  Dark green shutters decorated the attic and upper-storey windows. Outside, a small blackboard, set in a wooden frame, stood tent-style on the boardwalk. Colored chalks, a different one for each word, spelled out:

  “Breakfast, Coffee, Sandwich, Omelets, Tost, Ice Cream.”

  Elena smiled at the misspellings, thinking it quant.

  A green awning with a patterned fringe hung beneath the upper-floor windows, providing glorious shade for half-a-dozen tables in the cozy space below. Masses of flowers covered the walls, resting on the canopy, suggesting its collapse. At least three different species of vines spurted pink, red, and purple blooms across the entire width of the building.

  She sat under the awning at a table-for-two and dug out her book, flipping it over to read the back cover.

  “The Ten Thousand Things is a novel of shimmering strangeness—the story of Felicia, who returns with her baby son from Holland to the Spice Islands of Indonesia … a book that is at once a lament and an ecstatic ode to nature and life.”

  The paperback had been sitting on top of a pile of sweaters at a local yard sale back in Boston. Its title intrigued her, she was vaguely aware of a tenet from Taoism or Zen with the same name. Karma, Zen … this was her latest promise for contentment; fifty cents was a fair price to pay.

  A waitress, delivering breakfast to a quayside table, spotted Elena and came over.

  “A regular coffee,” said Elena. “What desserts do you have?”

  The woman pulled a menu from her pocket, handed it to Elena and waited, without saying a word.

  “I’ll have the tiramisu,” said Elena.

  The waitress took the order, rather off-handedly in Elena’s opinion, and went back inside the cafe.

  What was that about? Elena shrugged, returned to her book, and began to read. Half way down the first page, her phone rang. She rummaged in her bag, curious who could be calling; it had to be Sophia.

  Greg Buchanan’s name showed on the caller ID. Elena pressed the talk button.

  “Hi Greg, is there something wrong? It’s early there, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t sleep much last night, I’ve been thinking about you. How’ve you been?” Greg’s tone made the question rhetorical.

  “Fine.”

  Elena gave a two-minute recount of her day; the scenic drive with Sophia, the visit to Dimi’s studio. She lost concentration at the thought of Dimi; the two of them alone, sitting on the balcony, overlooking the harbor.

  “It sounds like you’re having a great time, honey.” Greg’s sarcastic tone confirmed his lack of interest in her morning.

  She pictured him, tapping his fingers on the dashboard, stuck in traffic on the 93 freeway.

  “Have you booked your flight home yet?” he pressed.

  The waitress arrived with the coffee and dessert; she glared at Elena, chastising her for holding a telephone conversation in her cafe.

  Elena multi-tasked her frustrations between the rude woman and the pestering boyfriend.

  The unfortunate timing of the waitress’ arrival coincided with Greg’s uncomfortable question. Her brief pause, to acknowledge the server, must have appeared as a stalling tactic to Greg, launching him on the offensive.

  “Well, aren’t you going to answer?” His voice was beginning to grate.

  She was in no mood for a repeat of their earlier argument. “No, I haven’t booked my flight home.”

  “I think we need to sort this out.”

  “Hold on a minute,” she said.

  The conversation was becoming too intense, too personal for the surroundings. Elena walked off the patio towards the nearest isolated spot over by the quay wall. Instinctively, she picked up her book and bag. The delay added to Greg’s frustration.

  She tried to explain, as she had a few days earlier, that she was just taking an extended break; nothing had gone wrong with their relationship. She did not say that she needed some time to herself; that something was missing from her life; that the island was affecting her; that she had begun to think of not returning.

  Greg was using his attorney-voice, pontificating, pointing out the obvious course of action to the stupid client. She hated that.

  An elderly man walked up and stood next to her, looking out over the bay. Begrudgingly, she moved ten or fifteen yards further away from the cafe, until she found another private spot.

  Greg was on the warpath, wanting answers. Elena knew him too well; she guessed he’d slept little last night, churning things over in his head, frantically trying to second-guess her motives. One minute blaming her, the next, making excuses on her behalf for what he perceived as her unacceptable behavior. In her mind, the confrontational Greg had won the latest round; today he was being a man, taking control. Any moment she was expecting the question; “Had she met someone else?”

  “Listen, Elena, I’m going to buy you a ticket home. I want you to tell Sophia, that you’re going back to Boston next week.”

  Elena seethed with resentment. “I have a ticket. I just need to call the airline and give them a new departure date. It’s a hundred dollar fee. No worries.”

  “If that’s the case, you must have given them a date when you cancelled the return flight,” said Greg

  She sensed his attorney-mind springing into action and wandered further along the quay, as if to escape the conversation.

  “What date was that?” he continued. “Exactly how long are you planning to stay? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Greg, I don’t want to discuss this right now.”

  “How long?” insisted Greg

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember?” Greg was shouting now.

  “I’ve got to go. I’m not going to spend all day arguing with you. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “No, don’t hang up. Let’s talk about this. Are you planning on staying there permanently?”

  “I’ll call you later, bye,” Elena hung up and walked away, confused and angry.

  A hand tapped on her shoulder.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me. Nine Euros, you pay now, nine Euros.”

  Elena turned around. The waitress from the cafe stood in front of her, waving the unpaid bill.

  “Dammit, I forgot, I’m sorry,” said Elena.

  Recovering her composure, she fumbled for some cash and pulled a twenty Euro note from her purse.

  The waitress examined the bill, holding i
t up to the light, inflicting further insult.

  “You come back to restaurant for change,” she ordered.

  “It’s okay, keep it. Have a nice day.” Elena vacillated between giving up the extravagant tip and not having to deal with the woman a second longer.

  The waitress relented, offering a begrudging “Thank you” before her parting shot. “You dropped your book.” She pointed at the pavement and turned around.

  Elena scowled at the waitress’s back, who strutted off along the boardwalk. As Elena’s indignation subsided, she looked down. Sure enough, the paperback lay there; funny how she had not noticed dropping it. She stooped, pausing, as she became aware of three large vases of a brilliant red color, a few feet away. Thick, gnarled trunks grew from the pots and up the ochre colored walls of the building, before bursting into foliage and flowers.

  Gorgeous, thought Elena as she picked up the book.

  With no clear purpose, she walked in the opposite direction to the cafe. Before she had gone fifty yards, her phone chirped the ringtone for a text message. She stopped. It had to be Greg. Standing in front of a souvenir shop, she took stock of her surroundings; a little beach ahead, restaurant tables to her right. Torn between reading the message and wanting nothing more to do with Greg, she deliberated. It was still early; Sophia would be at least another hour away.

  She stayed rooted to the spot. A minute went by, maybe more; she didn’t care. Going back in the direction of the cafe held no appeal; ahead, the village ended. Greg’s message nagged at her; she wanted to read and ignore it in equal measures.

  Finally, she decided to head towards the beach; more out of the necessity to make a decision than with any purpose in mind. Vaguely sensing a man watching her, she walked away without looking in his direction.

  Unable to find a bench, she stood at the waters’ edge, taking deep breaths of ozone-rich air. The bay spread out before her, calm like a lake; a cruise ship, at the entrance to the harbor, dominated her view. She sat on a smooth flat rock, letting the peaceful setting wash her tension away.

  Composed once more, she reached for her phone and stared at the message. It was from Greg. “Sorry I got angry I didn’t mean what I said miss you please come home soon love greg”