by Peter Benson
It was bar, a drink, a flight of lamplit stairs and a slip. It was him not understanding that they had trade in common. A service. It had nothing to do with love but Jack didn’t know that. He was a young man, it was only his second voyage, the drinks were strong. His hair was admired and the women of Rio are very beautiful.
Maybe it was the heat. When you sail you don’t notice it creeping up on you. You leave the northern waters, the skies lighten, the air smells of spice, not herb. Ripening berries, not leaves. Your eyes water; love is possible for anyone.
Jack met Anna in a bar and she was so willing, so quick and slow. He had never met a woman like her, and thought that she meant it, that she wanted to wrap her bare legs around his waist because she loved him. He told all about her, and I knew what he was talking about, I knew what a woman’s skin did. He was so far from home, and his work kept him in a room all day, listening on the headset to people he had never met and never would. Voices changed by ether, his voice crackling back. He thought so much about his mother and father, and his sister. He wondered if he had chosen the right life; Anna told him that he had, and that he was so good, so kind.
Jack jumped ship and disappeared into Rio, chasing Anna to nowhere, I suppose. It is easy to imagine what happens to a man like him, but difficult to tell. The inevitable is written on some people’s faces. Maybe it is better to dream and die young.
Jack Potter in Rio de Janeiro, standing on a street corner, midnight. Looking up at a window, seeing his love’s silhouette, biting his lip. I don’t know what happened, but this is how I see him. Chasing a woman he could never have, never understanding his folly, dreaming of skin, taking a knife in the side, dying thousands of miles from home with a stranger’s name on his lips. His hair flopped over his eyes, his hand bent back at an unnatural angle. His watch gone. This is how I see him.
I did not let love for Isabel kill me, even after she wrote to tell me about Bernardo Roderada from Sant Feliu de Guixols. She had met him at a party. She didn’t say much but I could see him: handsome, white shirt, partnership in his father’s bar. I could see her: sitting on her balcony, holding a postcard of Sant Feliu in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. A smile on her face. I saw them walking together on Las Ramblas, in the mountains, beside a lake, along the shore. I saw her losing any memory she had of me. I saw their fingers touching.
I was not her type and I would never convince her that I could leave the sea. I was not a slim man with thick hair and a taste for well-tailored clothes. Sometimes I drank too much, and I had melancholy moods. And sometimes we didn’t meet for months. These were the reasons she preferred Bernardo Roderada to me, and they were good reasons too. I couldn’t deny them. Ask any sailor.
I lit the lamps, stoked the fire and cooked eggs. We sat at the kitchen table to eat. The night was clear and sparkled with cold. Elizabeth gave me a sly look and told me that Mrs Bell was sweet on me. ‘She was giving you some looks.’
I said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not my type.’
‘Maybe you’re hers.’
‘Forget it.’
‘She wants you, Michael. Believe me.’
‘We’re friends, that’s all.’
‘Tell me that when you get back from the cinema. What are you seeing?’
‘Raintown.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘What’s the matter?’ I poured some whisky. ‘Is it that bad?’
‘No, no,’ she said, quietly. ‘I think it’s the best thing I’ve done. It might make me a star again.’
‘Once a star, always a star. You know that. It’s in your face, your eyes.’
‘The camera loves them?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You wouldn’t have said that a few years back. Not if you’d seen me.’
‘What was the problem?’
‘You know…’ She spread her arms, tipped her head back and laughed at the ceiling. ‘End-of-the-line stuff. Some days… some days I wouldn’t even get out of bed. When you’ve seen what could be, then watched what could be disappear… I was a lonely woman for years, Michael. Lonely as hell. That’s why Jacob… why he’s so sickening. He didn’t care, not for years, not until he caught the scent of money. Let me tell you; if Bob Mitchum hadn’t put my name up for Raintown, God knows, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. That man’s one in a million. The movie’s one in a million.’ She cleared her throat with some whisky, and smiled. ‘But hey… I’m not going to say any more about it. You tell me what you think tomorrow. After the credits have run and the lights are up. And I want the truth, no bullshit just to keep me happy. I can tell. I used to know people who never had a bad word for my work. I suppose they didn’t want to upset me, but they didn’t have the sense to understand that not wanting to do that was the worst thing they could do.’
‘Okay.’
One of the lamps flared. I adjusted the flame, and she said, ‘When you go to the movies, do you sit through the credits?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Why?’
She drank. ‘I was thinking that this place is like the credits. The movie’s over but it’s just beginning in your head. You’re seeing it again, but differently, and you can watch it for as long as you like. You’re alone in the cinema, except you’re not. There’s always one other person sitting ten rows away.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I know what I mean, but I don’t know how to explain it. Not yet, anyway.’ She finished her eggs and pushed her plate away.
‘You’re tired.’
She looked at her watch. ‘I wonder how many people will stay to watch the credits tonight.’
‘Who knows?’
‘Who cares?’
I picked up the bottle. ‘Drink?’
‘Sure.’
I poured. ‘Enough?’
She nodded and said, ‘Did you ever have an affair with someone you couldn’t be with? One of those things where you had to sneak around. Catch a look here, a kiss there. An hour in some bar you wouldn’t normally be seen dead in, trying to find the right words. Telling each other if only, and asking why time is so cruel.’
‘I think so.’
‘You either did or didn’t.’
‘I did,’ I said. ‘Once…’
‘Okay…’
‘Why?’
‘Why… Well, did you promise that person that one day, when you were both older, you’d meet again, and you’d take a vacation together, and the past would be forgotten? Some romantic hotel in the mountains and you’d live like you were meant to. No fear. No guilt. No regrets. No wondering if a face you knew was waiting around the next corner. You’d walk for miles and tell each other your secrets but they wouldn’t matter. The time for secrets would be past. You could say exactly what you wanted, when you wanted, how you wanted. You’d be too old to care about anything but her. You’d live like a story you read when you didn’t know better.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You remember, Michael. She was perfect for you, she had a face you could steal, but she had another man waiting for her. And he’d be waiting for you if he knew. Tell me…’
‘What?’
‘What was her husband’s name?’
I shrugged. ‘He was Greek. Piraeus.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was like you said. We used to walk to where the fishing boats were pulled up on the shingle. I told her I was going to buy one of them and we’d sail away in it. We’d find an island, spend our time fishing. But that was a dream. We knew it. Nothing but dreams.’
‘They’re my trade.’
‘You had affairs?’
Now she laughed. ‘I was an affair.’ She drank. ‘And I heard that promise so many times, and I made it too. It never comes true, not the way you expect.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know what it means,’ she said, and she lit a cigarette. ‘Don’t you?’
I did not deny
it. I poured more drink.
‘I don’t think I was ever loved, not since my mother died. Jim tried, but then I didn’t notice. I was so stupid…’
I said, ‘Me too. More than I knew. I thought I loved a woman but I was using her. I didn’t have a clue. Not back then. I was blind.’
‘That was Isabel?’
‘That was Isabel,’ I said, ‘a long time ago,’ and for a second I wanted to say that I wasn’t stupid any more, that I could love and she could believe me, but I kept quiet. I picked up the bottle and poured again in my house.
18
Is regret a disease? Does distance give it strength? Can it become a pleasure? Can regret become stronger than love, and overtake its reason?
I never stopped wanting Isabel, even after she married Bernardo Roderada and moved to Sant Feliu de Guixols. She worked in her husband’s bar, waiting at table. The sun was hot, the breeze warm, the rain soft as paint, but who cared? Did the birds that flocked to sing in the trees, or the old men who carried boxes of fruit along the promenade? Did the priest care, as he strolled to visit a sick woman? Isabel did not, and she did not doubt, but I knew that loss is the worst kiss.
It should have been me: I began to indulge in a perfect murder fantasy. The crime of passion, a man lying in a pool of blood and guts at the foot of the cliffs that climb to the south of the town: yes, I have taken the early bus to Sant Feliu de Guixols. I have stood under the trees that grow along the promenade. I have turned my collar up to watch her working. I have seen the handsome Bernardo standing at the door with a white napkin over his arm, and I have seen him put his arm around her waist and kiss her lips. It should have been me, but I have to get back to my loaded ship. It should have been me, but I am standing in this Spanish drizzle watching her sweep the pavement after closing time, stopping to lean on the handle and wipe her brow. It should have been me, but I could not give her the grief of a dead husband. I know that much. I know I love her that much. It should have been me holding her in a wide bed in the room at the back, but I am sleeping on the beach with the dogs of the town. They are sniffing my feet and licking my face. The first bus leaves early in the morning.
Two days later I was lost at sea. I knew where the ship was. I knew its exact position. I stood on watch and counted the degrees and minutes but did not know where my heart was. It drifted, rudderless, windless. My thoughts concentrated on Isabel and why I had not made her happy. Had I fought in her presence? Had I forgotten to write one week? Had I ignored her father? Had I not proved that I could live without the sea? That I had money saved?
Maybe she didn’t believe me. Maybe she never trusted me. Maybe the things I said were lost in translation. The love of your life marries and life goes on. Flowers do not die, rivers continue to flow, every day has a night. The tectonic plates do not split and the sea does not drain away. God does not appear and display his chest. He does not speak. He does not prove that we are a part of a master plan. We are not in step with the stars. This is the worst of it. Something so important affects nothing; love can leave no mark. That is the crime.
The sea sleeps, but not necessarily at night. It always wakes with a new face. I watched it open its eyes as I stood on a middle watch. The sky was the black blanket wrenched from its face. A wind blew from the east and the waves began to crest. I pulled the hood of my coat over my head and buttoned up. Ahead of the ship the sea was frothing and wrenching itself in desperate heaves; we hit a trough. Slammed through. Hit another. Slammed twice. The navigation lights dimmed. The engines wailed and the captain called me in from the wing.
The bridge was warm but I was cold inside. Failed. I watched the storm through the glass. The ship was strong, the captain was called Morrison and believed that Jesus Christ was the Risen Saviour, and loved and watched over our every move. I tried to understand but could not.
‘Say a prayer. Number One,’ he barked. He was standing with his legs planted, his arms folded. I said, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ and tried to remember one.
A minute passed. I felt blank.
‘Said it, Number One?’
Blank.
‘Number One?’
‘Sir?’
‘Trust the prayer was a good one.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the sea ahead.
‘It was what the situation demanded, sir.’
‘God heard you, Number One.’
‘I hope so…’
‘Believe me.’ He gave me a stern look. ‘And that’s an order.’
Elizabeth and I got up early in the morning, walked down to the shore and swam, and when we were there I thought again It could have been me. Is it romance that makes me think this way, or desire? I saw the world, I never wanted wealth, I live in the place of my dreams. The offshore stacks shine, the sun is warming for the day, there is Gloria sitting on the beach, guarding the towels, and the cat is hiding in the ruins of the weavers’ cottages.
The water was cold but as we swam my blood warmed, my legs were strong, my muscles didn’t cramp, I took easy strokes. She was watching me, and I watched her. She swam easily and I swam towards her.
When we met she didn’t stop, she carried on kicking and spreading her arms and we swept into each other. I felt her feet on mine. She grabbed my shoulders and pushed me down. I swallowed water, hit the bottom and pushed up. As I did I reached out and touched her waist. She yelled. I surfaced, pushed down on her head, she went down and I kicked away from her. I turned on my back and floated. She came up beneath me, grabbed my ankles and pulled down. I shouted and flipped over. She let go and bobbed up in front of me. I stared into her eyes and she stared back at me. I remembered the look and the feeling, and I was not as old as I thought I was. The impossible was as possible as it used to be, as it used to be in Barcelona in 1966.1 was sixty-eight years old and Elizabeth Green was seventy-five years old. Is that too old, or do we just become lazy? I took her face in my hands and said, ‘Look…’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You look.’ Serious as hell. ‘I can’t play games.’
‘You think this is a game?’ I moved away from her.
‘What do you call it?’
‘You can only blame yourself if you deny life. Desire’s a good thing. Regret I can live without.’
‘What do you want, Michael?’
‘This moment, that’s all.’
‘I want more than that,’ she said, and before I could speak, before I could tell her that she was contradicting herself, she reached for my arm, pulled me to her and kissed my lips.
It is the dream I had in the Bay of Bengal, the Tasman Sea and the Panama Canal. Over the Grand Banks and off the Angolan coast. The Chagos Archipelago. The Aleutian Islands. In fog banks, in seas the size of evil and over seas like glass. In rooms over bars in Rio and Hamburg with a girl who knew a navigation officer called Jurgen and did I know him. Or I was in Tilbury and I was leaving the Gaumont. I’d just seen Missing You for the eighth time, and I was watching the final scenes in my head as I was jostled in the crowd, out of the warm and on to the pavement. But not a pavement in Tilbury; I was in Marseille, and I could see her through the cafe window, except now there was no one waiting for her, George really was dead in the desert, and she needed someone to turn to.
‘Michael?’
I had your face in my hands. You were mine; the million other people who said they loved you were lying. When you kissed Cary Grant it meant nothing to you. You were not a movie star. You were bigger than that and your mouth tasted of salt and vodka.
We were very chaste. We did not open our mouths or move our hands away from our faces and shoulders. The sea swelled towards us, and as we relaxed she fell on to me. We sank, broke and came up again, and she splashed towards the shore, stood in the shallows and waded to the towels. Gloria barked. I lay back and floated again. A cloud drifted by, and then another. High cirrus. It was about half past nine, and we hadn’t eaten breakfast.
She cooked pancakes and I felt bold enough to put my feet up and ask, ‘What more do you want?’<
br />
She didn’t answer.
‘Are you going home with Jacob?’
She flipped the first pancake and said, ‘You want this one?’
‘He’s coming tomorrow, you…’
‘Please!’ She slammed the frying pan down. ‘I know when they’re coming!’
‘Them? Who’s them?’
‘He’ll bring Angie with him.’ She slid the pancake on to a plate. ‘My agent,’ she said, and poured some more mixture into the pan.
‘Why?’
‘She’ll remind me about my commitments and what I’ll lose if I renege. She’ll call me selfish, sympathise with Jacob. He’s the advance party. She’s the big guns.’
The pancake was very good. I squeezed lemon juice over it. ‘What are your commitments?’
She did not answer straight away. She fiddled with the pan, turning it this way and that. Gloria sat up to watch, her mouth open, panting. I put some of my pancake in my mouth and chewed. ‘Pieces of paper,’ she said.
‘What does that mean?’
She slid her pancake on to a plate and came to the table. She sat down opposite me and sighed. ‘I’ve got the lead in another movie,’ she said. ‘And if you knew how difficult it is for a seventy-five-year-old woman in Hollywood…’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And then there’s the money. I’m being offered more money for ten weeks’ work than I earned in thirty years.’ She smiled. ‘But the most important thing is being wanted. Needed. People who used to leave the room when I walked in return my calls. When I signed that contract…’
‘You’re wanted with or without a contract. You know that.’
‘Sure. But do I believe it?’
‘Don’t ask me.’
‘You said the right thing again.’
‘I’ve had a lot of practice.’
‘So it’s automatic? Maybe you don’t mean it.’