Breathe

by Penni Russon

  Ariel barked and ran in and out of the water. She hated it when he went diving. He had left her up at the house but, as always, she’d come looking for him.

  “Come on, pup,” he said, though the dog was as aged as her absent owner. “Let’s go back up to the house.”

  Grunt wasn’t easily spooked, not even when diving alone. He took things as they came, on face value. But even so, he wasn’t sure what to make of what he had found that morning. There was something in particular that nagged at the edge of his mind, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  Up at the house he used Prospero’s phone. Tran, the coordinator of the marine archaeology group, was annoyed. “But it’s perfect conditions for diving. We’ve already got the equipment down there. Why would you want to postpone?”

  “I can’t explain. Personal reasons. To do with the old man who lives here.”

  Tran expelled air with the force of a combustion engine. “All right. Whatever. Three days. We don’t actually need his permission; the wreck’s in public water. But you can have three days.”

  “Thanks. And sorry, man.”

  He hung up the phone. And suddenly he placed it, the feeling he got when he swam near the light, from the energy that pulsed within it. It was the same feeling aroused in him by the close proximity of Undine.

  Trout knew that there had been some powerful kisses in the history of the world, kisses that had changed the shape of things to come. Julius Caesar and Cleopatra. Samson and Delilah. Yoko Ono and John Lennon. A kiss can seize history. Wars can rage in a kiss; battles can be lost and won.

  But this was not that kind of kiss.

  Max was pleasantly salty and bitter, like an olive. Her mouth was warm and firm, and her lips were soft. But they were still lips, and Trout did not lose himself in them. He tingled pleasantly enough at first, and had the kiss not lingered perhaps he could have been convinced by it. But as it went on, he found himself growing increasingly awkward.

  Finally the kiss ended. Max pulled away; her eyes remained closed for a second. Trout stared curiously at her face. Some people were like oil paintings, beautiful from a distance and kind of splotchy up close. But even from this nearness, Max was stunning. Her skin was clear and smooth and flawless. Her eyes, when they finally opened, were startling blue—the same color as a clear seaside day—and her white-blond hair seemed to sparkle with electricity.

  Trout could not have imagined someone who looked like Max wanting to kiss someone who looked like Trout. So why did he not particularly want to kiss her? He wanted to want to. Max was an intriguing future for him: she was not Undine; she was new; she was steeped in possibility.

  As a scientist, Trout had studied love as seriously as he studied any field of science. Despite his lack of field experience, he knew what a kiss should feel like, and that it had not felt as it should was…impossible. Look at her, he said harshly. Beautiful, sexy, lithe, strange. Now look at you, all knobbly knees and Adam’s apple and…nice (meaning bland) looking, well brought up, boyish. If he couldn’t be transported by that kiss, then something was missing from him, something vital.

  He couldn’t keep going the way he was, caught halfway between life and death. He needed…commitment, one way or the other, he needed to know. Was he dead? Was he dead inside? Max was…well, she was weird. But she was everything he should want in a girl: adventurous, gorgeous, smart, and…and into him. That was something he would never get from Undine.

  Staring into Max’s azure eyes, he realized what it was he had to do. If there was something missing from him, he had to return to where he’d lost it, to where he had last been whole. He needed to stare it in the face—death. It was time to return the bay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Still jet-lagged, Lou and Prospero wanted to spend the day at Lena’s place or in the village or at the beach, relaxing. But Undine, who had woken early, was seized with urgency. She was struck already by time fleeting; her holiday would slip through her fingers before she knew it and be gone.

  “You,” grumbled Prospero, “are too young to worry about time.”

  But he didn’t know about the temporary girl on the hillside who had fallen apart. He didn’t know about Undine’s emptiness. After the stone girl, and her dream about Grunt and the Bay of Angels, Undine felt she might be temporary, transient, that she herself was in danger of falling into parts, back into the landscape, or seascape, from which she had come.

  Lena took pity on her—or on Prospero and Lou—and invited Undine to join her. “Sofia will take you sightseeing tomorrow. But today perhaps you might like to see the town? The markets are busy, and fun to look at for a tourist.”

  Undine looked at Lou, still eating her breakfast. “Can I?”

  Lou shrugged. “Fine by me, if Lena really doesn’t mind.”

  Lena patted Undine’s face. “I don’t mind. Go and get ready—we leave in about half an hour, okay?”

  Undine brushed her hair in front of the mirror in her room. She peered at herself critically. Since she had overheard Lou and Prospero fighting, and then released a flick of magic on the hillside, she had found herself avoiding Lou. It was hardly even conscious. Was she worried that Lou might see the magic in her, glittering at the corners of her eyes, resonating from her skin like gold dust? She sighed, put the brush down, and then tousled her now neat hair to fall the way she liked it.

  “I’ve never understood why you do that,” Lou said, standing in the open doorway.

  Undine jumped. “Do what?” she asked guiltily.

  “Brush your hair and then mess it up again. It’s so…”

  “Adolescent?” Undine offered, relieved.

  “Exactly.”

  Undine shrugged. “One of the many mysteries that is me, I suppose.”

  “I didn’t see much of you yesterday. I was just wondering…”

  “You’re checking up on me.”

  “No,” Lou protested. “I just wanted to see if you’re having a good time.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “What did you get up to yesterday?”

  “You are checking up on me!”

  Lou studied Undine’s face. “I’m just interested, that’s all. Or is there something else you want to tell me? Should I be checking up on you?”

  “No!” Did Lou know about the magic, had she felt the air tremble when that girl of butterflies, of stone and clay, had formed and unformed in front of Undine’s eyes? Undine didn’t think so. Perhaps Lou’s successful containment of the magic for so long had made her insensitive, even from that relatively close proximity. Or perhaps Undine’s magic was becoming less a confusion in the air around her and more…deliberate, secretive, belonging just to her. Even Prospero hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t seemed to be aware that Undine had released the magic once more into the world around her.

  Lou was still peering at her, so Undine said, by means of deflection, “I heard you and Prospero arguing yesterday.” And then Undine realized what had been bothering her so much about what she had heard. “You said,” she burst out, “that we would explore the magic together. When I’ve finished school. But you told Prospero yesterday I had to suppress it, that there was no place for it in my life.” Lou flinched. “Well, which is it? Were you lying when you said you’d help me?”

  “Not lying, not exactly. I hoped you would see…Oh, Undine, there’s university next year. You need to focus. And then a career. Maybe a husband and children. Travel. Who knows? But do you really think you can have both? An ordinary life and the magic?”

  “But it’s for me to choose, not you.” Undine felt betrayed, manipulated by Lou’s promise when Lou had no intention of helping her to use the magic safely.

  “We need to talk about this,” said Lou, but it was a plea, not a demand. “Don’t go out today.”

  Undine looked into Lou’s eyes and realized that Lou had nothing to teach her anyway. Lou’s magic was weak and dull compared to the magic that glittered inside Undine. And suddenly Undine’s sen
se of betrayal slipped away, and she felt nothing—no anger, no remorse, perhaps a little pity, for she knew that Lou really did want what was best for her daughter.

  Undine hesitated, then she swung her bag over her shoulder. “Later,” she said, and set out into the courtyard to look for Lena. Lou did not follow.

  The market in Corfu Town was crowded and chaotic. Glistening black and green and purple olives of different sizes were piled on tables. Huge slabs of feta and other cheeses sat in brine. Silver and gray sardines crisscrossed each other in huge metal trays without refrigeration, their surprised eyes staring mournfully at Undine. Lena stopped and talked to every stallholder in rapid Greek. Sometimes she introduced Undine and they smiled widely and greeted her: yiasas or kalimera. Undine quickly learned to say it back. Lena taught her a few more Greek phrases. Thank you was efharisto. Poso kani? How much is it?

  In the friendly jostling of the markets, Undine found it easy to forget her conversation with Lou. She absorbed her immediate environment, filling her senses so that there was no room left for Lou, or her promise, or the magic.

  After Lena had bought enough produce to feed a smallish army, she looked at Undine thoughtfully. Lena looked at her watch; it was still early.

  “I’ve got other errands to run. Do you want to meet me back here in a couple of hours? Will you be okay by yourself?”

  Undine nodded.

  Corfu Town was dusty and hot. Undine walked from the new part of the town to the old. The interior was a cluster of stone steps through the lanes, tight and compacted, and she began to feel claustrophobic in the moist, thick heat. Then she seemed to pop out the other side and found herself facing the sea. It was the harbor where the ferries from the mainland docked. Built on a piece of land jutting out to sea was the old fortress, like a fairy tale castle, grim and gray against the white-hot sky.

  She followed the harbor around, thirsty and blinded by the heat. She bought a bottle of water, handing out her handful of foreign coins for the stern-faced shopkeeper to count.

  “Efharisto,” she said.

  The shopkeeper smiled. “Hot?” he asked her, pointing outside his shop at the day.

  “Yes.”

  “You walk?” He pushed a map across the counter to her. “You walk up road about two hundred meters, yes? And come to cemetery. Very nice place. Good in heat. Nice trees. You like very much.”

  “Efharisto,” Undine said again. And then, gratefully, “Thank you.”

  The shopkeeper smiled quickly and nodded abruptly three times, gesticulating to her to keep the map.

  Though she had her doubts about a cemetery, Undine saw immediately the shopkeeper had been right. In the heat it was a true oasis, more like a park. The trees shaded the graves, and there were flowers and grass everywhere so it was lush and cool and green. A few tourists milled around, looking at the gravestones. Some of the graves were marked with elaborate statues, others with small handmade wooden crosses or even a simple unmarked stone. Undine sat and drank her water and unwrapped a package of dried figs and cheese that Lena had slipped into her backpack.

  She ate slowly, breathing in the cool garden air. She wondered if Prospero’s mother and father were buried here.

  Near her an old, rotund man with a walking stick stood under a tree with his eyes closed, holding a bunch of white flowers. Undine found herself watching him in an absent kind of way. He opened his eyes, and they looked straight into Undine’s as if he had seen her before they had opened.

  “Look,” he said. His long stick was pointing at something on the ground: a tortoise shuffling slowly through the long grass.

  “I think maybe it is my wife,” the man said. He roared with laughter, and Undine laughed too, bemused but joyful, loving the day.

  Undine walked back along the harbor to the point where she had exited the old town. She retraced her steps as carefully as she could, folding and unfolding her map. Nevertheless, at some point she made a wrong turn and found herself in a mazelike jumble of streets. At times she seemed to be walking through someone’s garden—there would suddenly be a cluster of pot plants, or old tins of olive oil now holding geraniums or herbs, on either side of the laneway.

  She sat on a step and pulled out the map again, trying to work out where she had begun to be lost. She did not see the bald man until he was almost upon her. He shouted at her in Greek. He was old, but not as aged as many of the Greek men she had seen, his face smooth as though he had never worked in the sun.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, standing up quickly, folding her map clumsily against its existing creases so that it tried to balloon open again in her hand. “Sorry.”

  He still shouted, pushing her back the way she’d come with threatening gestures, though he did not touch her.

  He switched to English. “You no belong here.”

  “Sorry, I lost my way.”

  “I see in your skin. In your eye. I know you. You no come here.” He moaned suddenly, clutching his head. “Too much. You go.”

  “I’m going. I just got lost, that’s all,” Undine placated, though her voice trembled. What did he mean, You don’t belong here? Was he simply referring to her foreignness, to her Australianness? But it seemed more pointed, more specific—more personal—and something inside Undine stirred, a kind of knowledge about herself. He was talking about the magic, she was sure of it. He recognized it. And it was her own fault.

  She had unleashed it on the hillside, she had asked it a question: am I the magic or am I the girl? And now the magic appeared to be answering her.

  She backed away. “See? I’m going, okay?”

  “Okay! Okay!” The man flicked his arms up into the air, shooing her away. “Okay!”

  A woman came out. “Shush. Shush,” she told him. “Is all right,” she said to Undine. “He is…” she tapped her head, rolling her eyes. It was an expressive gesture. Undine smiled gratefully, though her knees shook.

  Retracing her steps, quelling her shaking insides, Undine managed to find her way back to Lena, who hugged her tightly. “I thought I was going to have to tell your mother I lost you.”

  Undine wanted to melt into Lena’s maternal arms, but something in her made her stand rigid and lonely, unyielding to Lena’s hug.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  In a world with little certainty, one thing was for sure: it was going to suck to be Dan when he woke up the next morning, looked out his window, and saw a blank gaping space where the Datsun should be.

  The Datsun’s steering was a bit on the sluggish side and the brake felt spongy under his foot. But then what would Trout know? He’d never driven a car before.

  Nevertheless, he was finding he had something of a talent for it. He loved it. Why hadn’t he done it before? By state law, at seventeen he was eligible for a provisional licence, but he’d just never got around to it. Living so close to the city, he could walk most places he wanted to go. Or there were buses, or his parents to drive him, or Dan.

  But driving, he realized, wasn’t about the destination. It wasn’t just a more convenient way to get from A to B. It wasn’t about autonomy or even freedom. It was this, the engine throbbing through him, his hands resting on the steering wheel, intuitive and responsive. It was listening to the car, kindly easing the gears up and down as required. It was symbiosis—the perfect fusion of mechanic and organic. It was a small internal world, a world within a world, and he controlled it. It was…it was power. It was fantastic.

  “Don’t you think we should slow down a little?”

  Trout jumped. He had rather forgotten that the perfect fusion of mechanic and organic had a passenger. He looked at the speed dial and registered with surprise that he was a good forty kilometers over the highway’s speed limit.

  “Oops.”

  Max looked at him ironically, almost indulgently, her left arm resting easily on the open window frame. “My mother warned me about boys like you.”

  “Nobody’s mother warns their daughters about boys like me.”

>   “Are you kidding?” Max ticked off on her fingers. “Bar fights. Wandering the streets at night. Meeting up with strange women from the Internet. Taking drugs. In love with some kind of powerful super-witch. Stealing cars. Driving without a license over the speed limit. Should I go on? I’m seriously running out of fingers here.”

  It amazed Trout to listen to Max’s account of who he had become. Last year he had been an outstanding student, in love with the girl next door, dabbling in astronomy, reading Dickens and Homer and Shakespeare. He even read his science textbooks like novels, from beginning to end. Mothers loved him. He was just the kind of boy they would have wanted their daughters to bring home. But now…

  “Trout!” Max said sharply, though she didn’t look in the least concerned.

  He eased his foot off the accelerator and dabbed the brake. “Sorry.”

  He looked sideways at Max, who had turned to stare out the window, watching the nightscape flicker past. His plan to borrow—steal, he reminded himself roughly—Dan’s car and drive to the bay had not actually included Max in his mind. But when night fell, Max was still there, and having kissed her, Trout found he had neither the heart nor the complex social skills to send her home. Besides, he recognized the raw hole inside her that she hoped the magic would fill—because it mirrored his own. Perhaps by bringing her with him to the bay, he could somehow satisfy both their needs, mend both their injuries. Though, it occurred to him briefly, he hadn’t actually trusted her enough to tell her where they were going or why.

  They reached the hamlet of Dunalley, the occasional house radiating warm yellow light into the brittle night air. Trout slowed down considerably; it felt like they were crawling through the small town. Suddenly Trout felt very conspicuous in the small white car lit up by the town’s streetlights. He was relieved to leave the houses behind him.