Beautiful Animals

by Lawrence Osborne

  “He’s too gentle for that,” Sam said. “Mostly, he’s just annoying.”

  Naomi let her head sink onto her arm. Her eyes were slow and sarcastic, and they never released the object of their attention a moment too soon.

  “Am I annoying?”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “I’m an only child. Only children are always a bit…We’re spinning tops. You know that.”

  “Really?”

  “Your brother saved you.”

  “From being a spinning top?”

  “We need someone to keep us spinning.”

  Sam drew her knees up and they began to feel more sisterly.

  She asked questions about Phaine. Was she really called Funny?

  “Of course not. It’s a joke.”

  “So Phaine’s a Greek name?”

  “Obviously.”

  “I think your dad is hilarious,” Sam said.

  “The people on the island like to call him a character. I’ve always thought that was an insult myself.”

  Sam rolled onto her back and her limbs were relaxed and loose like those of a child gorged on chocolate cake.

  “I liked that he wore a tie. My dad would never wear a tie.”

  “But I like your father,” Naomi said. “Shall we swap? I don’t mind if he doesn’t wear ties. I think we should get up early and walk to the end of the island. All the way to the end.”

  It was said more as a piece of firm advice, even as a directive, rather than as a casual suggestion, and Sam was jolted a little by it. However, she said nothing. She couldn’t deny that she was attracted to someone suddenly taking control of a subsequent day because such a thing had not happened to her before. Usually people quietly did what she wanted rather than the reverse, and now she wondered if she should go along with it or make a petty show of independence. Yet she realized immediately that it was the independence that bored her. Naomi offered something else—a sense of knowing what she wanted long before anyone else did.

  “Sooner or later,” Naomi now said quietly, “you’ll understand that I know everything that you can do on this island and which are the most pleasurable things. I’ve done them over and over, so I know. If you let me guide you, you’ll save yourself a lot of time.”

  “That’s very arrogant, but I don’t mind having a guide.”

  “Guides are worth their weight in gold. But only if you want them.”

  She looked at Sam archly and the smile was like a rope tugging at a horse’s bit.

  “Sure I want,” Sam said.

  “So we’re agreed.”

  After the two had wished each other goodnight and Sam found herself alone, she couldn’t sleep for a long while. She lay on the bed with the windows wide open, the rusted hinges creaking as the wind antagonized them. She rolled herself a cigarette and calmly enjoyed it by the window so the scent wouldn’t reveal itself to the others. A lot had happened, quite suddenly, but she couldn’t say quite what it was. The Codrington family were an event in themselves, but she could already tell that they would never invite her up to tea at their lofty villa. They didn’t do things like that. They were planets closer to the sun than her own; their orbits were different. It was Naomi who would come down into the port and amuse her, who would give a meaning to her endless summer. There was something alarming about her, but it was just possible that Naomi herself had been suddenly altered—just a little—by contact with Sam. There is the spinning top and there is the girl who whips it into motion, but the two are merged in the same motion.

  THREE

  They got up early and, forgoing the pancakes that Amy habitually offered, walked down to Vlychos to have breakfast at the Four Seasons resort. It was a small place on the beach a mile beyond the village on a solitary path that eventually led to Palamidas. Even by six-thirty butterflies danced around the crooked fence poles, bumbling across slopes of gleaming Hottentot figs and disappearing into thin air when they felt like it. Like primitive armor, prickly pears grew along the low walls and their paddles were finely robed with tiny cobwebs. It was hushed even near the houses. They could smell fresh hay and coffee, and from the coves came the ghostly repetitions of little waves.

  They had loose beach bags slung over their shoulders with bathing suits, towels, and sunscreen. Coming through luxuriant century plants to a place called Castello, they climbed above the beach there to a higher elevation where decayed wooden gates with padlocks announced the phantoms of abandoned houses. Where the shallow water suddenly deepened there were irregular shapes of black opal, like the forms of stationary sharks, and farther out dark green masses that suggested a brooding energy that would always remain withheld from the upper air. An episode of malaria, she thought, but didn’t know why. A malarial dream made of sponges and submerged rocks. Close to shore a bare islet appeared with a white chapel built upon it, and against it they saw a fragile yacht tacking toward the two humps of Dokos. But the ripples spreading over the sea’s surface from the wind were faster than its wake. At Vlychos, they gazed down on a cheerless beach with rows of straw parasols amid a cluster of power lines—the path went right above it—and they could see large Greek men already positioning themselves to catch the first solar rays shooting over the sea. The whole affair was crammed into a cove. They wandered down to an old stone bridge and crossed it. Underneath them a man rode his donkey train, never looking up at the two girls; the fabulous mustache of a past century, the high boots, the hands of a strangler. He spat a Yassas to people they couldn’t see.

  At the Four Seasons, with its shaded terrace covered by low-hanging trees, the Russians for which the place was famous had not yet appeared and the house that formed the main building of the hotel seemed closed up and indifferently idle. Yet the doors were open, and there was a glimpse of a cultured interior consisting of random antiques and a whiff of classical music. The straw parasols were trim and ready, unlike those of Mandraki, and the sand was raked. They sat at a beach table under the shade and ordered black coffee, a bitter sketos for Naomi and a sweeter metrios for Sam. The sweat began to dry on them, but it was impossible for Sam to imagine what it would be like to take this walk under a noon sun. It would be the kind of torment that only the affluent unemployed would inflict upon themselves.

  They drank three cups each and ordered some toast with marmalade for Naomi and bowls of Greek yogurt with nuts. Sam said, without lying, that it was the best marmalade she had ever tasted. Naomi said they could smoke a little too, no one would notice. A little kif in the morning did the trick. She rolled a joint and they smoked it in turns. So she has weed, Sam thought calmly. She knows how to get it even here. She’s an operator.

  As if reading her mind, Naomi explained.

  “I get it from a local girl who rows around the island with a stash. She’ll come by later where we’re going.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s an insider secret here. She has stuff she gets from Turkey. She doesn’t sell to tourists unless they’re recommended. Don’t tell Christopher either.”

  They got a buzz, but not enough to make them giddy. Then they walked on up the hill an hour later, braving the heat. The path curved against steep hillsides with the sea churning at the foot of cliffs. The road to Palamidas. A power line on poles swept all along it, the poles slightly deranged and angled.

  Before they got near Palamidas, they scrambled down a ravine filled with irises. It was a narrow area of stones, where they laid out the towels, stripped, and changed into their bikinis. They lay down and waited. It was like waiting for inspiration. They began to talk, because the silence was conducive to it. Naomi asked Sam about her inability to eat bread. Had she been off it a long time? A few years, Sam said. She’d found that she was intolerant about the time she had started her periods. Luckily, it was a well-known intolerance in her generation; everyone had understood, even her mother. Surprisingly, Hydra was well stocked with gluten-free products. It was the Anglos, Naomi said tartly. They brought them in with t
hem, and now the Greeks too found that they were gluten-intolerant, whereas they had ignored it for three thousand years, which showed you how stubborn they were.

  Sam sensed the sarcasm, but she decided to go along with it by changing the subject. She asked if Naomi was seeing anyone, either here on the island or back home.

  “You mean a boyfriend?”

  “Whatever you want to call it.”

  “I’m in a bit of an interregnum right now,” Naomi admitted.

  “A what?”

  “A pause between boyfriends. Probably between two uninteresting boyfriends.”

  Sam felt emboldened to say: “Is the pause better than the guys?”

  “In some ways it is. It depends on the guys. I’ve been alone for a while and I like it. I really can’t say why.”

  “I know what you mean. I haven’t had that many boyfriends myself, but sometimes I think thinking about it is better than having it. It’s better than doing it, no?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I mean almost.”

  “I still wouldn’t say that.”

  Naomi smiled up at the sky and her skin, to Sam, was an English mask perfectly modeled to resemble a human face and the smile didn’t break its polished surface. And yet she could feel the tensions moving back and forth beneath it, ideas and moods roaming as if from empty room to empty room. It could have been easily mistaken for boredom, but it was more electrifying than boredom. It was like a child looking for a centipede to kill.

  “What about Miss Sam?”

  “There’s a boy I like—he’s in Mexico this summer. I didn’t want to bring him here anyway. My father doesn’t like him.”

  “He didn’t want to come along?”

  “He didn’t want to be with my family. It’s understandable, given the way my family carries on. We’re a bit…boring.”

  “That’s not very loyal of him.”

  “Well, I’m not very loyal either. I haven’t been thinking about him. I’m not the loyal type.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  “I was hoping there’d be some here. Boys, I mean. They say Greece is the place for that. Is it?”

  “Sure it is.”

  An hour later, they heard the slap of oars on water and a small rowing boat swung into view, a young woman of about Naomi’s age propelling it forward. They rose up onto their elbows and the visitor looked at them with a surly unsurprise from under a wide-brimmed straw hat, which she took off as the boat floated in toward them.

  She was dressed in a swimsuit and a loose pale orange linen shirt, and her hair was knotted all the way down to the waist. She came up to the strand and raised the oars and shot a familiar Yassou at Naomi. When the boat was a few feet from the rocks she stood up and lifted a saddlebag, opened it, and took out a small packet. Naomi in turn had taken out a roll of euros and threw it into the boat. Back came the packet. The girl sat down again and the oars rose, dripping, while she scrutinized the American girl. There was no amicality in the eyes, no common cause. “Who is she?” she asked Naomi.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Naomi replied in Greek, “she’s a friend.”

  When the skiff moved off, the girl put her straw hat back on and began singing to herself as she rowed out of view. Naomi waited until she had disappeared before assembling a joint. They smoked it together, still lying on their backs, and then, refreshed, they climbed up toward Palamidas, the dust swirling around them until they reached a point where they could go no farther. The church at Episkipos was too much of a climb, and so they turned back.

  —

  At the gates to the Haldane villa Naomi said that she would head home. Her father and Phaine were expecting her for dinner and that night, for once, she would have to be punctual or risk their ire.

  “Jimmie just sent me a message—we have to be at the port at seven tomorrow morning for the yacht. Can you do it?”

  “We’ll be there. What should we bring?”

  “Nothing at all. It’s butler service.”

  “Butlers?”

  “Well, they’re not dressed like butlers.”

  Sam seemed to hesitate about something. Her words were drawled and almost purring.

  “All right. Are you sure I can keep the weed?”

  “I bought it for you,” Naomi said brightly.

  “Cool. I won’t bring it tomorrow, though.”

  Naomi took her hand for a moment and swung it like a jump rope.

  “Don’t be late, Miss Sam. I hate late girls.”

  “I’ll be on time.”

  Naomi walked down to the port. She was dreading dinner, but it had to be endured. The swallows massed in the sky, an air of mad poetry and derangement. She had a quick drink at the Pirate Cove to steady her nerves, then climbed up the steps sunk in plumbago to the villa. When she got to Belle Air it was Carissa who opened the door for her, and the expression on her face was somber. The maid was tarted up, the cosmetic polishing almost professional.

  “Madame is in a bad mood.”

  They stood together for a moment in the secluded cool of the vestibule among the old Turkish swords, and Carissa filled her in on the day’s observations. They spoke in Greek, and the humor flowed easily between them in that language. They knew each other well. More than that, a calm telepathy existed between them. They had known each other for years, since Naomi was an early teenager and Carissa not much older. That night madame had said that her stepdaughter was a parasite.

  “Well, I knew she thought that,” Naomi said grimly. “What else?”

  “Your father defended you. They had a row.”

  “That bitch. At least you are priceless, Carissa.”

  “She also said you should go back to London and get a job.”

  “She did?”

  “She did.”

  But why should it be me who goes back to London? Naomi thought.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll prepare myself for dinner.”

  She went up to her room. She shut the door and showered for half an hour. It was her childhood room, older by far than Phaine’s tenure in her father’s heart, and it gave her a reassuring sense of entitlement at the core of the house. Her bed, her old books and childhood things moldering away in the salty air. In every other room the intruder had carefully expunged all traces of her dead mother and replaced their former warmth and coziness with her own chilly taste.

  Naomi sat in front of her dressing-table mirror and put on a little makeup. Her father always appreciated the effort at a family dinner; his eyes shone for a second and the compliment was made without words. She put on a simple dress and pulled her hair back and then went quietly down to the terrace, where Carissa had set the table with a touch of magnificence: asphodels in a vase, the family silver from Nottingham. Jimmie and Phaine were already there, with Frank Sinatra from the salon turned up loud and “Fly Me to the Moon” belting out to subdue the cicadas. Jimmie was smoking a stupendous Havana and reading the Wall Street Journal; Phaine was drinking a vodka tonic. When she saw Naomi she stiffened and casually shouted out: “So there you are!”

  Jimmie looked up over his half-moons and smiled at the sight of his only child looking subtly elegant and, in some inexpressible way, contrite. He put down the paper and playfully hit the side of his wineglass with his spoon, making it ring like the announcement of a toast.

  “Let’s have Carissa bring out the pâté,” Phaine said. “She made some black olive pâté—it’s an old recipe, you know.”

  But in fact the maid was already bringing it out. Jimmie poured the Bandol for his daughter and for a few minutes he was curious about the Haldanes. The old guy was a bit of a stiff, wasn’t he? The wife wasn’t bad, though. Bit of a looker and light on her feet, eh? The boy had shifty eyes, though.

  “What about the daughter?” Naomi said.

  “Oh yes. I forgot about her. You’ve gotten to know her a bit, haven’t you? Is she sweet?”

  “Of course she’s sweet.”

  �
�Did you hear that, Funny? She’s sweet. But I can’t remember her.”

  “Jimmie, let’s face it: you only remember what you want to remember.”

  Since this was undeniable, he held his tongue for a few seconds and tried to come back with a better line.

  “All the same,” he resumed, “it’s not like me to forget someone sweet. There must have been something ordinary about her. Or something very unsweet. Or maybe I didn’t like her.”

  It was the usual dinner à trois at the Codrington manor, with constant small talk about neighbors and commercial developments in the ports (invariably unwelcome) and dishes cooked by Carissa in the vast kitchen brought out on an assortment of antique plates. That night she presented lavish servings of fish oven-baked with lemon and olives, and oily roasted potatoes sprinkled with sea salt and blades of thyme as long as eyelashes.

  “We’re happy to take your new friends around the island tomorrow,” Phaine said. “But first Jimmie and I thought we should have a talk with you about your situation. Your work situation, I mean. It seems to me, anyway, that you haven’t been entirely forthcoming about what is going on with you or why you had to leave the firm. You know perfectly well that your father put a lot of effort into helping you get that job—and now it has evaporated from one day to the next without any explanation from you.”

  She began stabbing at the potatoes with her fork, and this formed an interlude that served as an invitation to Naomi to refute her.

  “That’s unfair,” the girl said weakly. “I—”

  “You just show up here saying you’ve lost your job and expect us to accept it. It’s a little baffling. Apart from anything else, we could help you if you come clean and told us exactly what happened. We’re not saying that it was your fault—we don’t know either way. We can’t know anything unless you tell us and stop being so evasive about it.”