“Shh, shh, we’re alive” are the only words I have to offer him as I stroke his hair. We remain clinging together like that until we both fall asleep again.
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, when suddenly my eyes open to the blinding light of day. I sit up slowly and blink in the intense noonday sun, expecting to see only sea and sky before me. Instead I’m greeted by an exquisitely lush, green volcanic island, framed by an azure sky and turquoise sea. At first I think I must be hallucinating. But if my eyes deceive me, so too do my nostrils. Mixed with the marine scent of salt and seaweed, the breeze carries a spicy jungle perfume. Our ship must have hit a small islet that was part of a larger island group, and in our panic and confusion as we made our escape, we hadn’t realized we were actually only a few miles offshore.
“Aha!”
“What is it? What do you see?” Luca stirs, rubbing his face and pushing himself upright.
“Land ho!” I call out boyishly.
Luca grabs the gunwale to steady himself with one hand and shields his eyes from the sun with the other. “Oh my God!”
“We’re saved. We’re saved,” I yell out. Laughing and without forethought, I grab Luca and kiss him hard on the lips. But rather than a passionate outpouring of wet emotion, his lips are firm and closed. He doesn’t refuse me, although he doesn’t engulf me either. That’s how it had been with the men I had known at the docks in Montreal, sex but no intimacy. For now the only important thing is that we have survived.
With Luca rowing and me steering, we head straight toward the island.
“Look, just over there past the bay behind that hill. Isn’t that smoke?”
Luca stops rowing and stares in the direction I’m pointing. “It sure is.” And he continues to row with increased vigor. A barrier reef lies about a mile offshore, and Luca heads us toward a break in the reef. As we approach we pass through a floating ribbon of charred debris and greasy diesel fuel that has been carried in by the current: pieces of wood, polystyrene and plastic, a partial life ring, and a plastic Chinese rice bowl. I can almost feel the intensity of the blast that ripped our ship apart, and I suppose that most of it, being iron and steel, is now lying on the bottom of the sea. None of the other crew could have possibly survived, and I pray we don’t come upon the bodies. Luca rows our small craft through the debris, and we pass in silence, the way people do at a funeral procession.
The sea is gentle, and we traverse the reef with ease. Once inside, the water is probably only forty feet deep at most and crystal clear. I gaze down into a marine garden and watch schools of yellow jack move as one and change direction in perfect unison with each passing wave. My eyes follow as a giant manta ray silently glides across the seascape like a visitor from a shadow world and a nurse shark slowly swaggers along the sandy bottom at the base of a large head of brain coral. I feel more like a tourist on a sightseeing tour than a survivor of a shipwreck.
As we approach the beach, the water becomes shallower, and eelgrass covers the sandy bottom. Luca digs in hard with the oars, and our boat comes to a gentle swooshing halt on the sand.
I brace my hands on the gunwale and leap out onto the beach, but as I stand up straight my head begins to throb and I become dizzy.
“Oh, I must’ve lost my land legs,” I joke, but moments later I topple face-first into the sand.
“Guy! Are you all right?”
“Yes, it’s just my head.”
“Stay put.” Luca jumps out and comes to my side. “You’re as white as a ghost.” He holds my chin and examines the goose egg on my forehead.
“Just let me lie here for a few.” I roll over. I’m cold and shaking and dripping with sweat.
“Can you make it to that tree over there? You’ll be out of the sun.”
“Give me a minute,” I slur. “I’m not much of a real man, I guess.” Drool is running out my mouth and nose.
After a moment, Luca helps me stagger over to a shady patch under the tree. He retrieves a small piece of driftwood and places it under my head. After stripping off his shirt, he returns to the water’s edge, soaks it, and comes back and washes my face and chest. The warm seawater evaporates, leaving my skin cool.
“I have to secure the boat.” Luca scrounges around and finds some driftwood logs to wedge under the keel. With great effort, he rolls the boat well up onto the beach and ties it to the trunk of the tree under which I lie.
“We desperately need to find water. I’m going to see where that smoke is coming from. You’ll be safe here. Sleep. I’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“You’re okay for now.” He bends over and kisses me lightly on the forehead.
I know he’s right. I’m not capable of moving.
“I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry,” he calls as he trots off down the beach.
I’m alone with only the rustle of the palm fronds in the breeze, the rhythmic swoosh of the water on the sand, and the high-pitched zing of cicadas from the tropical forest behind. I pass out.
GUY STOPPED speaking and gazed at Richard as if to say, “Oh, you’re still here.” He leaned back in the sofa, stretched his arms over his head, and yawned loudly. “So, what do you think so far?”
Richard blinked like a man who had just been interrupted while watching a story on television. “Very interesting. I think you’ve raised a number of important issues we should explore.”
“Such as my difficult breastfeeding relationship with my mother?”
Richard squinted suspiciously at Guy. “Such as why this narrative is so important to you and why you have such a strong desire to share it with me.”
Guy smiled in a way that said he was pleased but also holding something back. “I just want to tell you a story. That’s all.”
“That’s our deal, isn’t it?” Richard shrugged. “You talk and I listen.” He glanced at his watch. “But our time is almost up. We’ll have to continue with this on Friday.”
Guy stood up. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“In the age of globalization, you can no longer set out to see the world with only a change of socks and underwear and a few bucks in your shoe.”
“Times have changed,” Richard said.
Guy yawned. “I don’t know. Maybe you still can. It’s just me who has gotten old and frightened.”
Richard rose. “You don’t appear to be a man who is frightened by very much.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“What is it that frightens you the most?”
Guy gave Richard a dodgy smile. He walked across the room, then paused at the door for a moment, turned, and looked back toward Richard. “Living, Doc. That’s what frightens me.” He opened the door and left.
“You can pick up your medical certificate from the nurses’ station,” Richard called after him.
Chapter 3: Waning of the Crescent Moon
ARMANDO WAS positioned behind the nurses’ station counter reviewing some charts on the computer screen. He looked up as Guy passed, blinked, and then smiled with recognition. “Good morning, Mr. Palmer. Dr. Bowing is ready to see you. Go on in.”
Guy was already partway down the hall, heading toward Richard’s office.
“Good morning.” Richard looked up from his computer screen as Guy marched in through his door.
Guy didn’t respond. He placed the cappuccino on the edge of his desk and sat down on the sofa as if he were a passenger on a bus waiting for it to depart. Then he held his nose up and sniffed the air—a faint odor of chlorine. Richard’s hair was slightly damp, and a gym bag was wedged in the corner behind his desk. “Back or breast?” Guy said.
Richard jerked his head and squinted. “Excuse me?”
“Your swim stroke: back or breast?”
“Mostly back, but I throw in twenty lengths of breast at the end of my workout.”
Guy nodded. “I swim every day at noon.” He slapped his left pec. “But I’m strictly freestyle and fly
. Always like to see where I’m going.”
Richard furrowed his forehead. “How did you know I just went swimming?”
Guy rolled his eyes but didn’t respond.
Richard got up from behind his desk, walked over to the swivel chair with the recorder in his hand, and sat down. “Why don’t you continue to tell me about your home life and growing up.” Richard clicked the Record button, and the little red light turned green. He reached over and placed the machine on the edge of the desk.
Guy leaned into the sofa and made a low groan in the back of his throat. “What more is there to tell? My mom was the tough guy. Dad mostly ignored me.” Guy paused. “Sometimes I felt like inventory in their store.”
“Do you resent them?” Richard leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on the back of his hands.
“Not really.” Guy shook his head gently. “They worked hard to put me through school. I had a lot more than most of the other kids in my village, I guess—certainly more than Luca, who grew up in that orphanage and had nothing and no one.”
“This is Luca from the ship, right?”
Guy nodded.
“He’s very important to you, isn’t he?”
“He used to be.”
“And where is he now?”
“Good question. It depends on which lifetime we’re talking about.” Guy relaxed his face and looked off into the distance. He stared toward the wall and began to tell his tale.
I MUST have been unconscious for a long time. Even though I open my eyes, I have no idea where I am. I am trapped halfway between a very bizarre world of dreams and a confused reality. I imagine my old professor visiting me. He’s naked to the waist and lecturing me loudly, but I can’t understand his words. I cry out.
Then I’m back in the lifeboat, lying on my back gazing up at the burning ship. The crew is standing on deck looking down at me, seemingly unaware and unconcerned about the fire behind them. Luca is crouching above me trying to insert what I think is his hard penis into my mouth. I refuse to spread my lips or open my teeth.
“Take it,” he commands. “You need it. Take it.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the crew chants. “Take it. Take it.”
I fight hard. Luca pries open my lips while others hold my head. He shoves whatever it is into my mouth, and cool water pours down my throat. I cough.
Finally I am on the docks in Montreal, lying on some boxes and old sacks in a dark corner of one of the warehouses. I realize I’m not alone as, one by one, men wearing towels around their waists appear out of the darkness.
Two of the men move down and grab my legs and spread them apart. They lift my legs upward while another man rubs grease on my ass. I struggle, but now I am surrounded by men holding me down. The man who greased me takes what I think is a large gas nozzle and tries to insert it into me. I fight harder but can’t move. After a few seconds of discomfort, the nozzle slides in smoothly, without pain. Then I feel a warm fluid flow into me, and all I can smell and taste is almonds. It’s wonderful. I open my mouth to ask for more, and someone fills my mouth with a thick liquid that tastes like licorice. A wave of heat sweeps through my body, and my skin tingles. Everything and everyone surrounding me glows then melts into colors that flow like a lava lamp. I feel as if my mother’s old beaver-fur coat has folded in around me, cloaking me in soft furry darkness, and I sleep.
When I finally wake and completely open my eyes, the torturous throb in my head is gone. I am nestled in a large hammock, and an orange evening light is coming through an open doorway. I lie there, gently swinging, and survey my surroundings. The room, from what I can see, is entirely white plaster, with a variety of rectangular platforms jutting out from the walls. Some of the platforms are piled with cushions and cloths, while others have clusters of odd-shaped decorated ceramic pots, bowls, and jugs arranged on them. Numerous large wooden beams traverse a high-peaked thatched ceiling above me. Brightly colored banners of gauzelike cloth hang from the beams and wave in a warm breeze that wafts in through the doorway. I float back to sleep.
Later, I awake to the sounds of drums, xylophones, and whistling flutes, and laughter coming from outside. They are strange sounds, wild and primitive and at the same time gentle and comforting. My first thought is, there’s a party outside, and confined here to my hammock, I’m missing it. I swing back and forth listening, reassured I’m not alone, and doze off to sleep again.
Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, I hear Luca snoring. I look over and see him curled up on a platform bench near me, amongst a pile of cushions and cloth. I’m still very weak but can no longer sleep, so I lie there in the rare light and watch him. His face is strong and well-defined, with touches of pretty around his eyes and lips—not angelic, but perhaps once kissed by an angel. All the strain I saw on his face in the lifeboat is now gone.
It’s full morning before he stirs. He opens his eyes and smiles at me. “Welcome back, Kiddo,” he says as he might say to a kid brother he shares a room with.
“It’s good to be back,” I say, returning his smile. “How long was I gone?”
“Long time. I thought I was going to lose you.” Luca stands up and stretches.
I know he has a good body since I’ve already seen him with his shirt off, but now as I see him, full-length, almost naked, I’m taken aback by his lean, muscular Mediterranean physique, elegant and agile. He’s wearing some kind of elaborate loincloth embroidered with shiny beads and shells.
He sees me looking and grins. “You must be feeling better.”
“Did you go native while I was gone or just forget your underwear and had to borrow a pair from a passing showgirl?”
He blushes. “Yes, you’re definitely feeling better, ’cause now you’re getting nasty.”
“Where exactly are we? This doesn’t look much like a hospital.”
“Well, that’s a little hard to explain. I’ll show you later, but for now, rest. You’re gonna need all your strength.” He smirks like he’s holding back a joke or something.
“What? What is it?”
Just as I ask, someone outside the door whistles, and I jump.
“Relax, Kiddo.” Luca laughs and gently slaps me on the shoulder. “I assure you, you’re gonna love it. Do you think you can eat something?”
“God yes, I’m famished.”
A silhouetted figure steps partially in through the doorway. Because of the contrast in light, I can only discern that he’s a squarely built man of medium height. He’s carrying a wooden tray that he holds out into the shadowy light of the room. It’s piled with fruit, nuts, stacks of little cakes that look like fat tortillas, and tiny steaming decorated bowls. The tray is adorned with tropical flowers.
“What’s this, room service?” I ask, both surprised and impressed at the same time. “Don’t tell me. We washed ashore at some fancy tropical hotel?”
“Not exactly, but first let’s eat. You need to start back on solid food. Look at you. You’re skinny as a rail.”
I reach down and rub my ribs. “I lost a few pounds, didn’t I?”
“A few! Check out your bony ass.”
“I guess I have to thank you a second time for saving my life.” My eyes water as I begin to well up.
“Well, now don’t get all sappy on me. Let’s get a few things straight. The first time was more by accident and duty than anything else, and I’m not the one you need to thank this time. They are.” Luca gestures toward the man standing motionless by the door.
As I look up at him, he slowly steps toward us. The slats of light beaming through the doorway seem to ripple rhythmically down his body like dominoes falling in succession. He’s about my age or slightly younger, I guess. His skin is light brown, café con leche, and he is muscled without being bulky. He has a broad barrel chest, forested with glistening black hair. On the center of his chest he has a butterfly tattoo the size of a plate. His shoulders are square and his arms powerful, not long and skinny like my own. His hands and feet
are large and broad. He’s wearing a plain white loincloth, a simple pair of woven grass sandals, and he has a pink shell strung around his neck with a cord.
I lie there in my hammock staring as he turns and squats down to place the tray on one of the platform benches along the wall. His thighs are like an animal’s, strong and hairy, and his buttocks are an architectural marvel. I breathe in slowly and feel dizzy.
Ironically, in all his physical perfection, it’s his face, which is not what you might imagine as the face of a poster boy or movie star, that captivates me most. It’s round, both boyish and manly at the same time. His nose, although broad, is sharply defined at the bridge. His cheekbones are high, almost protruding, and his light brown eyes seem slightly oversized. His jaw is not sharp and angular like mine, but supports the rest of his face well. I spot a dimple in the middle of his button chin, and gooseflesh ripples up my arms across the back of my neck.
“Guy, this is your nursemaid, Nando.” Luca smirks. “He’s the one you need to thank.”
At the mention of his name, he looks at me and smiles in a way that is pure and genuine, as if he has never learned to temper his sentiments with a stranger. I guess, really from his perspective, after spending countless days and nights attending to me, I’m not a stranger to him at all.
My face flushes red. “Thank you for um… I mean, gracias, muchas gracias.”
“De nada,” he replies humbly.
“Dónde estamos en Cuba?”
“No, no estamos en Cuba.” He smiles again and bows as he backs, almost floating, out of the room.
“Hey, I didn’t know you could speak Spanish,” Luca says brightly.
“Well, a little school Spanish,” I say, feeling quite proud of myself.
“Great! But Nando is not Latino, and he speaks American English quite well.”
“Oh shit,” I groan.
“Idiot,” Luca says, laughing.
“Hey, leave me alone. I’m a sick person, and I’m hungry as a bear.”
Eating the Moon Page 4