Pelangi Haven

by Karen Van Der Zee

  in his blue eyes and she felt a rush of despair. His arms came up, then

  dropped back as if he changed his mind.

  'I know,' he said softly. 'I've already made arrangements to stay in

  one of the houses over there.' He made a vague gesture towards

  Justin's houses.

  She wasn't sure what she felt. Surprise about Waite's uncharacteristic

  humility. Obviously he had not assumed he could stay with her, taken

  for granted that she would take him back. But she felt a flash of anger

  at Justin. Why had he done that? Given Waite a place to stay? How

  long would Waite stay on now? She didn't want him here. It was

  difficult to contain her anger and she turned away.

  'Please go now, Waite.'

  When she looked back he was gone and she heard his steps as he

  went down the stairs and then she was alone.

  She sat down in a chair, feeling numb. Darkness gathered around her,

  but she did not get up to light the lamps.

  Waite was back in her life. And suddenly the numbness was gone

  and she felt a rising panic.

  It seemed a long time later when someone called her name. Her head

  was resting on her drawn-up knees and it was an effort to raise it. She

  stared at the shape standing in the open door. It was Justin.

  'What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?'

  She looked at him, dazed, not answering.

  He strode into the room, lit one of the lamps and came towards her.

  'Are you all right?'

  She nodded. 'Yes.' Her voice sounded strangely husky and she

  cleared her throat.

  He surveyed her, frowning. 'You don't look all right to me.'

  'Why did you let Waite stay in one of your houses?'

  'I didn't know he was Waite until after the arrangements were made.

  And even if I had known, I don't believe it is my business to decide

  whether he is or is not staying on Pelangi.' He turned away and

  examined the painting of the kite birds.

  'You're such a cool number,' she said sarcastically.

  He ignored that. 'It's very good, I like it,' he said, meaning the

  painting. 'What did Waite say of it?'

  'He didn't say anything. My painting wasn't exactly the topic of

  conversation.'

  He turned to face her. 'No, I expect not.'

  His hands were in his pockets and she noticed they were balled into

  fists. Maybe not such a cool number after all, she thought with a

  strange mingling of feelings. She wiped her hair out of her face and

  straightened her back. 'What did you think of him?' she asked.

  He stared at her silently for a moment. 'We talked for a while,' he

  said then. 'I liked him.' It seemed the admission was made with

  difficulty.

  'Yes. I thought you would.'

  'Linden.. .' He came a little closer, a strange look on his face. He

  reached out to her, took her hands and slowly drew her up out of the

  chair.

  They looked at each other without moving, just holding each other's

  hands, as if frozen into eternity. Through the open windows night

  sounds drifted in on the warm evening breeze—crickets and lizards

  and other unknown creatures holding their nightly concert. Beyond

  that was the roar of the ocean.

  A strange mood gripped her. On the fringes of her consciousness she

  sensed his fear, the unspoken questions in his mind. Anxiety curled

  in her stomach and she was suddenly aware that she was holding her

  breath. She let it out slowly, feeling the uneasy rhythm of her heart.

  Something changed in Justin's face. A muscle jerked in his cheek.

  His eyes were an impenetrable grey. He drew her to him, pressing her

  hard against him, bending her head back and kissing her with

  desperate desire. Her knees buckled and he lowered her to the couch.

  'I love you,' he muttered, his hands touching her face, moving down,

  stroking her breasts. For a moment she wanted to forget everything.

  Let him hold her and touch her and make love to her. Forget all the

  pain and misery of the past and drift away into sweet oblivion. And

  as his hands and mouth moved urgently over her body, fire raced

  through her, and then fear and anger and confusion.

  'Let me go, Justin, please, please!'

  He lifted her in his arms, carried her to her bedroom and put her

  down. He leaned over her, kissing her, his hands tearing at her shirt.

  She was paralysed with the shock. His hands were on her breasts,

  softly, not rough at all, and his mouth warm and hungry, sent shivers

  down her spine.

  'I want you,' he whispered in her ear. 'Kiss me, Linden, please kiss

  me.'

  She rolled her head from side to side, tears gathering in her eyes. 'No,

  no!' She didn't want to be touched, she didn't want those hands on

  her—not Justin's, not Waite's, not anyone's hands. She felt violated

  by their desperate eagerness to hold her and touch her as if she were

  some . . . some thing, some possession they could hold and handle at

  will. As if it didn't matter what she wanted herself. 'Not tonight,

  Justin. Please, not tonight.'

  She felt him go rigid against her.

  'What do you mean?'

  'I need to be alone.'

  He sat up. 'Is Waite coming here tonight?' His voice held barely

  contained fury. 'What happened when he came here this afternoon?

  Do you still want him?'

  'Justin, please, don't make it more difficult for me than it is already. I

  just want to be alone.'

  'Is Waite coming here tonight?' he repeated.

  'No. Not on my invitation, anyway.'

  'And what if he does?'

  'Nothing! And it's none of your business!'

  He held her gaze for a long time and she did not waver. Then he

  turned abruptly and strode out of the house without another word.

  She went into the bathroom and poured cold water over her wrists.

  She'd come to Pelangi to be alone. Now there were two men who

  wanted her, two men who said they loved her. She stared at herself in

  the mirror and a nervous giggle escaped her. Her hair was a mess,

  there was no make-up on her face and she wore a faded shirt With a

  streak of orange paint on it. Oh, God, she thought, I'm a sight. What

  do they want with me, anyway? She suppressed another hysterical

  laugh and put cold water on her face. Please, God, she said silently,

  just let them leave me in peace . . .

  Next morning she packed her back pack and climbed up to the

  waterfalls. Here she would be alone. Waite would not know how to

  find her here and Justin would be working, most likely.

  She swam in the cold water, and slept for a While in the shade. It

  relaxed her a little, but when she tried to read, she was still too

  preoccupied. A troupe of light brown monkeys chattered noisily in a

  bush nearby, tearing and eating the bright pink blossoms. The ground

  below the bush was littered with leaves and bits of bruised pink

  petals.

  Walking back home, she knew she was still nervous. Every inch of

  her body betrayed her state of mind. Her legs moved with difficulty,

  her stomach felt heavy inside her, her face was tight and her jaws

  ached. Waite would still be there. He would come and see her again.<
br />
  What could she tell him? How was she going to convince him she

  didn't want to try again?

  But she did not see him for the rest of that day. Her nerves were taut

  all afternoon and she was too restless to paint. She kept looking out

  of the window and jumped every time she thought someone was

  coming up the steps.

  She lay awake for hours rehearsing what to say to Waite. It was a

  useless activity because it would never happen the way the imaginary

  conversation went. Lying awake worrying about it was non-

  constructive and a waste of time, but she had no control over it.

  She was on the beach the next morning, lying on a bamboo mat,

  dozing, when a shadow fell over her.

  'Hi.' It was Waite, dripping wet, wearing only swimming trunks and a

  towel slung over his shoulder.

  Her heart gave a sickening thud. Why did he have to look so good?

  Even now she could find no fault with that big, masculine body. She

  wished he was bow- legged or hunchbacked or chicken-breasted. She

  wished he had a pot belly or a bald spot or a big nose. But no, he was

  perfect, this man she'd once loved so much, and his marvellous

  physique still held its appeal.

  'Hi.' She closed her eyes, blocking him out. From the movements and

  the sounds of shifting sand she knew he was settling himself next to

  her. She rolled over on her stomach and peered through her lashes.

  He was sitting with his arms leaning on his drawn-up knees, gazing

  at her thigh.

  'My God, what happened to your leg?'

  The day she'd arrived on the island Justin had asked her the same

  question. The answer then had been different.

  'The tender touch of a jelly fish.'

  'How did it happen?'

  She told him in a few short sentences. She wished he'd go away. Her

  awareness of his stark male appeal made her uncomfortable. It

  frightened her to realise how much she still felt for him. But if she

  got up and went for a dip in the ocean, he'd only follow her. She

  stayed where she was.

  'Did you go swimming?' she asked. Why was she asking the obvious?

  'Yes.' He squinted up at the sky. 'This is a beautiful island.'

  'Yes.'

  'I had a long walk around the island yesterday. I found the Chinese

  temple on the other side of the village. I'd never seen a place like

  that. It was fascinating.'

  It was an effort not to tell him she'd painted the temple, as she would

  have some months ago, to talk to him about it and tell him of the

  difficulties, the technicalities. Now she did not want to speak to him

  about it. No more closeness or intimacies. It was the only way. No

  sentimentalities.

  'You're going to burn,' she said after a pause. 'You haven't been out in

  the sun for a long time, you'd better watch out.' His skin was

  naturally brown, but even he would burn after not having been

  exposed for months. It was January, and at home the temperatures

  would probably be below freezing.

  'You're right. I didn't think about it.'

  'I have some lotion, if you want some.'

  'Please.'

  She tossed him the bottle and he rubbed his arms and chest with the

  sun tan lotion. She closed her eyes. She didn't want to look at him.

  'Linden? Would you mind doing my back?'

  Yes, she answer silently, I would mind. I would mind very much. But

  it was a simple, logical request and she couldn't refuse. She sat up

  and took the bottle from him. Her hands were unsteady as she

  squirted some lotion on his back. It's just a back, she told herself as

  she began to smooth it over his shoulders and down his back.

  Nothing special, just an ordinary back. There was a small birthmark

  under the left shoulder blade, insignificant but familiar, and she tried

  not to notice, working as swiftly and impersonally as she could. But

  this was no ordinary back. It was Waite's back and she knew every

  inch of it, would recognise it out of hundreds of other backs—the

  feel, the shape, the small birthmark. It was all intimately familiar.

  She dropped her hands and screwed the cap back on the bottle.

  'Thanks.'

  'You're welcome.'

  'Linden?' There was a plea in his voice. 'Do we have to be so polite?'

  His eyes were a deep blue and she averted her gaze.

  'I'm sorry. But it hasn't been so easy for me these past few months. I

  hadn't expected to see you here.'

  'I had to find you.'

  She didn't reply and a silence hung uncomfortably between them.

  'I'd better put some cream on your back,' he said at last.

  She shook her head. 'No, I don't need it.' She didn't want him to touch

  her, to feel his hands on her body. The thought terrified her, and it

  angered her to still have so much fear for. what she might feel for

  him.

  'Linden, you're being silly. Come on.' He leaned over to pick up the

  bottle and she jerked upright.

  'I was just going in. I have work to do.'

  He dropped the lotion back on the mat. She got up and gathered her

  things, trying not to see the pain in his face.

  'I'd like to see what you've painted here,' he said.

  'You wouldn't like it,' she said stonily.

  There was a slight pause. 'I'm sorry I was so critical of that painting

  you sold.'

  She straightened her back and looked directly at him. 'It's not

  criticism I mind, Waite. It's petty jealousy. You meant to hurt me.'

  She saw him wince. Clutching the mat and the towel to her, she

  walked off through the hot sand, her feet burning. How could she

  ever again freely share the joy of a good painting with him? The

  satisfaction of a sale? She'd always worry if he were jealous of her.

  No matter how bad the painting was in his eyes, if he'd loved her

  enough, he'd have been happy with her for her success.

  She wished there were a way to avoid him, but it was impossible. He

  lived too close and the island was too small. The next morning she

  went into the village to buy fruit in the pasar, and he saw her leave

  and joined her. They talked politely, making meaningless small talk.

  Later that afternoon she went for a walk along the beach and he

  appeared by her side from nowhere.

  She began to hide in the house. From her window she could see him

  take solitary walks, or sit on his verandah, reading.

  Once, when she thought he had gone to the village, she escaped from

  the house and walked along the beach, feeling like a prisoner out for

  the first time in years. Not until she was close did she see him

  perched on the big rock, the highest boulder of the rocky outcrop.

  Arms leaning on his knees, he sat staring out over the ocean. His

  back was turned to her and he couldn't see her.

  He looked lonely and forlorn and her heart ached for him. Her

  stomach cramped as she turned and walked away from him. It took

  more effort than she wanted to admit to herself. She rubbed her

  stomach. Was it nerves? Hunger? Eating seemed impossible these

  days, and sleeping was difficult at best. Her nerves were getting the

  best of her. If only he would leave, she thought. If only he would

  leave
!

  He'd not come to her house for several days, but one evening he

  appeared at her door while she was trying to finish the kite-bird

  painting by the light of the hissing pressure lamp.

  Her heart began to race nervously and she stared at him without

  speaking, holding the wet paint brush in the air.

  'May I come in?'

  She nodded in answer and stepped aside. He walked over to the

  painting and scrutinised it for a few silent moments. 'It's good,' he

  said then. 'Excellent composition.'

  'Thank you.' His praise meant nothing now. He's only trying to make

  me happy, she thought bitterly. She put the brush in a jar of

  turpentine. With him watching she wouldn't be able to make another

  stroke.

  'I didn't mean to interrupt.'

  'I've done enough.' She wiped her hands on a rag with turpentine.

  'I'd like to talk to you,' he said, turning away from the painting.

  She put the rag down and looked at him. She didn't offer him a seat.

  She didn't want to talk. She wanted him to leave.

  'How long are you staying on Pelangi?' he asked.

  She shrugged. 'I don't know.'

  'Are you planning to go back home in the forseeable future?'

  She lit the kerosene lamp and turned the pressure lamp off. The

  hissing stopped and the room was awkwardly silent.

  'Eventually I'll have to. I can't stay here forever.'

  'Will you come back to Pennsylvania?'

  'I haven't decided. I still have my apartment, but no job.'

  'You can have your old job back.'

  'I think it would be better if we didn't see each other every day,

  Waite.'

  He raked his hand through his hair. It was longer than she'd ever seen

  it. She wondered if he'd entrust his hair to one of the local barbers

  who set up shop on the side of the road every morning. I'm getting

  nasty, she thought. Why am I doing that?

  'I want you to come back, Linden. I only employed a temporary

  replacement to finish out the fall term. Your job is open. You can

  start again on the twenty- third.'

  She shook her head. 'No, Waite.' She wondered what had happened

  to this man. She didn't know him like this—quiet and desperate, with

  his heart in his eyes.

  'Linden . ..' He came forward and she backed away, but he kept

  coming, reaching for her.

  'Don't,' she whispered. 'It's no use. Please believe me. I wish you'd

  leave. It would make things easier for both of us.'