Great whites. Twenty-four exposed teeth in their mouths. And dozens more growing in rows behind those, hidden, like all things are hidden in Baja California.
Viridiana stepped out of the water and saw that there was no one under the beach umbrella. Gregory stood next to her, water droplets clinging to his chest. Viridiana’s bikini was immodest, but his swim trunks were something, too, short and fitted, with the waistband hitting the hip.
His body was amazing.
“Where’s Daisy?” Viridiana asked, tearing her eyes from him.
“She must have gone back to the house.”
“You think I scared her off?”
“She was probably bored. Daisy gets bored quickly. Want another drink?”
“Okay,” she said, even though she did not drink much, except for a sip of sherry sometimes on Sundays. But she remembered the dig Daisy had made about her, the rough-sounding “kid.” She didn’t want Gregory to think she was a child. After all, in other parts of the world girls her age were regulars at discotheques and bars. They had many drinks and no one batted an eye.
They sat down on the towels, Gregory filled Viridiana’s glass. Since he had tossed a cigarette stub into his own glass, he re-filled the glass Daisy had been using. The red mark of Daisy’s lipstick was still bright on the rim, like a wax seal.
“Do you take pictures for a living?” Viridiana asked, pointing to the camera that rested by Gregory’s feet.
“No, I started taking photos four years ago. But I think I have a knack for it. Maybe someday I’ll try to be a professional photographer.”
Viridiana nodded. She didn’t really like the taste of the rum but she took another sip. Maybe you needed to drink a few times before you developed an affinity for it.
“What do you do back in the States, then?”
“You mean, where do I work? I don’t.”
“Oh,” Viridiana said. She couldn’t picture that. Not someone so young. Reynier did nothing but play chess and read, but he was ancient. “Do you have a trust fund?”
“I don’t. But Daisy is married to Ambrose and Ambrose is generous.”
“But… then what did you do before Ambrose?”
“Nothing interesting,” Gregory said stretching out an arm and grabbing his camera. “Business investments together with Daisy. It’s very boring.”
“Do you live with them in California?”
“No. You kidding me? I have my own apartment. My own life.”
“But you came with them on vacation?”
“Ambrose is amused by me, and Daisy always needs help with something. I’m a very handy guy. They wouldn’t be able to sort their luggage without me. Honestly, they’re both hopeless.”
She wondered what it was like to live like that, with no job, no one to answer to. Except maybe Gregory answered to Ambrose. Still, he must be living the high life. The house was rented by Ambrose and the expenses were all paid by the old man. Not that she had a full understanding of his finances or arrangements, but she knew enough that Gregory wasn’t putting down his own cash. The checks were signed by Ambrose.
She had fantasized about becoming a traveling companion for Daisy, like in old novels. Now she realized that was Gregory’s role. He was a page, talking wittily with Ambrose and ensuring the old man was amused. He’d seen them playing poker, she’d seen Gregory drawing Ambrose into conversation and making jokes, and Ambrose responding with long stories and other jokes in turn. All while Daisy watched them both with a smile on her lips.
“Is there a place where I can have my film developed in town?” he asked.
Viridiana shook her head. “No. You can have it sent somewhere and they’ll mail it back.”
“How annoying. I might start taking out the Polaroid. Not quite the same, but what the hell.”
Gregory scooted closer to her. His knee brushed her knee. She looked at her glass. Half an inch of liquid left. When she spun the glass between her hands, the sun’s rays caught in it. She wondered how much the glasses cost. A small fortune, for all she knew.
“Is this the kind of thing you do all year long? Dealing with tourists?” he asked.
Viridiana nodded. “It beats working at my mother’s store. It’s stuffy in there. Plus, the tourists give good tips. Only problem is, no tourists in the fall or winter.”
“Back to the shop, then.”
“Yeah.”
The shop. The only good thing was she could place a book under the counter and read when it was quiet. But it was dull. Having to make small talk with the customers, like her mother demanded, even when they were assholes. Although, the tourists could be assholes, too. Some felt they owned you. At least with them she was outside, walking around town. She could breathe fresh air, gaze at the sky.
“How many languages do you understand, again?”
“Four. Not perfectly, my Dutch isn’t the best and I read French better than I speak it. But I want to get better and learn more. Russian, maybe. Japanese, for sure.”
Gregory was amused. “What are you doing here, in this town?” he asked, quick and smooth. Smoother than any boy she’d ever spoken with, the words terribly thrilling even though he’d said nothing special.
“I live here,” Viridiana said, blushing, a nervous chuckle escaping her lips.
“Okay, but, come on. Four languages? And I’ve seen you reading all those books in the library, you’re perpetually glued to them. You’re smart. You’re educated. You’re young. Shouldn’t you be hanging out somewhere else?”
“Then I wouldn’t be hanging out with you.”
He laughed. Viridiana smiled and finished her drink. The rum was too warm and so was her skin. Gregory held up his camera, pointing it in her direction.
“Let me take your picture.”
“No,” Viridiana said, holding up her hand, as if protecting herself.
“Why not?”
“I’ve been swimming. My hair is a mess.”
“Your hair is perfect. Look, it’s so damn long and thick,” Gregory said admiringly. He extended a hand and touched a lock. “You’ve got great legs, too. I knew you would.”
“How would you know?”
“Sixth sense,” he said, tapping his head with his index finger. He set his camera down again. “You’re beautiful. People tell you that?”
Viridiana grabbed a corner of the blanket she was sitting on and twisted it. Her glass was now forgotten as she glanced at Gregory and did not know whether she was supposed to smile or not. Her eyes darted away from him.
“Daisy says you used to have a boyfriend. Maybe you dumped him because he didn’t mention it enough,” Gregory said.
Viridiana felt a little irritated to learn Daisy had told Gregory about that. She had assumed she’d keep her confidence. But she was curious. Had they been talking about her? How did the conversation go?
“Boys should mention that often. Boys should tell you that you are beautiful once in the morning and twice at night.”
“Are you drunk?” she asked and again she did not know whether it was okay to smile, but she tried to, tried to make her voice light even though her whole body felt very heavy, like an anchor tossed into the water. She was nervous and licked her lips.
“No. How about you?”
Before she could reply he was reaching for her, planting a kiss on her lips. She had not kissed anyone except for Manuel, and those kisses had always been half-hearted. They tasted of duty and friendship. They were expected. This she didn’t expect, this she wanted. Tongue against her tongue, his hands in her hair.
Manuel was dull, a meal twice reheated, water that never boiled. And Viridiana spent a lot of time reading a myriad of books, yes, and the books promised more, as did the films. Rita Hayworth kissed Glenn Ford. Montgomery Clift embraced Elizabeth Taylor. I can see you. I can hold you next to me, they declaimed in glorious black and white.
She’d never thought of swelling music with Manuel. Just the usual
beat of her life. Now she thought all sorts of things. Stupid things.
He made her feel too much. She felt like her skin was too tight against her bones, she wished to rake her nails against it until she ripped it all off. He made her so nervous.
It was both insane and exhilarating.
An odd scraping noise made Viridiana push Gregory back and look around, suddenly afraid Daisy had returned. But the noise was nothing, only a seagull which had perched on their beach umbrella. It looked at her quizzically. But it had spooked her thoroughly and when Gregory tried to lop an arm around her shoulders, Viridiana wouldn’t allow it.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s… I work for you,” she said, suddenly remembering that fact and blushing again.
“You work for Ambrose, not for me,” he clarified.
“That doesn’t make a difference. If… if Ambrose found out I’m sure—”
“How’s he going to find out? He’s up there, napping,” Gregory said, pointing at the cliff, at the distant house perched above it.
“Someone else could come by.”
“Here? I don’t think this beach is very popular. Anyway, it’s our beach.”
Ambrose’s beach, if anything, Viridiana thought wearily. Viridiana tossed her damp hair behind her shoulders and picked up her towel.
“We should head back,” she said.
“Hey, look, if you don’t like me I’m not going to insist, but I thought…”
“Do you do this often?” she asked, folding the towel.
“What?”
“Women. Do you—”
He grabbed her hand. She froze in place, ceased with her frenetic folding. She stared at him and he stared back at her. He looked better than Montgomery Clift and sounded better than Charles Boyer, and he had a smile genuinely more beautiful than Jorge Negrete’s. He had been one of her grandmother’s favorite actors. The old woman used to tap her cane against the floor as Viridiana adjusted the rabbit ear antenna to try and get the transmission to look a bit better.
“No, not often. No lady in every port.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, placing the glasses and the bottle in the cooler.
Quietly they gathered their things and walked back to the house. A breeze was blowing, but it didn’t help. Viridiana’s cheeks felt hot and she could barely carry the cooler. It wasn’t heavy. It was that when he’d glance at her, she thought she was going to trip. When they were almost at the house’s front door, Gregory stopped.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Having a cigarette. Put that down for a second,” he said.
Viridiana obeyed him. He took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the front pocket in his shirt and lit one. Viridiana remembered how Daisy had snatched the cigarette from his lips and for a moment she wished to do the same, even though she didn’t smoke.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You think I’m a womanizer, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure what you are,” she said, running her foot along the top of the cooler and looking down.
“I’m not.”
“All right.”
“But I’m interested in you. That’s no sin, is it?”
Viridiana didn’t reply because her mother thought everything was a sin. Hypocrite. Everyone knew the only reason she had married the first time was because she’d been pregnant. Viridiana suspected the same story applied to the second marriage, that she’d cinched the deal by telling Ignacio she was going to have a baby.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
What you want and what you need are two different things, Viridiana thought, recalling her mother’s words.
“I’ll tell you what I want to do,” he said when she still wouldn’t speak. “I want to spend more time with you. I want to have a few more drinks and a few more kisses, a bit of conversation. How about I come downstairs tonight?”
“Tonight?” she repeated.
“After Daisy and Ambrose go to bed. I’ve got a bottle of rum left. I’ll wash the glasses, I promise.”
“Rum and kisses and conversation,” she said. She didn’t even know where that came from.
“Sounds like a perfect evening to me,” he said smiling. That winsome smile again. White teeth. As white as the shark teeth which the fishermen sold on the beach.
“Sure,” she said, when she ought to have said no. But she’d thought of the way the sky looked when she stood by the road clutching her bicycle, feeling the immensity of the world, the brittleness of dreams, and she let that sky, that feeling, be her compass. For a moment, at least.
When she went back inside the house Ambrose had woken from his nap and was marching towards his office with a bowl of peanuts.
“There you are,” he said. “Right on time. Get changed. I need you to type some letters.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, hurrying back to her room and grabbing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
Ambrose sat on a large leather chair and began dictating to Viridiana, popping a peanut into his mouth every once in a while. When he was done, she sat on a little table with the typewriter while he remained behind the desk, grabbed a pen and busied himself writing.
After checking her work twice, Viridiana gave him the letters and Ambrose signed them. Then he pointed at a cabinet.
“Get me three envelopes, will you?”
She nodded and handed him what he asked. He folded the letters she had typed and stuffed them in the envelopes. He also folded the piece of paper he had been writing on and stuffed it in the third envelope.
“I want these mailed tomorrow morning. And maybe I’ll also want a telegram sent to my nephew,” Ambrose mused. “He’s a brilliant boy, you know? Off in Peru right now.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Business matters, but he’s also taking pleasure in the vacation. He fiddled with the idea of becoming an archeologist at one point and no doubt is looking at all kinds of ancient ruins and the like.”
Ambrose smiled. He had the face of a bulldog but when he spoke about his nephew he softened up. “What do you want to study, young lady? Are you going to be a translator? You’d have a head start on your classmates.”
“I haven’t figured it out yet,” she said, thinking of her father who had diverged so much from his chosen path.
“That’s no big deal. I couldn’t figure out anything until I was about twenty-eight. My nephew, now, he’s the organized type. He connects the dots real quick. Me, I couldn’t tell you what I planned to do when I was your age.”
But you had money, she thought. People can take their time when they have money. They can exhaust all roads and partake in all their whims, while people with no cash need to make decisions quickly. They are forced into making those decisions. By their parents, by their neighbours, by the whole town.
“I suppose that’s why I’m doing this book thing now,” Ambrose mused. “Better late than never, no?”
“I guess.”
“Ha! You’re a quiet one. It’s all right. I talk too much. Too much of everything, that’s me. Now, let me think about that telegram,” he said, loudly chewing a few peanuts as she put away the carbon copies of the letters.
Chapter 7
On the side table the fan whirred. Normally Viridiana would not have noticed this noise, immersed in her reading, but that night she was nervous, and the drone made her lift her eyes from her book every three minutes. She had tried turning off the fan, but it was too warm in the room, so she’d turned it on again. She tried to speak her thoughts into the tape recorder, but this was also fruitless. She sat in her bed, pensive, fully dressed, waiting.
Then, finally, came the knock at the door. It was loud. Too loud. It made her wince and she thought the whole house would have heard it. She held her breath and stuffed the recorder under the bed, then opened the door slowly.
“Hey there,” Gregory said holding up the bottle of rum
and two glasses.
“Yes,” Viridiana said.
She didn’t invite him in, Viridiana simply stepped aside and he walked into the room. There was only one chair. He sat on it and she sat on the bed while he poured each of them a full of glass of rum. They clinked their glasses together and drank in silence. She gulped down the alcohol fast in an attempt to hide her skittishness. She didn’t know where to begin.
“You don’t have a radio?” he asked eventually.
“No,” Viridiana said.
“Ah, too bad.”
Yes. Terrible, really. If she’d had thought this through she would have secured one. At least with that they might have distracted themselves listening to the music. Now, Viridiana had to sit in silence, sipping the rum and glancing at Gregory, wondering exactly what he was thinking.
“What are you reading?” he asked, pulling his chair closer to the bed and pointing to the paperback on her bedside table.
“Bel Ami,” she said. “My French needs work.”
“What’s that? Is it any good?”
She felt a little disappointed that he did not recognize the title—she might have expected such a thing from Manuel, but assumed more sophistication in others—but, she was grateful that now she had a topic of conversation.
“It’s about an ambitious, amoral young man who attempts to climb the heights of Parisian society. He manipulates his way to the top.”
“He doesn’t sound nice. Is he punished at the end?”
“No. It’s not that kind of story.”
“Can you read me a line from it?”
“Why?”
“I want a pretty girl to speak to me in French, that’s all,” he said teasing her and slapping her knee lightly with the book.
She opened the novel and flipped through the pages, coming upon a random passage. “The only certainty is death,” she said, and thought this was a terrible line. Instead, she might have picked one of the many pretty phrases in the book. Or she might have grabbed an altogether different book.
Untamed Shore Page 6