‘It’s a fun game,’ I say defensively, my feelings hurt; my intentions missed.
‘No! I said I do not want to play that game,’ she snaps again.
My face flushes. ‘I just thought–’
‘No!’
When we return to the table I sit away from Bela. The way I feel – I was trying to do something nice, you know? And she rebuked me like I was a child.
As the night goes on the drunken Irishmen apparently think the object of Scrabble is to make as many lewd words as possible. I can only tolerate their annoying laughter so long. And Bela and I, we aren’t saying anything to each other anyway. I soon tell everyone I need to get some sleep. Even my figments are preferable to how I feel right now.
As I get up from the table the leprechauns shout their drunken goodbyes. And Bela, she furtively waves her hand. ‘Good-bye, Jerry,’ she says, timidly.
‘Bye,’ I reply sharply, without looking at her. And walking home, instead of worrying if Epiphany is around the next corner – instead of feeling fear – I feel something that stings much worse. Something I’ve felt all my life.
I feel A-N-G-R-Y.
I feel U-N-A-P-P-R-E-C-I-a-T-E-D.
I feel M-I-S-U-N-D-E-R-S-T-O-O-D. One hundred and eight points, triple-word score.
34
The Mountain
There’s a light rapping at my door. The clock on the nightstand says it’s 7:15.
I didn’t sleep much. After I left Bela at the bar Rachel walked me home. I had to put up with her and Ana Lucia all night.
‘You going to get that?’ Rachel says.
On the door, the rapping becomes louder.
‘I need my medicine. You aren’t–’
‘– real,’ Ana Lucia says. She’s showing Rachel soccer tricks. Bouncing the ball on her knees. ‘Yeah, we get it.’
The rapping on the door becomes an outright knock.
And for a moment I wonder if it could be Epiphany or Abdul. But then I think, Why would they knock?
‘You gonna get that or what?’ Ana Lucia says.
‘Shut up,’ I say, and the knocking on the door stops.
‘Whatever,’ Ana Lucia says, balancing the soccer ball on her forehead.
I scramble out of bed and crawl for my boxers, which lie on the floor. I open the door and light explodes from the hall skylight. I shut my eyes in defence.
‘Ola. Hello,’ a little round voice says sheepishly.
When I crack my eyelids I see Bela standing in front of me, her hand reaching into her blue-jeans pocket. She’s wearing a turquoise shirt that reads ‘Everyone Needs Music’ in an elfish-style font. Her eyes give me a once over and the edges of her nervous lips curl slightly.
‘Bela…?’ I say and glance back into the room. Rachel and Ana Lucia are gone.
Bela, she pulls a single euro from her pocket. ‘Your change. From drinks last night.’ And she holds the silver-and-gold coin in her extended arm. Her little feet in their black loafers fidget on the floor. ‘I forgot to give to you last night, you see?’
Her lips twitch ever so slightly and her eyes shift furtively as she waits for my reply.
And I take the coin.
Apology accepted.
Both of us, we stand in the doorway, each unsure of what to do. ‘What’s that?’ I finally say. She has a small, grey backpack stuffed full.
And Bela, she says with a smile, ‘We go to the mountain today. Today, we climb.’
The mountain she’s referring to is nothing more than a really steep hill. It’s been a winding, four-hour drive to get here. Bela owns this white, two-door Ford and drives it as if she doesn’t realise other cars use the roads too. More than once the vehicle in front of us pulled over to let Bela fly past.
As we drove out of the city we followed the river to the shore and then went north past the port where all the freighters dock. From my view in the passenger seat I saw Abdul’s boat cruising out to sea – its big ‘CAPRICE’ letters visible in the bright sun. It had been four days since I jumped ship and I guess that’s too long for someone who has illegal arms to get to mercenaries to wait around, even if Epiphany wants him to. If he was leaving maybe Epiphany has given up too and gone to Spain already. And as Bela turned the car to head inland I felt a bit of relief come over my body.
Bela held a perpetual smile on her face as her hair whipped back in the breeze as we raced though the countryside. The longer we drove the less traffic there was, which allowed me to concentrate on things besides images of flaming car wrecks and tangled metal. Seeing Abdul’s boat go, knowing Epiphany’s minions weren’t following me anymore, felt like a reprieve. For the first time in weeks I didn’t think about the future and allowed myself to relax in the present.
‘We will conquer this mountain today, no?’ Bela said when we arrived and she drew her hand across the hill’s base as if she expected me to faint at the sight of it. I almost laughed, but the resolve on her face stopped me. This was important to her.
‘Shall we get started?’ I asked.
Bela smiled, a little unsure of what I’d said. I’d spoken too fast.
‘After you,’ I said and pointed the way.
‘Yes. After me,’ she said with determination.
We’ve been hiking for forty minutes now. Bela’s back is wet through her turquoise shirt. The sun is as high as it will be in the sky today and I notice that I’m sweating as well.
I watch her hips, the way one glute tightens while the other leg takes a step up. I see the way she pulls her hair to one side to let the breeze cool the back of her neck. And I can’t help but marvel at this peculiar girl who seems to be able to keep my figments away. Maybe the compounds in the 486s originated from the sweat dripping down the back of her neck? Maybe if I go to a pharmacy in Portugal, I’ll see little Bela-shaped pills in two rows of eight, sealed in foil packets? Bela™, the once-daily tablet from GlaxoSmithKline.
‘What?’ I say, suddenly realising Bela’s stopped walking and said something.
Oh, God. Did she see me staring at her ass?
My throat dries. ‘I mean, want me to carry the backpack?’
A slight grin breaks her lips. ‘I’m not a weak girl now,’ she says, turning back towards the summit. ‘I’m a climber. Come on, we climb.’
We reach the top in another twenty minutes.
The breeze blows in hard spurts up here. Bela drops her backpack on the ground; it lands with a muffled thud. Her shirt is stained with sweat marks that outline where the straps were. Just below her breasts there’s a little damp spot that saturates ‘Everyone Needs Music’.
Looking back to where we’ve come from, I can see her point of view more easily. From up here this hill does make you feel like you’ve climbed a mountain. Portugal stretches before us. Cattle graze on farmland in the distance. Brown mountains break the horizon.
Bela spins, taking in the views from every direction. Then she stops and places her small hand on my forearm. She squeezes and says, ‘Can you believe? I have climbed a mountain!’ And she says this almost with a child’s wonder and amazement – completing an easy task that they believe to be much harder than it is. ‘I am so proud of this accomplishment.’
‘That’s great,’ I say, and find I’m skimming the top of her hand with my thumb. I feel Bela’s body freeze for a moment before she removes her hand from my arm.
It takes Bela five minutes to spread out everything she’s brought. There are two bottles of red wine (‘Port wine from Porto, you see? No?’), a large loaf of bread, three different cheeses and a sausage. She’s even brought placemats (‘Portuguese always eat with placemats’). After we gorge ourselves, I lay back and watch the bright, puffy clouds float over our heads.
‘No nap yet,’ Bela says and slaps my leg playfully. She’s making an extra effort to keep her snapping under control. ‘We are here to work.’ Bela reaches into her bag and pulls out a notebook. Tucked inside is a single piece of A4 paper.
It’s written in English.
‘What’s this?’
‘It is my rezoom,’ she says.
I say, ‘Résumé?’
Bela blushes. ‘Yes. My res-oo-may. You help me with it, no?’
I shrug and begin to read it out loud. ‘Personal Information. Name: Anabela Filipa Oliveira. Address: R. Cedofeita–’
‘Not aloud,’ she says. ‘You will embarrass me.’ Her face has already flushed. As I scan the first line again I feel her eyes on me. She’s looking for any warning that I’ll laugh at what she’s written.
And now I get it: Scrabble – her reaction wasn’t random bitchiness. She snapped at me because she had already been embarrassed by her English that night and didn’t need any more jokes at her expense for misspelling words. How did I not see that?
On her résumé her work experience lists two jobs, one in a call centre selling mobile phones, and the other in Livraria Lello, the bookstore.
About myself:
I was born in North of Portugal in the second biggest city: Oporto. It is located next to sea (Atlantic Ocean) and it has also a river (Douro). At the age of 18 I went to study to other Portuguese city, called Braga, Journalism. Now I am in a bookstore saving funds so I can continue my studies in politics field in Estates United, I hope.
I am an active person, I believe, and I easily make friends. I like to laugh. I am very expressive and I like to meet new and different people as well as cultures.
‘Bad, no?’ she asks. Her eyes fidget. ‘It is first draft, you see? And I hope you will help me. I want to move to United States and hope to get into masters.’ Her eyes scuttle more, avoiding mine. ‘It is silly, no?’
‘It’s … perfect,’ I say, touching her hand. This time it remains still.
My eyes open. I’m on my back. The wind blows hard and the sky is a deep purple. Except for Bela, I’m all alone and the silence is wonderful. Bela is nuzzled at my side, her back towards me. Wisps of her hair blow in my face.
Why don’t I see my figments when I’m with you?
Before we lay down, Bela hadn’t taken my ‘perfect’ at face value and made me correct the mistakes on her résumé. She told me how she dreams of going to America to become a political journalist. She spoke deeply of how words can change the world. How thoughts and ideas can have physical effects. Then, after more wine and bread, with full bellies we lay back on Bela’s mountain for some rest.
Now, as the blue-grey clouds move at a turtle’s pace in the purple dusk, as I feel Bela’s body rise and fall with each breath next to mine, I find it hard to believe I’m here after all the horrible places I’ve been in the last few weeks. In the breeze and fading sunlight the grass breathes and heaves like a living being. I get up as quietly as I can and stretch like a cat. Despite the lumpy ground, I haven’t felt this good after a rest in a long time. It’s the first time in days that I’ve slept without nightmares or woken to figments. I walk around our little summit and watch as the last remnants of the sun sink behind distant mountains. I turn to find Bela sitting up with her eyes closed and her hands folded.
‘My mother always taught us that when you fall to sleep and wake up in nature, to pray and give God thanks for not only your safety, but also for such a beautiful bed to begin with,’ she says when she opens her eyes.
I hear ‘God’ and I think ‘Epiphany’. I think ‘Nico’. I think ‘hell’. I think ‘eternal separation’.
Bela is waiting for me to say something.
‘I don’t think I believe in God.’
She smiles. ‘It doesn’t matter. He believe in you.’
Ordinarily if someone said this to me, I’d dismiss it as a bottled reply. But Bela – she says it in such a matter-of-fact way. She says it like one would say, ‘The sun has just set’ or, ‘We are on top of a large hill.’ It’s just a fact. It just is.
‘Well, if God is real, do you think he holds a grudge?’ I say, not so much to her, but to the hills and mountains surrounding us.
Bela stands and takes my hand. It’s small and warm. ‘People make mistakes. Look at me – my horrible res-oo-may,’ she laughs. ‘But people made big and small mistakes. It’s we who can’t forgive ourselves. We make our own hell. Not God. He will forgive us anything. Don’t listen to Bible or Pope or religion. God is only goodness.’
And she says this with a confidence that would make Jonathan Edwards burn his theological writings. But I wonder, do dead little sisters forgive as easily?
Bela can see I’m lost in thought. She squeezes my hand and smiles warmly. ‘Come now,’ she says. ‘We have a long journey down our mountain.’
35
Virginity
She pats my hair as I lie on top of her, trying to catch my breath.
What was that? The noises. The squishy sounds like two wet fish slapping against each other. The hair – her hair – that gets caught and pulled under elbows. I was so damn hard. Your hand, it can’t make you feel like that.
Screw what Rachel says, it really is like this warm velvety tunnel. And man, that didn’t take long at all, but I’m really, really exhausted. Bela says something to me in Portuguese and closes her eyes. Sleep is coming for me so quickly, but I’m afraid to let it take me. I’m afraid to see Bela gone when I wake up.
It’s now a few hours later. Bela is lying next to me. She hasn’t taken off. She’s smoking a cigarette. Her little mouth blowing perfect rings of smoke. ‘That’s it?’ she says in flawless English. ‘What are you, some kind of virgin?’
I wake for real now. Bela is lying next to me. She hasn’t taken off. My heart skips a beat as I slowly remember why she’s in my bed.
I just lost my virginity.
And it’s different than all the porns make it seem. There’s something … extra with real sex. The cover is pulled down around Bela’s waist, exposing a breast. Her nipple is almost smooth and flat now, like a melted pink Hershey’s Kiss set on top of a water balloon covered in skin. Bela’s eyes open ever-so briefly. She runs a finger across my lips. A smile shows on her mouth as she drifts back to sleep.
It’s dawn when I wake again. The sunlight is beginning to spill through the bedroom window. Bela sleeps on her side – her back towards me. I slip out of the bed and grab my khakis from the floor. The crinkled guidebook page with the embassy’s address is in the front pocket. Out the window I see Paulo helping his staff set the tables for the day. It’s Monday. The embassy will be open in a few hours. In the bed Bela’s stomach expands and contracts with each breath. She sleeps so soundly.
And what do I do about you? I think. The taste of her skin dawdles on my tongue.
It’s Monday. Go to the embassy and turn yourself in like you planned. Do it before she gets up. Do it before Epiphany finds you.
‘Jerry?’ Bela says in her soft voice.
And a panic suddenly grips me. I need to talk to her. You never need to talk to your porn when you’re done with it. She’s lying there, looking at me. What do I say? What’s she thinking? What if I wasn’t good? Did she just look at my penis? Oh my god, what if I’m not big enough? Was I the worst she’s ever had? How many has she had?
‘Come back to bed,’ she smiles. ‘It early.’ And she stretches her hand towards mine. My fears evaporate at the sound of her call. I drop the khakis and the crinkled guidebook page and I gravitate to her like I’m a skydiver and she’s the earth. As I take her hand, as I climb into bed, she wraps my arm around her waist. She’s so warm. So real. The embassy can wait one more day. Besides, if I went right now I’d just walk in there with a big I’m-not-a-virgin-anymore grin on my face and they wouldn’t take me seriously. Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow. For now all I can think about is last night.
The drive back from the mountain took longer than the drive there. I had told Bela how much her driving scared me, so she made sure to go turtle’s-pace slow. On the way home we never spoke of her dropping me off at my place. When we arrived she parked and got out of the car with me. The air was chilly. She pulled a leftover bottle of wine from her backpack and said,
‘We should finish, no? You help me with my resoomay, now I help you with your Portuguese.’
So we went up to my place and Bela tried to teach me her language.
‘Vinho,’ she said and pointed to the wine bottle.
‘Ve-no,’ I said.
‘Vinho,’ she repeated, smiling.
‘You know, this isn’t going to work. I can’t speak any languages.’
‘What is English?’ she shot back. ‘Eu sou uma mulher,’ she pointed to herself.
‘E-su-uma-muller,’ I pointed to myself.
‘I am sure that is not the case, no? You don’t look like a woman,’ she laughed. Her eyes, they glistened like wet crystals. She pointed at me. ‘Tu és um homem.’
‘I’m a man,’ I guessed.
‘Very good!’ she said, taking a large drink. ‘Now, what else would you like to learn?’
‘CanIkissyou?’ I mumbled.
‘I am sorry,’ she said with a slight grin, ‘I can not follow your words that quickly.’
My face went red and my self-consciousness turned the rest of her teaching into a less playful lesson. A bottle of wine later I still couldn’t speak one word of Portuguese. But Bela, she was having fun anyway. I could see it in her eyes.
‘Wine makes me warm inside, but skin cold on outside, no?’ she shivered. ‘May we light your fire?’
I lit the fire and we sat down on the back windowsill and looked out into the chilly April night. For minutes neither of us said a word, we just watched cats scurry from shadow to shadow on the cobbled street below. Then, through glassy eyes Bela said, ‘Gostei da nossa conversa de hoje.’ I shrugged and she placed her hand on my arm and said, ‘I am sorry. Our Portuguese lesson already ended. It is easy to slip into mother tongue, no? I said, I enjoyed our conversation today, on the mountain. It was nice.’ Then she cast a glance away from me like she’d suddenly become embarrassed.
‘It was nice,’ I said.
Epiphany Jones Page 23