“An obtuse one.”
“I can’t. Not tonight.”
“You’re not alone?”
“No, not exactly.”
“I see.” Stanley paused over a long, almost meditative sip of bourbon.
“I’m expecting someone,” she explained. “A colleague . . . I didn’t actually come here on vacation.”
“How refreshing. No one works around here. But on Christmas Eve?”
“As you said”—Ingrid smiled—“it’s just another day.”
“Yes.” Stanley’s nose wrinkled in disappointment. “I was beginning to hope it wouldn’t be.”
Ingrid rose. “Maybe another time.”
“Can I hold you to that?” Stanley Wicks stood and held his hand out. “I’d love to hear what your work is. Conversation can be limited on this island; I haven’t had a decent chat in weeks.”
“Maybe we’ll have one sometime. Merry Christmas, Stanley Wicks.”
“Yes, to you as well.”
You see, she said silently to the man behind her at the bar as she walked away from Stanley Wicks, I don’t need to be with someone. It’s not why I’m here. I’m not some floozy looking for sex in the tropics. Trust me. I’m walking away from him. Are you watching? I am doing this for you. If you weren’t here I might let him take me to dinner, feed me from your precious sea.
As she passed the bar she glanced sideways and saw that it was empty. She had been conversing with no one.
Ingrid did not understand the adrenaline shooting through her like buckshot or the panic that followed. She looked back to the terrace where Stanley Wicks had been. The terrace, too, was empty. Instead of continuing back to the guesthouse, she sat down at the bar and ordered a whiskey.
She sipped the tepid liquor, so wrong for this climate, and took out her tracing of Templeton’s amulet. She studied it for a long time, absorbing herself in the smallest detail. Because the placement of the characters was so irregular, she discarded the possibility that the inscription itself was anything but a collection of symbols. She could not conceive of a way to begin analyzing them. Putting the tracing aside, she started writing on a paper napkin. “Templeton, I need you. Please appear.”
She let the ink of her pen bleed onto the words until they were illegible, suddenly certain that he was not coming. She finished her whiskey and, when she felt the panic surging back, ordered another. What are you afraid of, Ingrid? Tricks of momentum? Why have you come all this way? You’ve come to help him when he did not ask for help, she thought. He has every right to disappoint you. Near the end of her second whiskey, she allowed herself another thought. Maybe you didn’t come here for him at all.
She didn’t hear them enter the bar. “Hello, Miss Muffet,” Danny said as he sat on her left. Finn settled to her right, his shoulder to her, his forearms resting on the bar. Ingrid swiveled toward Danny, who had straddled her stool and now fingered her watch. With his other hand, he finished her whiskey. “Jackson, make her a breeze.” Behind the bar, Jackson dutifully scooped chunks of mango and pineapple and ice into a blender. Over the mixture, he splashed dark rum. Danny held a hand over Ingrid’s eyes to shield her as he nodded to Jackson, who was familiar with the order and jigged an extra shot of rum. “Have you met Finn?” he added with mock formality. “Finn, this is Ingrid.”
Finn turned his head in her direction and raised his beer bottle. “Ingrid,” he repeated. “From where?”
“From heaven,” Danny said, leaning back and surveying her legs. “God gave her those gams so she could walk here straight from heaven.”
Ingrid made the mistake of looking directly at Finn. She faltered as his features seemed to harden into a mask of contempt. “I’m looking for someone,” she said. “But then you knew that.”
“Did I?”
“Professor Templeton. Nick Templeton.”
“Nick, is it?” Finn smiled. “Well, well. I see.”
“I’m a student of his,” Ingrid said evenly. “A colleague from university.”
“Isn’t she lovely?” Danny said. “Who sent you here, angel?”
“He told me in a letter that he’d be here for Christmas. I came to find him, to help him with his work. The department hasn’t heard from him in months.”
“Enough about the professor,” Danny said. “Tell us about you. I need to hear it all again. Make her another breeze, Jackson.”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, then, pour me another whiskey, Jackson. And in a moment another breeze for the professor’s girl.”
“Not his girl.”
“No, of course not. Finn, another Tusker? Another Tusker for Finn, Jackson. It’s all on my bill tonight.”
“In that case, I’ll take some rum with that, Jackson,” Finn added. “Asante sana.”
“Ingrid,” Danny mused. “What are you? American? Canadian? Scandinavian? European women love the black boys on the island. Is that what you’ve come for? A little white mischief?”
Ingrid took her lips off the straw of her drink. “I told you what you need to know,” she said impatiently. “I’ve come for Templeton.”
“And I’m sure he’s come for you.” Danny smiled. “More than once. That rum looks damn nice, Jackson. Much better at this hour.” Danny slid Ingrid’s whiskey glass down the bar, where it tipped off the edge and shattered on the floor. “Drink your beer, Finn. Where’s that bloody rum, Jackson?” Jackson was staring at the shards of glass on the floor.
They were playing with her, like two boys chasing a fish in the shallows, standing above her with nets. As soon as one came into focus, the other stepped in front. Ingrid started in on a new drink and taking longer sips, wondered what Finn might possibly gain by denying knowing Templeton. Music from the forties played over the speakers. “Heaven . . . I’m in heaven . . .”
Finn drank his rum in one swallow and stood up. “I’m off,” he said.
“No,” Ingrid said firmly, without looking at him.
“No?”
Ingrid bent down for her bag and extracted Templeton’s map. She placed the map on his vacated barstool and watched closely as Finn stared at it and then at her. Danny rambled on.
“Have I told you, Finn, that we’re taking the boat to Kisu tomorrow?” Danny said. “Miss Muffet and I? It’s going to be lovely. A Christmas excursion. Bring a hat, Miss Muffet, you’re as fair as I once was. We don’t want to lose those peaches and cream yet. They’re just too delicious.” Danny rested his head on her shoulder. “Haven’t seen such a ripe peach in ages.”
“Sounds nice, Danny,” Finn said. “I hope you two enjoy yourselves.”
Finn moved his friend’s head from Ingrid’s shoulder to the bar. Danny grunted in protest. Ingrid pushed her drink away and searched for bills in her purse, satisfied that Finn knew more than he was letting on. She replaced the map in her bag and looked at him with composure. “Are you off to bed, then?”
“After a quick swim.” Finn turned to go. A moment before he disappeared into darkness, he turned. “Come if you like.” And he walked out of the bar.
Before Jackson swept her drink away, she gulped down half of it. “Thank you,” she said to Jackson.
“You’re welcome, miss.”
“Asante sana,” she added.
Jackson smiled politely.
She trailed Finn’s shadow down to the fine white sand. On the beach he walked ahead of her without looking back to see if she was there. She stopped at the edge of the dark water to reconsider, letting the distance between them grow.
Ahead, she could see the white of Finn’s kikoi as he unwrapped it from his waist and dropped it to the sand. His body joined the water and then he was immersed. Gone. Ingrid stared as a green glow lit up the water. The light shot toward the center of the channel. She pulled up her skirt and knelt in the sand, running her hands through the water and watching as green lights trailed the motion, sparking up around her hands like fireflies. Ingrid agitated her hand until the shape of her fingers was clearly lum
inescent against the dark water. “I am here,” she whispered, submerging her other hand. She made her hands zoom and flap and explode from fists. Under the water, light was everywhere, surrounding, adorning and falling from her hands. She played with the phosphorescence until the question of Finn subsided.
Feeling almost tranquil, she walked along the beach to where he was standing waist-deep in the water. “Are you coming in?” he asked.
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Don’t need one.” He stood without moving. On the beach, a nervousness invaded her. He had grown stronger in his watery domain. In the darkness he looked magical, terrible. She took a small step backward. “What about the jellyfish?”
At this, soft laughter.
Though she could not see him well, Ingrid could hear that he hadn’t moved, that he was standing there watching her. Her feet felt unstable. She stepped out of her skirt gingerly, not wanting to lose her balance.
Holding her forearms over her breasts, she hunched over as if suddenly cold, walking like a cripple to the shore. She was going to show him something of her, but she didn’t want to show him everything. Then, submerged in the brilliant warmth, she forgot her fear and swam to him in the shallows, laughing at the beauty of the water. She wound herself around his legs like a seal. He stood above her when she surfaced, and offered her his hand.
She held on to him from where she was and then let go. “I want to swim for a while.” She dunked her head under the water and pushed the sandy bottom with her foot, shooting off like a neon bullet. When she turned back, she was far away. She could see him resurfacing in the pale light, his shoulders and back glistening wet. He was leaving.
“Wait,” she said, paddling back.
He turned and watched her walk out of the water, pressing her arms against her breasts again, but no longer doubled over. He ran his kikoi over his body and then tossed it to her.
“What’s Agulhas?” she asked, not allowing herself to look at his naked body.
“An ocean current.”
“A current? That’s all?”
“As far as I know.”
She wrapped herself up in the thin cotton and then draped it over her back while she pulled her skirt over her knees. The kikoi covered her like a tent. She hesitated before buttoning her blouse and, taking the kikoi, walked to where Finn stood.
“Why do you pretend not to know Templeton?” The moon shone from behind him. “He’s got some sort of plan,” she pressed. “What is it? Where is he?”
She could not see his eyes as he brushed the backs of his fingers lightly over her breast, against her nipple. His hand was coarse against her skin. Ingrid stepped closer to him, letting his hand drift down to her abdomen, press into her skirt, briefly explore the area between her legs, as far as the material would allow. “Oh,” she said, recoiling at her own sensitivity. He stepped away and wrapped his kikoi around his waist. “Come,” he said.
She recaptured his hand while they walked and held on to its dry roughness as they passed the hotel and the path that led to her guesthouse. A whistle sounded from the trees near the outdoor bar. Ali. Ingrid slowed, trying to see where he was. Finn gently pulled her forward. She continued on, fingering the calluses on his palm, pressing her soft fingertips into the thick layers of dead skin, wondering if he could feel her. He pulled his hand away when they reached the seawall. Disconnected, she followed him.
Later she couldn’t remember how they had gotten there, only that she was glad when he walked through the open door of his house and, without turning, went to the bed. She stood barefoot on the cool tile floor while he ducked under the billow of his mosquito net and then under a single white sheet. She listened for his breathing as she crept into his bed and hesitated before lowering herself to him. His eyes were open, looking up at her. She saw his face fully before he stopped her with his hand and turned her head to the side, so she saw only the wall. He kissed her cheek before he rolled over.
He was tired. Sleep came to him within minutes.
Ingrid lay awake, her blouse still open. The gauze of the mosquito net obscured the room: she could see the outline of a sisal mat, a wall hanging, a large wooden chair. She inched closer to him, until her breasts were against his back. There was something tattooed on his shoulder. With her tongue, she touched the dark, salty shape. She stayed pressed to him like a leaf until she knew he was sleeping. Then she rolled away. The mosquito net rested on her hair when she sat up. Before she left him, she stared at his back, thinking she had never seen such a tangle of beauty and sadness.
CHAPTER
15
Christmas
Sari was waiting for her in the courtyard, a dark shadow that detached from a pillar and floated toward her. She took Ingrid’s hand and put her fingers over her lips. Then she pointed. Abdul was sleeping on a mat at the bottom of the stairs, his thin arms wrapped like ribbons around his body.
“He’s waiting for you,” Sari whispered, motioning for her to step over him. “You should be in bed by now. If you are with men at night he might make you leave this house.”
“He cannot stop me from visiting or having visitors, Sari. I’m paying him to stay here.”
“He can be mean.”
“Is that why you cry at night?”
Sari shook her head and stepped back, rejoining the shadows. Ingrid caught her hand to reassure her. “I know I am lucky to have such a home,” Sari whispered, her eyes on Abdul.
Ingrid held her hand tight. “You don’t have to say that for me.”
Upstairs, Ingrid lay in rigid exhaustion, trying to imagine sleep as a distant continent she had to reach. Her bed was hard, and instead of absorbing the electricity flowing through her, it acted as a conduit. She was still lying there when Finn appeared in her doorway that afternoon, holding an envelope. She had been trying not to move. Christmas was almost over; there was no reason to move. “It was left on my doorstep,” he said, walking around her little cell, peering out the windows.
The letter was addressed to Ingrid Holtz, care of Finn Bergmann. Ingrid reached her hand under the mosquito net to take it from him, avoiding his eyes. She could smell the alcohol on him.
Dear Ingrid,
Welcome to Pelat. I am sorry I cannot be there to act as your guide. Knowing you, I can guess that you have come to find proof of both my own existence and, I have heard, the existence of my theory. You seem to have made progress of a kind—I never imagined that I would be investigated by my own best student. The search for evidence, however, need not involve trespassing. To trespass against the dead is not the same as trespassing against the living. On this island, where the living commune with the dead, I would strongly advise against it. As with any place in transition, my dear, Pelat is volatile. I cannot take responsibility for what you may or may not understand.
Sadly, we are not always able to locate the thing we need most to exist. I have learned that the worlds we people create can overtake the ultimate work. There is, you see, life to be lived. Don’t forget about yours in pursuit of mine.
Finally, you must trust that you would not benefit from finding me just now. I have nothing of substance to offer you and pray you will make your way home safely. Go back to Egypt, Ingrid. Pick up with Hatshepsut. As for my king, you will not find him here.
Yours as ever,
Nick Templeton
Ingrid stared numbly at the page. Across the room, Finn was watching her. She folded the letter and forced herself to meet his gaze.
“How did he know I was here?” she asked lightly.
“I have no idea.”
“It’s dated the twenty-first. Where has it been since then?”
“Traveling, maybe.” Finn smiled. “He’s a clever man, the professor.”
“Why?”
“He knew I had found you.”
“You found me? You didn’t find me.”
“I did. Right away. I saw you get off the boat. Saw Ali whisk you off.”
“But you waited
for me to come to you.” Ingrid was up on her elbows. “Why?”
Finn pulled the curtain over the window he had been posted at. “It’s an island. We were going to meet.”
“What has he told you about me?”
“Look”—Finn gestured outside to the roof—“you have a visitor. Another admirer.”
“What does that map mean?”
“That your professor has an imagination. I have no idea where it’s taken him but I’d rather not follow.”
“Why?”
Finn chose not to respond.
“Will you please answer me?” Ingrid insisted.
Finn kept his silence, watching the door.
She propped her pillow behind her and glared at him from behind the mosquito net. “Is proper communication really so loathsome to you?”
“In some cases.”
Ingrid ignored him and reread the letter as Ali made his way up the stairs. Finn leaned against the wall, as if waiting. He registered Ali’s momentary loss of composure with a dark smile. “Forget to knock, Ali?”
“Hello, Finn, Miss Ingrid.” Ali’s smile was sloppy as spilt milk. “The door was open. I’m sorry.”
“Ingrid is a guest here,” Finn said.
Ali bowed his head. “As I said, I am sorry.”
“Her friendliness should not be mistaken for something else.”
Ali remained silent, his hands clasped in front of him. When Finn left, Ali uncoiled like a snake. “So you have met Finn,” he said. “Son of Henrik Bergmann, the cat killer.” For once, he did not elaborate. Ingrid waited for more, but there was no more; no anecdote, no history.
“He knows the professor,” Ingrid urged.
Ali only nodded.
“Does he?” she pressed.
Ali looked at her. “You like him.”
“I don’t know him.”
“All the women like Finn.”
Ingrid waited. “And?”
“He doesn’t care about them.”
“Don’t worry about me, Ali. I have work to do.”
“I think it’s a very good thing that you have work to do. Why, may I ask, are you in bed?”
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