After Elias

by Eddy Boudel Tan

  “But she’s not here now.”

  “No, unfortunately, she is not. Chef Merida has another restaurant in the capital where she plays a more hands-on role. This is our pastry chef, Javier,” she goes on, gesturing to the man beside her. “Javier is known as the best on Isla de Espejos. Chef Merida chose him herself.”

  The man turns to me with a hopeful look, hands clasped modestly behind his back. “Mucho gusto, Javier,” I say with a strained smile.

  Maria takes a seat across the table from me as Javier wheels the cart beside us. He picks up one delicate dish at a time, carefully placing them on the table. Each cake is a bold, bright wedge of colour against the stark white of the porcelain and linen.

  Javier introduces each slice with the panache of a circus ringmaster. The first option is encased in a shell of white frosting, its insides the colour of lemons.

  Elias’s voice whispers into my ear: “This isn’t your wedding anymore.”

  You’re right! I remember now. This isn’t my wedding anymore. Because you’re dead, and nobody wants to marry a corpse.

  “You say that like it’s my fault.”

  Is it not?

  “Tell me, dear, how I might be to blame.”

  You were flying the plane, right? And it crashed.

  “I did not crash that plane.” He sounds defensive now, like he does when he’s been cornered.

  Perhaps not intentionally, but your job was to keep the plane in the air, was it not?

  “Señor?” Maria and Javier look at me from across the table, eyes narrowed.

  “Sorry. What did you say?”

  Javier glances at Maria, then turns to me and says, “What do you think?”

  “What do I think?”

  “Of the cake,” Maria clarifies, her words now tinged with the slightest trace of impatience.

  “Oh! Yes, the cake. It’s good. Wonderful, actually.”

  Javier smiles, relieved, and gestures to the second option. The sponge is deep crimson with a rich, dark coat — blood orange and chocolate ganache. I slice off the triangle’s tip with my fork and wrap my mouth around it.

  “It’s morbid, no? Blood cake at a funeral?” Elias says with that tone of disapproval I know so well.

  I choke. I inhaled too sharply, and the cake is now lodged in my throat. The violent sound of coughing echoes throughout the quiet room. Alarmed, Maria and Javier come toward me, but I ward them off with my left palm while beating on my chest with the other hand. I cough until I can breathe again.

  “Are you okay?” Maria asks, now standing.

  “I’m fine!” I say, breathing forcefully, my left palm still held in the air. “Maybe that was an omen. This cake has bad juju.” I laugh, but they look at me like I’m the one that’s cursed.

  “I warned you about that cake,” Elias says.

  “What’s next?” I look at Javier with intensified eagerness.

  He hesitates before introducing the final option. Triangles of white sponge, bubbly and light, are sealed with thin layers of ivory cream. “Tres leches cake is very common in our country,” Javier explains. “The cake is soaked in three different kinds of milk, hence the name. It is a simple treat, but we have created a more refined version for you.”

  I imagine what the full-sized cake would look like — an imposing pyramid of radiant white, inside and out. It’s beautiful.

  “You want to serve this cake at my funeral?” asks Elias with that incredulous tone of his.

  Is there something wrong with this cake?

  “Dear, that is a wedding cake.”

  Dear, they are all wedding cakes. These cakes are meant for weddings.

  “Exactly. Not funerals.”

  This is not your fucking funeral!

  “Ah, yes. That’s right. I meant celebration of life.”

  Javier and Maria watch expectantly as I chew, but it’s suddenly difficult to swallow. Their gaze drifts over my shoulder, and I hear the sharp clack of heels against tiles behind me. I turn around, my mouth still filled with cake, to see a familiar face.

  The woman is striking. She enters with her dress billowing around her like a cloud of sheer silk several shades of green. Her face is partially covered by a wide-brimmed hat, but the waves of mahogany hair are distinct. It takes a moment to remember how I know this woman before it comes to me: she’s the clumsy giraffe I knocked to the lobby floor the other day.

  “Look at those cakes,” the woman says sweetly, her English accent ringing through the room like the trill of piano keys.

  “Señora, this is a private tasting,” Maria answers.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” the woman says, blushing. “I must have gotten a little lost. I’ll just be on my way then.”

  “Stay.” The word leaves my mouth before I realize I’m saying it. I clear my throat, trying to hide my surprise. “You can help me choose.”

  “Really? It would be my pleasure,” the woman says with a smile. She takes a seat beside me, smelling like a tropical flower. Maria flashes me a disapproving look but doesn’t say a word.

  “I’m having trouble deciding,” I say. The truth is I need to be around someone who doesn’t think I’m a pitiful mess. The woman’s presence is refreshing at what may be the saddest cake tasting to ever take place.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asks, expecting my answer to be predictably ordinary, pleasant, not the least bit disturbing.

  I consider the appropriate degree of honesty before saying, “It’s just a celebration.” She returns my smile, convinced.

  Javier, looking relieved there is now someone new to alleviate the tension in the room, introduces the three cakes with renewed vigour. The woman listens intently, studying each slice with care before tasting. She closes her eyes after each bite to focus her attention on the flavours, weighing the merits of each option, intent on reaching an indisputable conclusion. I watch her, admiring how seriously she’s treating this responsibility. The woman is the perfect cake-tasting companion.

  “What do you think?” I ask after she’s savoured the last bite with a flutter of eyelashes.

  “We must know,” says Elias with mock anticipation.

  “I like all three. You really can’t go wrong. But if you want my opinion, I would have to go with the tres leches cake. They’re all delicious, but this one is special. It’s pure and uncomplicated.”

  Maria and I exchange glances. “Pure and uncomplicated,” I repeat, thinking over her words. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  After finalizing the decision with Maria and Javier, the woman and I leave Otra Luna and wander toward the ocean. I learn that her name is Raina Babel. She’s travelling alone.

  “I was supposed to come here with my husband,” she tells me. “Well, the man who was supposed to be my husband. This was meant to be our honeymoon. We had been planning it for months. It is still rather surreal that I’m here.”

  I think about whether or not to ask the obvious question, but she anticipates my hesitation.

  “You’re wondering why I’m on my honeymoon alone. It’s okay. I don’t mind telling you. It’s simple, really. Honeymoons are for newlyweds, and we didn’t get married.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, not sure of the appropriate response.

  Raina laughs. “Don’t be. Do you ever feel like something isn’t quite right, even though everyone tells you it should be?”

  I nod, but she can read the uncertainty on my face.

  “I met Paul at a party hosted by a mutual friend of ours,” she continues. “We graduated from the same uni and ran in similar social circles, but our paths didn’t cross for years.

  “I was a terrible, pathetic mess. My boyfriend at the time had recently broken my heart. He was a cruel boy, disturbingly narcissistic. I look back now and count my lucky stars I didn’t waste any more of my life on that tosser. But at the time, I was so embarrassingly sad.

  “The only reason I decided to attend this party was because I knew my ex was going to
be there. I was delusional. I thought he would take one look at me and fall madly back in love. I’m sure now this wouldn’t have been possible. He was never in love with me in the first place. I swear he didn’t even notice I was there. He was too busy putting his hands on every other girl in the room.

  “I was so upset that I grabbed my things and ran out of the flat as quickly as I could. That was when I met Paul. I didn’t see him at first. I was walking out the door and, before I knew it, I was on the floor. We had turned the corner at the exact same time and crashed right into one another! I am such a clumsy giraffe. And there we were, a heap of limbs on the hallway floor. He was such a gentleman. He kept apologizing as he helped me to my feet, then he picked up my things that were scattered everywhere.”

  “I can actually see that happening,” I say with a soft smile. “You might not have recognized me, but we ran into each other in the lobby the other day. Literally. I had to hoist you off the floor.”

  “Oh dear, it was you! How embarrassing. I’m sorry again for being such a klutz. I am truly helpless.”

  “It’s okay. I could do a better job myself of watching where I’m going. My head has been in the clouds lately. So what happened next, after you met Paul?”

  “I was smitten from the very beginning. We went back inside the party together until we got bored and decided to find a late-night kebab. Then everything just unfolded from there.

  “Paul was perfect. He was handsome. Well educated. Gainfully employed, which is always a nice bonus. My friends liked him. My parents adored him. He treated me like the most important woman in the world. From that very first moment on the hallway floor, he showed me nothing but respect and kindness.

  “When Paul proposed five years later, everyone was thrilled. They told me how lucky I was to be engaged to this flawless man. They were right. I was lucky. I was going to get everything every young woman dreams about. I could see how much Paul loved me. I could see how happy everyone was for me, for us. The problem was I didn’t feel anything.

  “I knew I should have been happy, but I didn’t feel happiness. I floated through the engagement in a cloud of doubt, and soon doubt became the only thing I could feel. Eventually, doubt gave way to guilt for not feeling the way I should, for being inexplicably flawed. I went through the motions and played the part of the blushing bride-to-be, but the doubt and the guilt ate away at me slowly. I researched wedding venues, signed invitations, attended dress fittings, all the while wondering if the wedding would even take place, if I would actually go through with it. I suppose I assumed I would be too weak to stop it.

  “The worst part is that nobody seemed to realize there was something wrong. My friends, my family, my fiancé — none of them noticed anything out of the ordinary. I’m sure I put on a very convincing show, but I would have hoped that someone, anyone, would have known me well enough to realize there was something the matter. Nobody did.

  “I called off the engagement three weeks ago. The wedding was scheduled for last Saturday. I told Paul during dinner. It wasn’t planned. I intended to go through with the wedding, to succumb to it, but we were eating peas and chicken, and I realized that I never liked peas and chicken — and that I didn’t want Paul. It just came out of my mouth before I could stop it. I told him I didn’t want to marry him.

  “He laughed at first. He thought I was cracking a joke. Then he understood that I wasn’t. He pleaded. Then he cried. Then he called me a selfish bitch. I like to think that deep down he knew we were never meant to be together, but I’m not sure.

  “He’s right though. I am a selfish bitch. I wasted six years of his life, and I can’t justify how or why. I suppose it was just easier to go along for the ride than to take the wheel. It’s easy to believe you’re happy and in love when there’s no reason to think otherwise. But when you’re confronted with something as permanent as marriage, the truth finds a way to surface.”

  The sun begins its slow descent behind us, casting a fiery glow across the beach. Raina looks even more brilliant in this light, and I find it difficult to imagine a sad, cold version of this woman. There is so much life in her.

  She turns to me as her hair dances in the breeze. “Do you think I’m a despicable person?”

  “Of course not” is my response, delivered by reflex rather than honesty. Deserting one’s fiancé three weeks before the wedding is not a decent thing to do. That’s undeniable. But surely it’s more respectable than going through with it and prolonging a relationship void of love. Who am I to judge, anyway?

  “Paul deserved honesty, and that’s what you gave him.” My words are slow and thoughtful. “It would not have hurt any less if you had left him one year before the wedding or rejected his proposal outright. Sure, it would have saved you both a great deal of trouble, but the result is no different. Like you said, the truth is not always evident. Sometimes it needs to be forced out. The important thing is you recognized your truth, and you did something about it.”

  Raina looks at me in silence with an expression of relief, possibly gratitude, before letting out a musical laugh. “Listen to me, burdening you with my tales of woe. You didn’t sign up for this.”

  “It’s no bother. I’m happy you told me.”

  “Enough about silly me. I want to know your story,” she says, linking her arm in mine.

  I was afraid this would happen. “Oh, I’m not all that interesting,” I say with a nervous laugh.

  “Why don’t you start by telling me why you were tasting cakes by yourself? What’s this mysterious celebration you’re planning?”

  “It’s my wedding,” I blurt out before I’ve had the chance to formulate what to say. Raina’s face lights up, and I hurriedly correct myself. “Shit. It’s not my wedding. I mean, not anymore, at least.” She now looks confused.

  I take a deep breath before going on. “What I mean to say is it was supposed to be my wedding. I was supposed to get married in three days, here, at the Ōmeyōcān.”

  “What happened?”

  My throat tightens, closing around the salty air I try to inhale. “He died. My fiancé died a few days ago, unexpectedly.”

  Raina stops walking. Our bare feet sink into the sand as the ocean’s waves pool around us, then recede, in and out, in time with our breathing. For the first time today, it seems like Raina is at a loss for words. She looks at me, then down at our feet, then back at me. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I say, not knowing how to respond.

  “How did he …?” she asks, unable to finish the question.

  “A plane. It crashed.”

  A look of recognition flashes across her eyes.

  “He was one of the pilots.” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.

  The recognition becomes a look of revelation. “No …”

  Stupid. I am stupid.

  “That plane near Iceland …” she says.

  I am such a fool.

  Raina might have been the only person in the hotel unaware of how fascinatingly tragic I am, and now I’ve ruined that special distinction.

  “That man was your fiancé?”

  “He was.”

  I don’t know what else to say. I want to hate this woman for calling Elias “that man.” I want to hate her for forcing this out of me, but I don’t. We are the same, Raina and I. We had everything, and now we have nothing. We chose this perfect island to usher in a new era in our perfect lives, but instead we are here, alone, with no possible way of ignoring how imperfect we are.

  • • • • •

  I return to my room, and it’s a relief. It has become my refuge, so dark and warm and still, from the cruel, pitying world outside.

  My walk with Raina left me feeling ill at ease. Something she said, about how she felt with Paul, struck a nerve. The throbbing in my chest has returned.

  I can’t stop seeing the look on her face when she realized who should have been sitting beside me in the restaurant today. The sadness would be expected, but
there was apprehension as well. I don’t think she doubted I was telling the truth, but there was something in her eyes that hinted at her sudden discomfort with me, as though my fiancé’s death said something about who I am. It lasted for a moment if at all, but I can’t get that look out of my mind.

  I stand over the altar I built for Elias on the windowsill. The bowl of cereal has become a thick, reddish soup and the edges of the candles are black with ash, but the marigolds are still bold and bright. Thinking about how silly it is, I light the candles until they flicker together like a chorus of saints framed by the indigo sky. The candle of the angel that Maria gave me stands proudly in the middle, taller than the others.

  “It’s beautiful,” Elias says.

  “You’re not going to lecture me on how vulgar and disrespectful this display is to your beliefs?”

  “No. If it brings you peace, then it’s not silly or vulgar or disrespectful. I just want you to be happy.”

  I stand in silence for a long time, watching the reflection of the flames on the window. The throbbing in my chest has worsened.

  I walk over to the nightstand and pick up the book I brought from home. Tucked between the pages is a folded sheet of paper. I open it slowly, feeling how smooth and crisp it is against my fingers.

  It’s a note from Elias. He wrote it before leaving for Berlin, the morning after our last night together when we watched the planes from our spot on Iona Beach. I woke up that morning to find his side of the bed empty, the lingering smell of his skin on the sheets. There was a note on the kitchen counter in the same spot he always left them. He wrote them so frequently that I stopped saving them long ago, but this one I kept. This one was special. Now, it’s the last.

  My dear,

  You’re sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you. I will always remember last night. It is more difficult than usual to leave you this time, but don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself in Mexico. We shall have our happy ending.

  See you in the sky.

  E.