Swimmer

Swimmer.

I look up from my notebook and see the glitter of the sun on the water,
the little boats rising in the swell, the lush green beyond. The sky is
full of white clouds, broken, the far air deep blue between. A pelican
circles. A fish surfaces then disappears, leaving ripples on the calm
water. It's 9am but already the air is hot. I wonder how the afternoon
will be.
There are rocks, black against the pale ocean and I think about
sailing ships breaking on them, the rending of wet wood breaking in the
storm. The night cries of men lost to the sea. A tourist boat appears
from behind the head land and a man jumps from it into the foam. The
shouts of his friends come to me across the air. I think of swimming
far out, plunging through the salty cold like a Dolphin, water in my
mouth always. There are fragments of light on the sea. The swimmer in
the distance does not return to the boat. His stroke is strong and he
swims towards the shore. He moves not quite smoothly through the water,
his movements making an odd kind of music. His head is a dark spot in
the brightness. He heads towards the jetty. In minutes he reaches the
wooden ladder and I can hear him splashing as he pulls himself from the
water. He stands at the end of the jetty, water falling from his
gleaming skin. Then he walks towards the sure. His friends in the boat
are already retreating, the sound of the outboard motor echoing across
the cove.
Louise comes out of the house carrying her paints and a jar of water
and some small wooden picture frames. She smiles, shakes her hair. The
bikini she wears in of Caribbean design, leaf green with big patches of
yellow. She sits down and picks up her brush.

'I won't disturb you.' Her voice is light, jovial.

I can smell the paint, a not unpleasant tang in the air as she settles
into her work. She uses Cyan blue. Her work is filled with French
Ultramarine and Aqua. There is blue everywhere here. She takes her
inspiration from the sea. There are few moments of quietness. I turn
the pages of my note-book, casting an eye over what I've written.
Louise hums something under her breath but I don't recognize the tune.
Franklin appears in the doorway and then coughs. It is a harsh, canine
sound. He stares out across the sea. With his gray hair and wild blue
eyes he looks like a pirate. He strides out onto the terrace, passing
close to me and I can smell his perspiration. His brown skin is slick
with it. That Louise should have spend so many years with a man like
this is extraordinary. I follow his gaze and my eyes find the swimmer.
He's standing quite still at end of the jetty. His wet body is bright
with sunlight. He is staring back at us.

'The Tigress needs work.' He points at the derelict hull of a Yacht
beached next to the house. 'It'll be years before she sails
again.'

'Yeah. I told you not to get her. She's the sort of girl who need a
lot of looking after.' Louise looks up from her work, smiling from
under her lashes.

I watch the man at the end of the jetty. He slips back into the water
and I think I should hear something. But I don't. His movement is
silent. The sun is dazzling on the water. Louise looks up, pausing for
a moment before dipping the brush into her blue paint.

.........................................................

There is a shadow on the sea. I close my book and stand up. Louise
gathers her things together and smiles ruefully.

'It's El Nino. The weather's always unstable in a Nino year. In '97 we
lost so much of the wildlife.' She stares out across the bay to the
gray horizon. 'We'd better get inside.'

A bank of cloud moves in quickly from the west bringing rain. Heavy
drops that rattle on the roof and get more insistent as the minutes
pass. There are little pools of water on the kitchen floor where the
rain gets in. Franklin turns on the little transistor radio and crackly
salsa fills the room.

'Vodka Tonic, brit-boy?' He grins crookedly and I see his gold
tooth.

Louise laughs and Louise touches my cheek as if I were a child or one
of her cats. I watch him mix the drinks.

'You'd better have one. He'll get upset if you don't.'

Ice clinks invitingly in the glasses. The rain is rattling on the
roof.

'Did you see anyone out there? In the cove?' She searches my face. A
strand of gray is silvery in her brown hair.

I shake my head.

'Good. It's dangerous to swim in this weather.'

The words are barely audible. She drifts off towards the studio with
her drink. I turn away and catch Franklin staring at me.

It gets dark at six. The rain is heavier, dripping through holes in the
roof. Pools of water gather on the tile floor of my room. I hear the
movement of the sea in the distance, the wind in the palms at the end
of the garden. Listening to the stillness beyond the humming of the
fan, I wonder if I'm lonely here. My book lies unread on the bed. Some
thing by Marquez. The mosquito nets casts shadows on the sheet.

I change into my linen trousers and don't bother with a shirt. My
stomach is empty and I think about making something to eat. The air is
still, humid in spite of the rain. I wipe the sweat from my face and go
to the kitchen, remembering the potato salad in the fridge.

I eat the salad in the sitting room. It's cold in my mouth. Salty. I
chew it with the bread Louise made that morning, staring at the string
of colored lights glowing on the mantle, flicking mosquitoes away from
my face. The sea is invisible in the dark outside the window and I
stare, still chewing, into the night. Then I see it. A bright beam
cutting through the rain. Raindrops glittering in their fall. There's
someone out there with a torch. A moving shadow in the watery dark. I
get up and peer through the glass. There are sounds, movements in the
undergrowth beyond the terrace. Voices hushed. I know they can see me.
The light flashes once and is extinguished. There is no crime on the
islands. The paranoia haunting city dwellers is almost unheard of here.
Yet my heart beats fast and fear of the intruder makes my hands shake.
I think of calling Franklin but I'm rooted to the spot, my eyes wide to
the night but I don't see anything more.

'Did you sleep well?' Louise gives me her slow smile. She is always
flirtatious in the morning, says it might be her blood sugar. I feel
the heat rush to my cheeks. Sitting down with my bowl of papaya, I
clear my throat.

'Did you hear anything? In the night, I mean?'

She squeezes lemon juice into a glass of water. Without meeting my
eyes, she says:

'No. I slept like a log. Why do you ask?'

'I though I heard someone outside. In the early hours.'

'Probably just the cats.' She sips her water, appraising me.

'Do the cats carry torches?'

There is a pause.

'My cats do.' Her gaze is a little fixed just then. Not quite so
sweet. She puts her half-empty glass down on the table. 'Nothing much
happens around here at night. You should know that by now. I wouldn't
mention this to Franklin. He's way too busy for fairy stories.'

She walks casually out of the room, leaving a trace of geranium oil on
the air. Papaya falls apart in my mouth, its flavors rank on my tongue.
I'm uncertain but I feel an edge in what she said. I call after
her.

'Do you want anything from town? I'm going in this morning.'

'No, thanks.' Her voice is hollow in the other room, 'I'd go now
before the sun gets to strong.'

I hear her closing the studio door and a warm silence settles around
me. I am uneasy. Through the window, the morning sun is bright on the
sea.

The water taxi approaches from the other side of the bay and I wait,
feeling the sun burning my neck, the sting of sun block running into my
eyes. I think of the mellowness of English summers, the cool mornings,
and I smile again at how difficult it is to please me. The bay is alive
with cruise ships and pleasure boats. A new schooner arrives from the
USA. I raise my hand again and shout 'Taxi'. The little yellow dinghy
moves closer to the jetty and the driver smiles.

The sun's in my eyes as we begin the crossing. The sea wind is fresh
and full of salt. I shut my eyes, then open them, and catch sight of
someone in the water near the boat. A man, his dark head gleaming in
the low waves. He slides through the foam, the sun on his wet skin, his
limbs long and made for swimming. It is the man I saw yesterday at the
house. The swimmer. The boat passes by him and he shouts something, his
lost in the rush of the water. The sun is his eyes, in his white smile.
Then he slips beneath the surface and I don't see him again. When the
boat gets to the jetty, I see Franklin. He clasps my shoulder and I
smell the booze on him. His gold tooth catches the light.

'How are you doing, Britboy?'

'Hey, Franklin. I'm good.'

'Seen my wife anywhere. She needs watching. You know that, don't
you?'

Without waiting for my answer he jumps into the dinghy and barks
something at the driver. I wave as the boat drifts away then head into
town. The memory of the swimmer lingers in my head and I'm not sure
why. The turquoise color of his shorts against the brown skin of his
stomach lingers in my mind like a dream image. I think of Louise, the
way she looks at Franklin and I wonder why the swimmer was watching
them. The thought preoccupies me as I walk along the quiet main street.
I'm like a detective, speculating about a possible crime. The boy in
the water shifts in my memory. Louise smiles, her few words echoing.
The cafes are closing for the siesta but I find somewhere to sit. I
order lemonade thinking that the noonday sun has made me mad. Later, at
the market, I buy oranges, a fresh papaya and some things for a salad.
I'm disinclined to go back to the house but I do anyway. Louise is in
the water when I get there. She waves and I'm relieved she is her usual
friendly self. The afternoon is perfect composed of blue water and sky,
of volcanic rocks and the sea. An Iguana stands motionless at the
water's edge. I realize that the shadows are only in my mind and relax
for the first time that day.

It's dusk and Louise closes the doors to keep out the mosquitoes. The
air is warm but it's cooler than before. I love the evenings. Franklin
mixes us some drinks and we sit in the kitchen drinking them, talking
quietly. The ice makes little cracking noises as it melts in the
glass.

'Did you have a good day, Michael? Get lots done?' Louise smiles,
pressing her glass against her cheek to cool herself.

'Well, I went into town, as you know, and -'

'Thanks for the fruit. I'll make some juices.' She glances at Franklin
then looks right into my eyes. 'See anyone?'

I feel sure the atmosphere thickens but I can't be sure. I look at
Franklin, his brown face oblivious. Then I turn back to Louise.

'No. I didn't see anybody.'

'You saw me.' Franklin is abrupt I his eyes are amused.

She smiles and I get the feeling they're making fun of me. Our glasses
are empty.

'We could do with some more of these, Franklin.'

'I love it when you're drunk.' His voice is gruff. His blue eyes flash
at me conspiratorially. He grabs the bottle and refreshes our drinks.
He splashes in some tonic and hands me my glass. It's getting dark
outside and I feel a drunken night coming. I look at Louise, her cheeks
already flushed from the alcohol, and I'm surprised to find that I'm
nervous. Franklin turns the music up and draws Louise into his arms. As
they start to move I watch his hands, the skin brown against the pale
linen of her shirt, the finger nails cracked and dirty.

'Did she ever tell you about her family?' He looking at me closely.
'Its quite a story but she won't tell you everything. She like to keep
her secrets.'

Louise nudges him affectionately.

'We don't keep secrets from each other, do we, Franklin?'

I take a mouthful of Vodka.

'So, Louise, you've got an interesting family?

A shadow passes across her face and she turns her back on me. The song
ends and a new one begins, a woman voices breaking over a backing track
of sun struck Merengue. Louise pushes Franklin away and reaches for her
glass.

'Anyway, you're the one who's going away in the morning. Off to the
Cook Islands leaving me here all by myself.'

'Ah, you'll be ok'. And I'll make sure Brit-boy here keeps an eye on
things. So you don't get into any trouble.'

It's nearly midnight and Louise is drunk. Her voice is hazy with
alcohol and she smiles at Franklin and then at me. I think of the
swimmer, water gleaming on him, and wonder if I've imagined it
all.

There are sounds in the night. I turn in bed, half-awake and listen.
High pitched like the cries of cats. Then words, voices raised. I lie
still, barely breathing, and I feel like a child again, overhearing
something secret. Then I sit up. A door slams and there are footsteps
in the gravel outside. Beyond them, the roar of the sea. All goes quiet
and my eyes close again.

In the morning, Franklin is gone. Louise appears in the kitchen,
looking pale, rubbing her temples gingerly. She hands me a plate of day
old papaya.

'It's just you and me now.' She says.

'Is it?'

There is a little silence.

'Yes.' I see the lie crossing across her face. 'Who else is
there?'

'Well...'

'I think we understand each other, don't we?' She's not looking at me
when she says this. She gives her words a strange emphasis as if she
knows that understanding doesn't enter the equation.

I come home late, the beer and the humidity making my mind fuzzy.
Beyond the house, I see lights in the mangroves. I stop walking and in
the stillness hear muted sounds on the night air: some laughter, water
splashing. I creep towards the back door, unable to stop myself peering
into the tangle of branches a few meters away from me. The lights
shift. A figure passes in front of them and shadows flicker. A male
voice whispers something but the words are inaudible. My heart is
thumping and I feel ashamed like a suburban voyeur. But I know what I'm
watching. Louise and her lover. I pause, straining to see something.
The lights go dark and there is silence, then in the silence, a muffled
cry. My blood is singing in my head and I turn the key in the lock,
retreating into the house.

I am listening carefully. My door is shut but I know I'll hear them
when they come in. The lamp makes a pool of orange light on the floor.
Insects burn against the bulb. They haven't come in yet and I imagine
them outside, wet limbs in the undergrowth, Louise entranced by her own
sensuality. I think of him, his brown body half-submerged in water
thick with algae. Droplets of sweat form on my back and throat. A
mosquito settles on my arm, pushing its proboscis into me, tiny body
trembling as it feeds. I stretch out on the bed, rest my left hand on
my stomach. The skin feels hot, feverish. When I close my eyes I can
see them, Louise and her swimmer, images intercut with their day lit
selves. The flash of a blue sea. The nocturnal interlacing of their
unclothed bodies. My hand finds its own rhythm.

'Sleep well?' She's unusually bright. I feel that she's laughing at
me.

'I came in quite late. They were doing Salsa lessons at
Picasso's.'

She fills a glass with hot water and adds some lemon juice.

'I'm expecting Franklin to phone. His flight gets into to Santiago
this morning and you know how much I worry about him when he's
away.'

I toy with my cereal and say nothing. She continues, sipping her water,
twisting a strand of glossy brown hair.

'The thing is, I don't think I'm going to be here when he calls. I
have to get into town early before it gets too hot. So if you're here,
you could talk to him. Tell me we're living a quiet life. Bed early.
That kind of thing.' She smiles and meets my gaze, holds it a little
longer than is comfortable. 'And tell him how much I'm missing
him.'

'Don't you think you should tell him that yourself?'

'No.' Her laughter is like music. She moves away from me, her bare
feet making no sound on the tiled floor. 'I'd like you to tell him. I
like my boys to talk to each other.'

She slips from the room like a cat. I take a mouthful of cornflakes and
find that I'm waiting for the phone to ring.

I keep away from her as the morning wears on. I can hear her moving
about in the upstairs studio but I don't take her a glass of lime juice
as I usually do. Her presence in the house feels like a cold spot in
the hot stillness. The air in the house stifles me. At 10.30 she comes
down the stairs. The whiteness of her linen shirt emphasizes the honey
brown of her skin. She smells of geraniums.

'Right. I'm going. Remember about Franklin.'

'Yes.'

I strand at the door and watch her leave. The sea is blue and alive
with sunlight. It is a beautiful day but a shadow has fallen across it.
Her figure diminishes, is lost in the brightness. The wind blows off
the sea and I feel it in my hair like a living presence.

At 1pm, the phone rings. Harsh metallic trilling cutting through an
aural landscape of wind and sea. I pick it up and here the long
distance delay. From somewhere in the ambient crackle Franklin
speaks.

'Hey Britboy, how's it going. She there?'

'She's in town, Franklin'

'How is she?'

I make abstract doodles on the cover of the phone book.

'She's good. Missing you though.'

'Well you keep an eye on her. I'm counting on you to keep her safe for
me till I get back. She's a bit of a wild one. Know what I mean. It's
in your hands.'

Talking to him makes me claustrophobic. I feel his will pressing in on
me like dead air and I resent him. I try to sound jovial.

'She's your wife, Franklin. I'm just -'

'I'm counting on you.'

'So it seems but...'

'She's all yours, brit-boy.'

I think of the lights in the mangroves and close my eyes.

I'm in the garden of the 'Hot Rocks' caf?. Celeste brings me my lemon
liquardo and smiles in a way that seems significant.

'How's Louise? She must be lonely with Franklin away.'

Celeste is from the mainland but speaks English with an American
accent. I'm not sure if her irony is intentional.

'She's fine. She gets on with things.'

I take a mouthful of lemonade. The lemon taste is bitter on my tongue,
sharper than usual. Celeste smiles again then turns away.

'Louise can always find people to talk to, can't she?'

I wonder if she knows something. Beyond the bars on the main drag, the
streets are quiet, empty. It's hardly a town at all. So news travels
fast, small events expanding into scandal in a matter of hours. I'm
uneasy. Celeste slopes back to her place behind the bar. My mouth is
full of lemon pulp. I think about Franklin and imagine him humiliated,
his friends smirking. There's violence in him.

'I'd like to pay, please, Celeste.'

She takes my money silently, folding the old notes into a roll and
stowing them in the drawer that serves as a till. I know that he must
have been here too. The swimmer. Bought beer from Celeste perhaps, put
coins in the Juke box.

Celeste looks at me from under pale lashes.

'I've not seen Louise in town for ages. Working hard for the new
exhibition, is she?'

'Yes, there's been a lot of interest and some commissions from
America.'

'Ahh yes. Some new commissions. I'd heard something about that. Her
brother's here from the States, isn't he?'

'Her brother?' I'm surprised, childishly perturbed that Celeste knows
more about Louise that I do.

'Yeah, don't you know about all that. I though you and Louise were
close.'

The street is hot, the sun ruthless in the pale gutters. Most of the
shops are shut for the fiesta and the cafes are empty. I pull my
sunglasses from my pocket and walk slowly towards to dock. Sweat breaks
out on my forehead and my shirt clings uncomfortably to me. I head for
the shade of the Zocolo and in the moving shadows under the trees I see
someone looking back at me. The sunbeams are broken in the branches and
make dark shapes on his face. His shirt is white like a baptism. He
beckons to me, smiling. I cross the arid patch of grass towards him and
recall the flicker of his naked limbs in the darkness of the mangroves.
I want to say something to him, feel that in some way we are connected.
I want to warn him about Franklin and the net he has stepped into. I
call out to him, but he says nothing. The branches move above him and
his face is revealed. Sunbrowned, brown hair falling as Louise's does,
over his right eye. The breeze makes the shadows flicker and he slips
away, running across the grass toward the jetty. He dives into the
water. Sea birds rise shrieking into the air. I am still and my heart
beats fast. It begins to feel like a game.

There are newspaper cuttings in bureau in the sitting room. Years old,
dry bundles tied up with South American string. They seem fragile and I
touch them gently, tentatively, pulling away the string, unraveling
them. Their familiarity makes me smile. 'The Times', 'The Daily
Express'. Articles dating back to the 80s, the black and white
photographs yellow with age. It is an archive of Louise's London life.
She shows it to friends when she's had a few drinks, laughing at her
own metropolitan excesses. It is a different life. A life of parties
and fashion shows. In one I see a young Louise at a gallery opening.
Her hair is longer than it is now and her face has the bland smoothness
of youth. She stands with a group of smiling strangers. They hold
glassed of wine. Next to her is a young boy who's face I recognize. The
caption under the picture reads 'Lady .........and her brother Charles
at The Serpentine.' I look closer at the boy's face and then I know.
The brown hair falls over his right eyes and under the boyish contour
of his cheek I can see the leaner man he will become. A body honed in
the water.

.................................................

We're sitting on the terrace in the late afternoon. The sea in high
enough to cover the sharp rocks near the shore. Bored of my book, I
watch a speed boat cut across the bay. Its flanks are white against the
mineral blue. Small waves crash against the prow. Louise is watching
too, peering through her binoculars, a smile on her lips. Without
looking at her, I say:

'There are sharks out there, aren't there?'

'Apparently. Yes.' She slides the binoculars into the leather bag at
her feet and gives me a guilless look. 'I've never seen one, though.
Have you?'

'Franklin takes his boat out there quite often, doesn't he?'

She watches me closely, toying with her turquoise earring, silver links
refracting sunlight over her brown neck.

'Franklin lives for the sea. The sea and everything in it.'

In her sing-song tone I imagine a minor key. I remember the white shirt
curling, sinuous in the water, the brown stain that might have been
blood. She sets out her painting things: the jar of clean water, the
horse-hair brushes of different sizes. The unmarked canvass flat on the
table. A breeze passes through the palms making a sound like rain. I
clear my throat and she looks at me sharply.

'That boy. The one who comes here sometimes. Did Franklin meet
him?'

'Who do you mean?'

I think I see amusement in her green eyes. She dips her brush into deep
red acrylic and makes a vivid mark on the white canvass.

'The boy who comes here. I see him swimming in the bay sometimes. With
you.'

'No-one comes here. You know that. We live very quietly, don't
we?'

I can't meet her gaze and watch her rinse her brush, the red paint
making the water bloody. She uses here fingers now, smudging the
clotted red into ghoulish shapes. She says, without looking up:

'Its easy to imagine all sorts of things in a place like this. There
are no distractions, you see. Nothing to take your mind off your
thoughts.'

A wave breaks under the jetty. The voices of people in the distant boat
blow fitfully towards us.