Inger Frimansson - Good Night, My Darling

The toilet was unbelievably dirty and consisted of a hole in the floor. Justine barely kept her balance in there, and her shoes got wet.

There was no such thing as toilet paper.

She said so to Nathan.

“Do they have to have such dirty toilets? It smelled disgusting in there; how can they not notice that?”

“Do your best to put up with it,” laughed Nathan. “It’ll be better in the jungle. At least there you get fresh air and leaves.”

“Also leeches!” Martina added.

Justine didn’t understand the English word leeches . She waited a minute and then asked Nathan. He glanced at Martina and smiled conspiratorially.

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.”

In the bus, Martina sat turned toward them with her legs in the aisle. The arm rest of her seat was long gone. She had a fine little face with dark eyebrows. A vague smell of soap surrounded her. She took some photos of them.

Suddenly the bus lurched so strongly that she almost dropped the camera.

“Damn idiot!” she cussed.

Nathan had caught her.

“You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. But that asshole up there has certainly not gone to driving school.”

“That’s for sure, but you have to realize that we still have a lot of miles to go and he probably doesn’t want to drive in the dark. God knows if there’s any headlights on this monstrosity.”

“In Guatemala, I rode the whole night long in a vehicle that makes this one seem like a luxury bus. We rode from Tikal to Guatemala City, and the bus had stone-hard seats without any cushioning… talk about a sore butt when we finally arrived at the crack of dawn.”

“Were you reporting?” asked Nathan.

“Yeah, I sold a piece to the travel magazine Res . They gave me a number of pages and even the cover.”

He ruffled her hair.

“Well done, Martina. Do the same here.”

“How much are you offering?”

“How about, you know, in natura ? We’ll come to some kind of agreement, you and me.”

She gave him a shrewd look.

“There’s an old English saying, old but true: Don’t screw the crew!”

The Icelander said, “Martina, weren’t you nervous in Guatemala?”

“Oh yes, the soldiers stopped me a few times.”

“I think that’s unwise, even stupid, to tempt fate like that, going out into the world as a young woman on her own.”

“Why not? Shouldn’t a gal have the same freedom of movement as a guy?”

“You understand what I mean.”

“Well, no one ever tried to rape me, if that’s what you mean. The worst thing that ever happened was once I lost my passport. But the embassy fixed that up.”

“Have you seen the whole world?” asked Justine.

“Never been to Iceland, but I don’t really have any desire to go there, either.”

They arrived late in the evening. It was still very hot. The air was filled with birds; they looked like swallows. Their shining silver bodies filled the telephone wires, which ran back and forth over the streets. Ben was thrilled.

“Oh, I’m so glad that you get to see this. They’re migratory; they’re only here a few times a year.”

“But I don’t think you’re supposed to walk under them,” said Nathan. “I hear that’s unlucky.”

Everyone laughed.

They were quartered in a bare and simple guest room. Justine was very tired; she stretched out on the bed. The room was as hot as a Swedish drying cabinet. She would need to wash up a bit; she smelled funky; her whole body was itching.

“How are you feeling now?” asked Nathan. He had already taken a shower; he was standing with his feet wide apart, under the ceiling fan to dry off. The golden hair on his legs. He was handsome. She longed for him, that he would embrace her and kiss her, reassure her that nothing dangerous was going to happen, and that they always, always would be together. “Fine,” she whispered.

“You seem down.”

“Nothing, I’m just tired.”

“Let’s go downstairs and eat something.”

She shook her head.

“Not me.”

“Well, I have to get something to eat.”

He left. There were no sheets on the bed, just a thin, flowery spread over the mattress. It felt like she was lying on sand, but when she tried to brush it off, she saw that it was smooth. She wanted to wrap something around herself, not because she was freezing, but because she was used to it. She felt naked and unprotected.

She heard the others getting together downstairs. The room was square; the floor was cement. The bed was the only piece of furniture. On the other side of the window lathes, a growing chorus of cicadas and frogs.

She sat up; she itched and burned in all the places where skin rubbed against skin. She got on her clothes and went into the hallway. At the end of the hallway, there was a laundry room painted an unfortunate color. To the right, there was a shower and an Asian toilet. She went into the shower room and took off her clothes. There were no hooks for them. She hung them over the door, but while she showered, they managed to get wet.

She rinsed her bra and panties. Covered just in her bath towel, she ran back to the room. What if someone saw her like this? It certainly would not be acceptable to appear in a Muslim guest house, wearing nothing but a bath towel. Maybe she’d be whipped or stoned to death? She put on a T-shirt and long pants, spreading out the wet clothes on the floor. Her wet hair felt good against her head. She felt a pang of hunger. She was returning to health.

She carefully walked down the steep, dark stairs. A TV was on; some young boys were sitting in front of it. They didn’t notice her. A woman looked out from behind a veil. “Have you seen my friends?” she asked in English.

Then she found them. They had taken a few tables, which stood on the street. She stood in the doorway. They didn’t notice her. Martina was sitting in the center. She was in the middle of telling them a story.

Nathan sat next to her, so close that his hand was resting on her leg.

She stood there for a long time, watching them, their shining faces, their intensive listening. Something inside her closed down. She couldn’t bring herself to go to them, nor could she face returning upstairs. All the sounds of the day were still in her head: motors, voices, cicadas. She stood there as if she had turned into a statue-of a middle-aged, charmless, pale, fat, female tourist.

Ben saw her first. He got up and approached her.

“Sit over here, Justine. I’ll get you something to eat.”

“What are you guys doing?”

“Nothing. We’ve eaten and now we’re just sitting around, relaxing.”

She slipped in between the chairs.

“I thought you were sleeping,” said Nathan.

“Uh-huh,” Justine said, feeling stupid.

Heinrich patted her on the cheek.

“It’s good that you’ve rested. You’ll have strength for tomorrow.”

She nodded. She felt about to cry, so she hastily put on her sunglasses.

“Now you look like Greta Garbo,” said Stephan. He had a fairly thick German accent. Katrine imitated him unmercifully, and then she repeated the phrase again, very clearly. Stephan and Katrine were engaged. They were well-trained; she noted the muscles on their calves. They were certainly not going to have trouble keeping up in the jungle.

She forced herself to say something.

“What have you eaten?” she asked.

“Guess!”

“I have no idea…”

“Fried rice and chicken.”

“It’s the national dish of Malaysia,” said one of the Norwegians.

Justine had difficulty telling the Norwegians apart.

“Are you Stein or Ole?” she asked.

“Ole, of course. Maybe we should wear name tags.”

“Well, you guys look identical.”