Эд Макбейн - Running From Legs and Other Stories

It wasn’t as if either of us had secret lovers. There was no one else. Neither had we “outgrown” each other, as the cliché would have it. I’m an oboe player. I do sit-in work with whichever symphony orchestra has a musician out sick or otherwise unable to meet a performance date. That winter, I was playing on and off with the Philharmonic, but such work is rare, believe me. I usually play with far less distinguished orchestras here and there around the city. If you have occasion to look me up in a program sometime, I’m Richard Haig. I sit there in the woodwinds section, a pleasant-looking man in a black suit, in no way outstanding. I once played a Galway concert. That was truly exciting.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with very many children’s book illustrators. I happen to know quite a few of them because that’s what Kara does for a living. They’re a particularly gentle breed, most of them with children of their own, though Kara and I haven’t been blessed in that respect. She’s thirty-seven years old, my wife, to my forty-two, a quite beautiful, soft-spoken blonde with a keen sense of humor and a lovely smile, particularly radiant now that she’d begun to tan. Perhaps the most flamboyant thing about her is her name. Cara, of course, means “dear” in Italian, but Kara’s mother tacked a Teutonic K onto it, giving it a post-modernist twist that singled her out from every other little girl growing up in the sixties.

What I’m trying to say is that neither of us had progressed very far beyond the other in our twelve years of marriage. I had not achieved anything more important than Kara had. She had no real reason to feel threatened by me. She was happy with what she did, and had won no recognition that might have caused me to feel envious or resentful. There was no competition between us. We were equal partners, perfectly content with the people we were.

That’s not what was wrong with our marriage.

I don’t know what was wrong with it.

While Kara took long, solitary walks on the beach, I tried to determine which of the hotel guests were the two in the room next door. They were young, yes, or at least their voices sounded youthful. They were energetic, too, undeniably so. In addition to their clockwork afternoon matinees, Kara and I were treated to audio performances at midnight, and highly vocal encores just before breakfast. I figured they had to be honeymooners. But then, something Sweetie said — he was the male — changed my mind about that.

They were talking about a sweater they were searching for in the closet; the nights here in the tropics tended to get a bit chilly. Sweetie was trying to remember where they’d purchased it. It was clear that they’d been together on vacation someplace. Had it been Bali? South America? My interest was piqued. Kara and I had been to these places as well. Then Sweetie said, “I remember.”

“Where?” Honey asked.

“Our fifth anniversary,” Sweetie said.

“No, you bought me a coral necklace.”

“This wasn’t a gift. We were just walking along...”

“Paris!”

“The little shop on the L’lle de la Cite.”

“I remember,” she said.

“Do you remember the Christmas Eve mass at Saint Suplice?”

“Yes, sweetie, I remember.”

Not honeymooners then. Nor as young as I’d first surmised. Married for at least five years, perhaps longer. World travelers; from the sound of them. No clue as to what either of them did for a living. No clue as to whether or not there were children in the marriage. The only intimation I had of Honey’s physical appearance was supplied by Sweetie one evening. Again, their voices came from the other side of the thin closet wall, floating into my unintentionally receptive ears. Or perhaps, like an amateur detective on the track of something big, I had became a deliberate listener, fascinated now by this couple who seemed so very much in love.

“Wear the blue,” he suggested. “It’s better with your hair. Especially now.” And a pause. “You look so beautiful in blue.”

Blue was a blonde’s color. I assumed Honey’s hair had turned lighter in the sun, as had Kara’s.

I started watching for blondes.

Years ago, I forget how many, Kara and I used to play a game where we tried to determine whether any given tourist was an American or a foreigner. There were only two rules: we had to guess before we heard a person speak, and dining habits didn’t count; we knew that foreigners cut their meat and forked it into their mouths without changing hands. We learned to look for facial expressions and hand gestures, the manner in which a person walked, hair styles, tailoring, shoes. To our amazement and delight, we were soon able to guess correctly at least eighty percent of the time. We used to play lots of games like that.

Now, while Kara walked the beach searching for shells, I periodically looked up from the biography I was reading to scan the faces of couples strolling past. I looked first for a blonde woman, and next for two people obviously in love with each other. The tropics did things to vacationers. There were smiles on sun-tanned faces. Every couple walking by seemed to be holding hands. Behind my sunglasses, I watched. The sun was strong. The ocean charged the shore repeatedly, retreated, encroached again. The palms swayed easily on the far horizon, there was a boat with blue sails. I dozed.

Kara awakened me some fifteen minutes later to exhibit the shells she’d collected, reddish-brown and cream-colored and stark white.

The hotel band played tunes from the forties.

The crowd here was a bit young for such dated fare, but the dance floor was an outdoor oval fringed with red bougainvillea, yellow hibiscus and purple jacaranda, and it lured dancers as surely as might have the rock and roll we grew up with. Here under the stars, couples clung to each other and swayed to swingless renditions of Glenn Miller arrangements. There were four or five blondes on the dance floor. Each danced with her eyes closed, tight in the circle of her partner’s arms. I wondered if one of them was Honey.

Once, on La Costa Brava, I forget when, it must have been five or six years ago, Kara and I returned to the hotel after a midnight Spanish dinner and swept onto the dance floor like professional flamenco dancers. Everyone applauded.

“Kara?” I said. “Would you care to dance?”

“Thanks, Richard, no,” she said. “The sun really knocked me out today.”

I watched the couples swirling by.

In a little while, we went up to our room.

At two in the morning, I was awakened again by Honey and Sweetie. I lay still and silent in the dark, listening to their whispered words of love and shouted cries of passion.

Our short vacation ended the next day.

We checked out without ever seeing the couple next door.

On the plane home, Kara made tentative sketches for the new book she’d accepted, and I finished reading the biography I’d started. I must have napped. The captain’s voice woke me up. I elevated my seat and turned to where Kara was still asleep. I touched her shoulder.

“Kara?” I said. “We’re approaching Kennedy.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked at me blankly.

And suddenly I knew who they were.

The couple next door.

They were us.

Long ago.

An afternoon in October, ten years ago.

She was nineteen years old, and a storm broke just as she was leaving the Columbia campus. She tried to cover her head with her notebook, but she was soaked to the marrow within minutes. Standing helplessly in the middle of the sidewalk, not knowing whether to run back for the shelter of one of the buildings or ahead to the subway kiosk, she noticed a red Volkswagen at the curb, its door open. A young man was leaning across the front seat.