Майя Лунде - The End of the Ocean

“What?”

“The blouse.”

“Thank you.”

She studied me for a couple of seconds before returning to her laundry.

She was in her late thirties, maybe even forty. Her skeleton seemed to be pressing through her skin. Her collarbone stuck out, but not because she didn’t eat enough, more because she was like that, naturally thin.

Or maybe she was one of those who always watched her weight, exercised. There had been a lot of people like that before. I remember that dieting was something women talked about. She was pretty, I saw that now—not beautiful, but pretty. Classic. The way you look if you come from a family where rich men marry elegant women. The families just become more and more attractive with each generation, until finally everyone forgets how ordinary people look.

One seldom saw her kind in Argelès. The tourists who came to the town were a different sort. They liked the amusement park on the beach and the pedestrian street where you could buy knock-offs of famous labels. I had only seen her kind on the few occasions I had traveled further north up the coast, in Cannes and Provence.

But now she was here, among all the rest of us. The former kinds of distinctions no longer existed.

Her movements were quick. Unfriendly? Maybe she didn’t like my watching her.

“Been here long?” I asked, sort of to explain my staring.

“A while.”

“Do you like it?”

“Excuse me?”

I laughed. “Sorry. Wrong question. I get it.”

She didn’t smile. Just kept rubbing her dress.

“Fine, fine.” I held up my hands to show that I gave up, that I wouldn’t bother her anymore.

She continued washing with quick movements, putting more clothing into the tub. Only women’s clothing, I could see.

“Are you here alone?” I asked.

“I thought you were done talking,” she said.

“We’re alone, too,” I said and pointed at Lou.

She stirred the contents of the tub a little. The suds foamed between her fingers. She stared at the clothes. Then she drew a breath. “You’re not alone,” she said. “There are two of you.”

She hid her face from me, but couldn’t hide her voice. It wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t angry and dismissive like before. She just said it, plain and simple.

Abruptly I felt ashamed. She was right, I shouldn’t say that I was alone, because I had Lou. I still had Lou. Who at this moment was playing with the laundry water while talking softly to herself. Something about the ocean. The ocean at home?

The woman rinsed the soap out of her clothes with the last of the water from the jug she had brought along, wringing them out with rhythmic movements. Her hands were slender, delicate. The water gushed out of them.

Suddenly I wanted her to wring out our clothes, too, in the same way. For my own part I hadn’t even made it to the rinse cycle yet.

“Would you like to eat with us?” I asked when she stood up to leave.

“You don’t give up, do you?” the woman said.

How should I reply? That I felt bad for her? That was why I asked. Or that I liked her hands? You don’t say such things. Besides, I already regretted it. That I had asked. I shouldn’t invite other women to dinner. I had Anna.

“We have to dry our clothes first,” she said, without waiting for my answer.

Was that a yes?

“Can’t we eat while they’re drying?” I said.

Because there wasn’t really anything wrong with our having a meal together, was there? It wasn’t exactly as if I had asked her out on a date, either.

“You’re new here,” she said. “We have to guard them while they’re drying.”

“Huh?”

“They disappear.”

“Oh.”

I blushed; I should have realized that.

We sat there, the three of us, by the clotheslines in the shadow of the sanitary barracks, looking at our wet clothing hanging in the sun.

There was no wind, so the garments hung limply from the line, but the heat did the job. And we just sat there.

She didn’t suggest taking turns, so we could watch each other’s clothing in shifts. Maybe she didn’t trust me. I hadn’t really given her any reason to.

Or maybe she liked sitting like this. It was a way of killing time, was maybe how people lived here.

I didn’t suggest it either, actually. Because it was quite nice. We had found a place in the shrinking shadow of the barracks.

Lou played again, more wildly than usual. She ran back and forth between the drying garments.

The woman was silent. I was silent as well.

It occurred to me that I’d forgotten to ask her name, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt private, like everything else about her.

Afterwards I learned it anyway. We were in the mess hall and had finished our meal. A casserole in dented aluminum bowls. Lukewarm.

Lou wolfed down everything she was given, as if she were afraid the food would disappear if she wasn’t quick enough. It was late in the day and she had only eaten a few dry crackers for breakfast. I had forgotten while we were waiting for the clothes to dry that the child needed food. Scatterbrain. But now her tummy was full and she was calm and she said, as simply as only she could say it: “My name is Lou. What’s your name?”

“Lou is a nice name,” the woman said and abruptly got to her feet.

“But what is your name?” Lou asked.

The woman took a step away from the table. “Marguerite.”

Marguerite. Like a daisy.

“Daddy’s name is David.”

The woman took one more step.

“That’s nice. Thanks for the company.”

“Where are you going?” I asked. “We could eat together later, too?”

“Yes,” Lou said. “We could.”

“Maybe,” Marguerite said.

But it didn’t look like she meant it.

“Fine,” I said.

Makes no difference to me, I wanted to say. But I didn’t say anything. And she had already turned to leave. Was headed away.

I thought she needed us. But she didn’t, I could see that now. A woman like her didn’t need people like us.

I was just a child, dragging another child with me. We came straight from the sandbox, both Lou and I. We were dirty, even though we were clean. Completely unlike her. Nonetheless, I didn’t want her to walk away, with that bony back of hers, so slender and erect.

“I was just trying to be nice,” I said to her back.

“Me too,” she said, without turning around.

And then she disappeared.

For some reason or other my eyes were stinging. But crying didn’t help, I knew that.

Besides, it was so hot, so hellishly hot. The mess hall tent was hot. The sun beat down on the roof. The walls were folded up to let the air in, but it didn’t help, because not even the faintest breeze could be felt. Only dry, sweltering heat.

Around us people sat on the benches, sweating. Red in the face, their skin shiny. Everyone looked the same. I didn’t know any of them.

I emptied the water out of my cup. It was as warm as piss and tasted like rubber.

Waiting and waiting.

I stood up suddenly.

“Come on,” I said to Lou.

“I haven’t finished eating.”

“Finish up, then.”

She pushed in the last spoonful.

“Come on,” I said. “Hurry.”

“Where are we going?” Lou said.

“Out,” I said.

“Why?”

“They said we could go wherever we wanted. During the daytime we can go wherever we want.”

I took her by the hand and pulled her out of the tent.

We hurried through the camp. The sweaty faces were everywhere. Strangers, only strangers.

I had been surrounded by so many people.

A wife. Two children. Parents, in-laws. A sister.

My big sister and I, God, how we had argued when we were little. About everything. Alice never let me win. For a time I thought that she should have. She had the option. As the oldest, she had the power. The oldest always has the power. And the responsibility.