Peter Buwalda - Bonita Avenue

The fires of purgatory subsided. I drove 160 kph all the way to Hyères, where the freeway ended and the headache began. The coastal road that looked so enticingly short on the map turned out to be a small intestine: endless hairpin turns and rocky cliffs, I had to constantly alternate between gas and brake. Rather than its azure sparkle, the Mediterranean showed its true colors: an indifferent black drink. I lowered a window, the ice-cold sea air screwed itself into my throbbing temples. Saint-Tropez exit, now that’s more like it. As soon as I reached Sainte-Maxime I’d coast straight to the marina, park the Alfa as close as possible to the Barbara Ann . In my thoughts I dived into the water and swam like a dolphin toward the medicine chest.

I wove around a cliff and suddenly, way down to the right, saw the slender little white boats alongside what looked like endless tables set for dinner. I drove too fast across a bridge and descended to where the tortuous route nationale turned into the beachfront boulevard. By now I was howling from the pain, a monotonous yammer.

Winter was very much in charge here; chairs were stacked and parasols tightly wound shut on the café terraces opposite the moorings. I had my choice of parking spots. I killed the engine — silence at last — and rolled my head and shoulders. For a few seconds I knew for sure I was going to throw up. Breathe calmly. Hair loose, now . Catch your breath, swallow, just swallow it back. I took a swig of mineral water and got out.

The sea wind blew straight through my coat and what little I had on underneath. Where was that sloop? The glazed kitsch that the marina exuded at the height of summer had gone into hibernation. The rows of winterized yachts displayed themselves at their hardest, the pleated white plastic, the polished wood, the tinted windows that were meant to express speed and exclusivity — floating insults, that’s what they were, we’d given the middle finger to soberness and self-restraint.

Aaron threw a wrench into everything. What kind of father would he make? Who would let that kind of guy become a father? It had all seemed so logical, the two of us showing up in Val-d’Isère unannounced, you couldn’t really call it a surprise anymore, it would … I walked along the stone paving to the marina office, a low white building with a roof deck. The door was locked: in offseason it was open only between three and five. So much the better, no stammering in French to an unintelligible harbor master. I had pictured us making our surprise entrance at Hans and Ria’s, waltzing into that gingerbread house of theirs, serious but excited. I glanced at myself in the reflection of the office window: spikes of tousled hair framed a face like sweaty old cheese that begged for sympathy. The same girl that cycled from home to the campus in a free fall to Mommy. I’d inherited the migraines from her, but she gave me no sympathy. “I get headaches too sometimes, Joni. You really can talk normally .”

If he saw me like this, his elder daughter with a pregnant body, everything between us would simply evaporate, I was sure of it. We needn’t say a word about last summer, or maybe in fact we should , those million-year-old mountains might be just the place to get it out in the open. We could do whatever we wanted. We would do what was best. And after New Year’s, Aaron and I would get into the car and drive to the farmhouse. And just like after the fireworks disaster, we’d stay. And I would give birth in my parents’ farmhouse.

My temples throbbing, I fished the keys to the cabin out of my purse and walked up the third pier; if I remembered correctly we were moored at the very end. And yes, around a forty-five-degree bend in the walkway, among the rest of the big boys, I spotted the undulating of a familiar tush. Barbara Ann ’s high-class ass. I picked up speed as I walked along the black water, gritting my teeth against the screech of a million seagulls. The painkillers were up on the deck, in one of the compartments in the wheelhouse, or else in the bathroom of the big cabin in the nose of the boat. “Hi Babs,” Aaron would always say as he climbed onto the stern, and I caught myself parroting him. The steps up to the sun deck were covered in gull shit; brownish water had collected in the gutters and corners. If only I could pull the tarp off the purple sunbeds and lie down. Instead, I opened the doors of the pilothouse. Not without regret: I recalled how the Palmer Johnson instructor had taught Aaron and me how to maneuver these twenty meters of luxury safely in and out of harbors in just a week.

I sat down on one of the leather captain’s chairs and opened a cupboard next to the rudder. The first-aid kit. Band-aids, gauze, scissors, Aaron’s temazepam— ibuprofen . I ripped open the sachet and washed it down with a few gulps of mineral water. And now, flat out. The guy would be showing up in just over four hours. So what if it’s messy. I pictured myself on the large round bed, felt the luxuriant lift of the mattress, shades drawn, telephone off.

I went down the stairs, too fast maybe, because as I passed the U-shaped sofa in the salon I had to grab the edge of the table. Vomit filled my mouth. I staggered into the kitchen and puked into the sink. The fancy faucet ran as though it was last used yesterday; I rinsed my mouth, hoping I hadn’t puked up the magic powder. In fact it really was a hell of a mess down here, you could see we took off back home in a hurry: two crumpled-up swimsuits of Aaron’s; dishes, washed but not put away; tools I had no idea we’d ever used. On the dining table, an open bottle of uncorked rosé.

How sick was Aaron? How unwelcome was this surprise now? What was I supposed to tell them about the father of my child?

Beyond the salon was a guest cabin you had to pass through to get to the master suite, a roomy sluice with two sofa beds, never used, ditto the smallish shower cubicle. I squeezed through it and opened the door at the other end. Only now did I smell my own puke-breath: a heavy, sweet-rotten smell. A few steps later I reached the bed; on it was a pair of high heels and, unfortunately, just a thin sheet. I dropped the water bottle, sank onto my left side and buried my head into one of the pillows. I lay there for only thirty seconds, until I nearly suffocated.

So would it be “all’s well that ends well” after all? Would a grandpa and a mother alone be enough to make this work?

Don’t think, just relax. I took my head out from under the pillow. God, what a smell. The sound of the seagulls, the rustle of the waves in the bay farther up, the traffic on the quay had all but vanished, and I sank away as though gravity doubled over on itself; I was driving in a car along dark, narrow roads, familiar surroundings, it looked like the campus, I plowed the Alfa through arid farmland, it was rough going, the wheels got stuck, strangely enough I became incredibly tired. In the distance I saw someone whom I recognized as Aaron, his bald head gleaming in the moonlight, shining over the sand beds like a second moon. He looked happy, his sheepskin coat was wide open. “Where have you been?” he called out.

It felt like I’d slept for hours, but was probably more like a few comatose minutes. The headache spread to my shoulders and neck, I turned my head the other way.

Maybe it was that unreal smell that drew my eyes along the glossy wood of the wardrobes toward the floor, the hesitant start of an exploratory glance. A piece of clothing caught my eye, it lay like a red river of fabric on the cream-colored carpeting. Intriguing, that hundredth of a second, the fraction during which unsuspecting becomes suspecting. Your brain sends SOS messages at neuron-speed to all parts of your body, to your muscles, your sweat glands, your heart, your lungs — I had to catch my breath. My eyes followed that river upstream: the coat — it was a heavy red coat — was lodged in the matt-glass bathroom door, forcing it ajar. It did not belong there. I kept staring at it, paralyzed. I lay there for six months, maybe even a year, my eyes glued to that coat — and then I slowly got up.