The High Season

                                                by Nava Renek

The first time I noticed Kris it was late at night in a small fishing village along the southern coast of Portugal.  I’d gone to the train station to see a friend off, and I knew right away from her black dress, flip flops and denim jacket that Kris was an American, like myself. She descended the train, lit a cigarette and glanced around, seeming relieved to have finally arrived at her destination.  Seeing no taxis, she boarded the public bus waiting to take the passengers into town.

            The men in the front seats looked up and stared as she passed, but their gazes were not sly or persistent like the eyes of the men who she told me had followed her all through Lisbon, asking her to buy their hashish, go out for a drink, or let them give her some kind of sexual pleasure.  These men weren’t interested in her; they’d just spent a week working up in the city and had come down to the coast for the weekend to be with their families.

            Kris didn’t know how long the ride would last, but she liked things to be that way.  Every few years, she’d take six months off to go traveling, wanting to feel the tension that came from moving into the unknown.  Back home, her friends would give her the names and phone numbers of people they knew in the countries she was going to visit, but she never looked them up. She liked the feeling of starting from scratch, cleaning the slate, correcting the mistakes that she, hopefully, would never make again.

            When the bus stopped at the end of a dirt road, she was the last to get off, wishing to delay her descent into the darkness.   She followed the men as they plodded along the empty sidewalks, feeling as if they would lead her to where she wanted to go. In her travels, she always felt as if she were going at it alone, and even though she hardly spoke to those strangers, just spending a few hours with them had given her some kind of security. 

            By the time she reached the main square, the sky was glowing with a wide-open eerie light that only came from being close to the sea.  Stunted palm trees bent toward the center of the square, their bark shimmering in the silver moonlight.  Concrete benches lining the pathways were vacant and looked as if they were stretchers waiting for bodies to come and lie down on them.

            As the men began to split off in different directions climbing the hills to their homes, Kris was alone again, but she didn’t want to stop.  She knew there were shadows lurking behind the trees.  They were always there, staking her out, hissing through their serpent teeth, clicking their insect tongues.  “Go back to your fat wives,” she wanted to yell, but if they disappeared, she’d never be able to see their hungry faces, confirming their lechery in the first place.

            Her footsteps echoed off the stone buildings, so she took off her flip-flops and carried them between her fingers, not wanting to draw attention to herself.  It was then, in the stillness that she first heard the waves crashing against the shore and felt her pulse quicken.  Somewhere, deep inside, she knew she was connected to the sea: Aquarius, the water bearer, the womb, and perhaps, she thought romantically, her inevitable resting place.

            A few blocks beyond the square, a tall building rose from the shadows.  Its size drew her toward it:  Hotel Estoril--the guiding star.  Miguel, the night clerk, looked up when he heard her walk in.  He said at first she stood there tanned and beautiful, looking like a movie star.  He couldn’t believe a woman like her was traveling alone, but when she spoke, he could tell she was in some sort of trouble.

            She explained that she needed a room with a double bed.  Single beds were no good. They reminded her of how much she hated sleeping alone.  Miguel informed her that a double bed would cost more, but she said she didn’t care. She had the money to pay for it, and he led her to a modern room with bath, shower, even a telephone, but she laughed, telling him that she hadn’t come to Portugal for conveniences.

            Inside the room, everything was clean and sterile, and this cleanliness made her feel lonely.  Then, even in that warm night, she began to shiver.  The tremble started low, at the bottom of her spine, then shimmied across her back and shoulders until it rippled down her arms and legs, even tickling her underneath her fingernails.  Her mind flashed back to when she was a little girl, very young, and had been left alone in a doctor’s white washed waiting room while her mother went off to be examined in the back.  She knew that if she just stayed quiet long enough, her mom would return and take her out for a treat for being so good, but she was never sure she could wait that long.

            Staring into the mirror, she straightened her hair that had become matted to the back of her head.  Her arms and legs were dry like the hide of a chameleon.  The freckles on her nose were orange and embarrassing.  In Cannes, she said, her tan had been a deep brown, but suddenly, her limbs had started to resist the sun. Tourists stopped her along the Coissette to warn her about the dangers of skin cancer, and she found herself buying more and more creams in hopes that the cosmetics would provide her with the protection she needed to continue spending her days in the sun.

            The rubbing motion as she applied the lotion was therapeutic, and at last, she began to relax.  When she glanced back at herself, her skin was again dark and lovely.  The color brought out the bright blue sparkle of her eyes. Satisfied, she smiled, knowing that the tan would be her shield allowing her to repel any offenses coming her way.                                                      

            Half an hour later, she was at the front desk again, asking Miguel if there was some place to get a drink.  It was unusual for any woman at the hotel to venture out alone after midnight, but he pointed her toward the Sports Bar, where he knew tourists liked to go. She flashed him a grateful grin, then walked down the empty street, glancing back every few yards just to make sure he was still looking her way.

            Kris was certain that he’d sent her to an old fishing bar where ancient men were drunk or passed out on thick wooden tables, but as she got closer, she heard the familiar beat of European disco.  When she opened the door, she found herself in a room of happy northern European faces and glanced around, feeling as though she’d just stepped into her own surprise party, but no one knew she was there.

            I was sitting in a corner sketching different scenes in the bar.  For the past three months, I’d been painting landscapes of the beach resort, then selling them to tourists in the daytime.  Kris made a good subject.  As she sipped her drink, her face began to flush, and the beauty Miguel spoke about started to become clear.  It was then that she knew it was going to be one of those nights–her nights--when she didn’t know what was about to happen, and for her, it was the most exciting feeling in the world.

            Kris’ worst fear wasn’t dying.  It was falling--falling through space with nothing to stop her.  She hated heights.  Elevators, bridges, subway platforms always made her dizzy.  While living in the States, she used to know when her time was up and she had to get away to re-stack the cards, shuffle the deck, and come back when the cards were more in her favor.

            She finished reading an English newspaper and set it at the end of the bar, then glanced around the room until her eyes stopped at two British men standing behind her, chatting to a pair of Scandinavian girls.  I’d seen these guys before and knew they were out for a good time.  They’d even approached me once, but I thought such obvious womanizers would only bore her.

            A loud hum grew from the noise of the many different conversations going on at once, and I watched as she turned away from it all to check herself in the mirror.  Her tan was still rich, but she stared at her face closely, flicking away bits of skin from the tip of her nose and forehead.  More lotion was needed.  The Riviera had been sunny, she explained, but the cards had been stacked against her there too.

            She’d met an Arab boy at a nightclub in Cannes.  Together, they finished off a bottle of rum outside on a terrace overlooking the sea.  When a breeze started to blow off the water, they went inside to dance.  Mamoud was a great dancer.  He kept real close, his leg wedged up tight between her thighs.  He was clean--real clean, and she could smell his cologne as she nuzzled against his neck.  She said he looked like a cat, confident and soft.  She believed she had a special affinity for cats; perhaps she’d even worshiped them in an earlier life?        

            While they were dancing, the lights began to spin too fast and she started to feel dizzy.  Mamoud led her to a corner and moved closer on his cushioned stool, taking her fingers in his hand.  In French, he asked permission to kiss her, but she just looked at him and laughed:  “I’m old enough to be your mother.”

            The boy seemed hurt.  “I’m sixteen,” he said proudly.  “Quelle age as-tu?”

            “How old do you think I am?”  

            “Eighteen?  Nineteen?  Younger?” He guessed.

            She smiled and shook her head.

            “Older?”  He asked, his eyes widening.

            She nodded, but kept her lips sealed to the truth.  She’d never tell him she was really thirty-two.

            “Impossible,” Mamoud exclaimed when she said she was twenty-five. “You look like a  young girl.”

            “For you,” she promised. “I’ll be a girl.”

            Then, he did what she’d been waiting for.  He pulled her toward him and kissed her on the mouth.  She knew that if she didn’t think about his age, she wouldn’t care, and the next day, she would never see him again.  For that night, she was going to get the attention she needed.

            The next morning, she kicked Mamoud out of her cheap hotel room, then tried to look at herself in the mirror.  She felt ashamed and hung over, but the mirror gave back no reflection.  The glass had become obscured by a silvery film, as if too many faces had gazed hopefully into it and their disappointment had worn the plate away.  To Kris, this was just another omen. It was time to move on.

            At the Sports Bar, a group of German men had started singing German marching songs.  They were on holiday and seemed to feel as if they could embarrass themselves in any way they wished. Kris ordered another screwdriver and waited for the bartender to bring it over, just as one of the Brits turned around and started to speak to her.

            Right away, she confessed, she knew Pete was someone special.  He had a warm smile that opened up his entire face, as if to reassure her that he had nothing to hide.  When he asked her where she was from, she let out a puff of smoke from her cigarette.  “Come on. You’re not going to start with a line like that?”

            Pete looked startled, but soon recovered and began to laugh. 

            “Men like women to talk rough,” she explained. “They think they’re making some sort of conquest.  Weak women lessen their sense of command.” 

            Pete’s eyes twinkled at her response, and she asked him to buy her a drink.

            It was the barter system again.  Buy her a drink and she gives you something in return.  What would that be?  A smile? A kiss?   How many more drinks before he could no longer resist her?  How many drinks until they could no longer bear to be apart? 

            Soon, she said, she was drunk, but still knew what she was doing.  It was a feeling she liked and had become quite used to.  Someone grabbed a newspaper and began reading English football scores, while the other men in the room cheered whenever a winning team was announced. Then Pete’s friend came over and whispered something into his ear and they both looked over to where the Scandinavian girls were waiting.  Kris lit another cigarette, wanting to seem unconcerned, but then Pete shook his head, watching his friend return to the girls, and the three of them walked out the door.

            “Why don’t you go with them,” Kris offered.  “You don’t have to stay with me.”           

            “I want to be with you. You’re good company.”

            “But you were with them first.”

            “They don’t interest me. Anyway, the one I fancied has a boyfriend in Stockholm. She rings him nearly every night.  No one has a hold on me, not even my wife.”

            Kris exhaled quickly. That’s when she said she knew she’d picked the right man.  At least they’d be playing with the same deck of cards.  “You’re married,” she asked.

            “Was Luv, was.”

            She took another sip of her drink and wondered if she should tell him the truth, because she’d  been married once too, but that had been the worst mistake of her life.  Love was only temporary; it was nothing that could be held on to.  People were constantly changing, and no two people changed at the same time.  Now she only tried to experience love from moment to moment, but not everyone understood that.

             I didn’t have to watch any longer.  Just like Kris, I knew what was going to happen next.  After gathering up my pencils and paper, I took one last look at them.  Pete was kissing her, cradling her head in his hands as if he were reading a book.  Her eyes were closed, and although the room was noisy, there was a stillness, like a cloud, around them.                        

            Afterward, she said that he was the best lover she ever had--or one of the best.  Back in his room, he kissed her softly at first, removing her clothes one by one and examining her body just as she examined his.  She was proud of her physique and stretched out lazily on his bed so he could admire her trim waist, round breasts, and long brown legs.  As he moved on top of her, she could tell he knew what he was doing, and she didn’t want to let him down. They made love slowly, like old lovers meeting again after many years.  When it was over, the sheets were tangled at the bottom of the bed, the grainy mattress molded against her damp skin, and at last, she was able to close her eyes to sleep.

            A few hours later, she woke suddenly, not knowing where she was.  Her body felt numb, wedged up against the wall on one side of his single bed.  Somewhere someone was sweeping. She could hear the broom bang against the floorboards each time it reached the end of the room. Next to her, Pete was snoring, one arm resting heavily across her chest.

            When the sweeping stopped and another door banged shut, she tried to pull herself up, believing that the sooner she made her move to leave, the better.  She didn’t want anyone to see her and know that she’d slept with him.  In those small towns everyone talked.  Besides, it was nearly morning, and she didn’t want to miss a good day in the sun.  Now that she’d met him, she wanted to look her best.

            A gray sky filled the picture window of the sitting room with a dull early morning light. Pakika, the waitress at the tea shop across the way, was setting up her tables when she saw Kris run by.  She said Kris looked like a rat, thin and scruffy, scurrying back to her little hole.  She was barefoot, carrying her shoes in her hand, and that sight had made Pakika laugh.

            Back at the hotel Kris drew a hot bath, hoping the water would wash away Pete’s scent, and then maybe she’d be able to forget, because it’d happened so quickly, but it always happened quickly, and then it was so overwhelming and out of control.  Sometime during the night, Pete had even suggested that she move into his pension where the rooms were cheaper and they’d have more time to spend together.  She’d laughed at his haste, but now it seemed like a good idea.

            Later that morning, Dona Flora answered the door to her pension when Kris knocked, and in broken English explained that there were still two rooms available. Kris followed her into the sitting room where the old lady slowly copied her name down in a spiral notebook. Kris could smell the familiar scent of the cleaning liquid that had been used earlier that morning and turned toward Pete’s door, expecting to see it closed, just as she’d left it, but when she looked, the door was open, the bed neatly made, the room completely cleared.  Dona Flora noticed her glance and scowled.  “English boys,” she said shaking her head.  “But they go now.”

             “Where,” Kris managed to ask, holding onto the banister for support.

            “Lisboa,” Dona Flora told her.  “They leave this morning.”                                

            Kris felt her legs weaken. It seemed as though she’d been climbing stairs her whole life, and each time she thought she was about to reach the top, another flight would appear in front of her.  Dona Flora noticed her hesitation and lifted the bag from her shoulder.  “You too skinny.  Stay here and you become healthy, you see.”

            Dona Flora led her up to the second floor and threw open the door to a vacant room where bright sun light blazed through sheer curtains. It was Dona Flora’s best room and she was glad to be able to offer it to someone who looked as though she really needed it. 

            The sun glared rudely into Kris’ eyes, and Kris put up her hands to shield herself from the light, wishing the old lady would leave her alone, but Dona Flora had already stepped out onto the terrace and was beckoning for Kris to follow.  A street market carried on below, and Kris could hear the cries and shouts of men and women selling their wares along the narrow road.  When she looked directly below her, she saw a line of women clutching live chickens in their arms, waiting to get to the front where a butcher stood with a small ax ready to cut off the birds’ heads.  Dona Flora began to say something, but Kris was backing away.  The signs were everywhere.  Already, it was time to go.

            I met Kris a few days later.  She was sitting at an outdoor café overlooking the sea.  It was late afternoon, and the setting sun gave her face the same rusty glow as the pitcher of sangria in front of her.  An empty glass had been placed on the opposite side of the table, but whoever she’d been waiting for hadn’t arrived. As I came up the steps from the beach, our eyes met.  Without even asking, I sat down across from her.  She seemed relieved to have someone fill up the space.