Still Life in Shadow (16)

She was so beautiful out there under the sun.

Was I really so blind?

◊◊◊◊◊

Latham was sick, sicker than we knew. He had decided to leave, to return to the Bolero and return to the sea from which he had just come, to resume the journey he had decided to make years ago, back in Seattle. I couldn't help but admire his choice, though I understood all too well the personal implications he faced.

Could I, I wondered, face the prospect of dying alone on a little boat at sea? In pain, with no one to help me, no one to console me?

Was that the only choice available to him?

I went to Maria, went to talk about David's choice.

"I suspect most of us confront this choice," she said, "though perhaps not in such extreme terms as this."

"Well, I wonder about what happens when he gets out there, and the pain gets really bad. Then what? Does he call for help again? Do people run to his rescue, perhaps get hurt trying to get to him, or worse? I keep wondering if there isn't an alternative."

"Such as?"

"Hell, he could stay here. Sail around here, visit the islands, come back here when he gets too weak to continue."

Maria seemed to consider this for a while. "Well, as long as the boat is his residence, he can stay here for eighteen months without any problem. I don't think time's going to be an issue. Have you talked to him about this?"

"No, not really."

"Do you want to, or would you think it better if we both talked to him?"

"Why don't we talk to him tonight?"

And so we did.

◊◊◊◊◊

David decided to remain in the Azores, and he decided to live on his boat down in the harbor. He seemed content with his choice, and managed to get by on the regimen of mild pain killers that Maria prescribed. He cleaned up his little boat, then started stripping the teak down to bare wood. He began to varnish the wood. Everyday I walked down to the harbor I found him hunched over the wood, babying it, coaxing all the beauty out of the wood he could find. At first Bolero looked simply gorgeous, but as the summer days grew shorter the boat began to glow. Visitors to Horta arriving by ferry walked by her and stopped and stared at the boat, and at David as he worked away on her. He could often be heard down below, an electric sander whining in the confined space, and occasionally he would pop up through the companionway, his face and hair covered with honey-colored dust before walking away for lunch or dinner. Soon it became apparent what he was doing.

He had no child to leave behind, no lasting works to bequeath to the world, save his little Bolero. He had decided to turn her into a work of art, into something so beautiful that all who came upon her would stop and marvel at her beauty, and perhaps, wonder about the man who had tendered such a gift with his passing.

As September came, I too decided to remain in the Azores. I didn't contest my wife's divorce, and I signed everything I owned over to her, left her all of my money. I simply wanted to be done with her, done with her evil intentions, done with the sickness she had given my soul. The hospital managed to take me on permanently, Jennifer continued to reside with Maria, and the inevitable happened.

I fell in love again.

◊◊◊◊◊

Perhaps it would have been a simple tale after all, had I told Jennifer that she would grow out of her love for me, that as she experienced the world -- out from under the sheltering wings of her father and mother -- she would soon take to the world again, begin a journey of her own.

It was not to be. This was not to be such a simple tale.

I came to Maria's house one afternoon and saw them through an open window, in the bathroom. Maria was brushing Jennifer's hair, and their was tenderness in her eyes. Perhaps affection would be a better word. They both looked at me in the mirror, and our eyes held on to the moment for an eternity. I shook inside at the thought, the thought that Maria and Jennifer were lovers, and that was when tall, staid Maria took Jennifer by the hand and led her to the nearby bed.

So that was why she had left Switzerland, why she had left the bright lights.

I watched as Maria lay my Jennifer down on her bed and parted her thighs. I watched as Maria's face disappeared between Jennifer's outstretched legs, and as Jennifer held Maria's face to her need.

Had I truly been so blind to everything unfolding around me?

I was shaking. I wasn't angry; I was simply overcome. The end of a marriage, coming to terms with my love for Jennifer, yet I had no words for the emotion that pulsed through me as I watched these two women making love before me. Jennifer, her auburn hair strewn across white sheets, her face rocking from side to side, her legs arcing magnificently in the charged air, her feet on Maria's back. Lust. Lust filled the air, and I didn't know how to respond. This was unknown territory to me.

My world, the world I had known all my life and taken for granted, was dissolving in the air above my eyes.

But I saw Jennifer smile, and I saw the order of the universe there. And I didn't belong.

◊◊◊◊◊

She was in her outlook a simple woman, and it had been said of her for as long as anyone on the island could remember that she had never shown an interest in love. And how could they have known, how could they have known that their Saint had chosen to live in the shadows, that her life had been stillborn so many years ago in Zurich's staid halls of medicine. She had chosen the silence of a life in exile, in the shadows, and her fires had lain dormant, smoldering, waiting for the catalyst of release.

And now, Maria Louisa D'Alessandro was a raging inferno, a fire banked down far too long, and now, breathing in the first faint tendrils of release, she was intoxicated.

She'd found her oxygen, her fuel in Jennifer, and soon they were burning along the razor's edge of desire, all fire beyond control. But now they waited. Waited to see my reaction. There's was a Dance Macabre, their final act would be my immolation. Only then would the razor cut so deeply...

I don't suppose I will ever forget seeing them that afternoon, the two of them, together. All of the uncertainty of the past few months was but fuel for my fire. All of the anger I felt towards my soon to be ex-wife was little more than fuel for this. Everywhere I looked, every bit of my past seemed to linger in the air around me, it became a volatile fuel, and in the flames released there was a transfiguration. There was a fusion. The three of us, me on the outside looking in, became one consummate ball of interwoven rejection. We caught fire, the three of us, and we burned oh so brightly.

◊◊◊◊◊

I took to taking Max, Maria's patiently faithful old Bernese Mountain Dog, on long walks. He came to love Saturdays, as did I, for on that day of the week, come rain or shine Max and I would take off on long, often excruciatingly long walks. Ten miles was a short walk, and we usually walked west along the coast roads, to Atalaia and Feteira, and more than once past Castelo Branco and all the way to western shore. Max became my faithful friend, his boundless love of life easily shouldered on his broad, black shoulders. We walked and I tossed sticks, we walked ever onward, across wet, rolling hills, through tall pines alive with whispering winds, and we would pause and listen to the shifting voices as they darted through the limbs overhead, our minds lost in ancient music that was as familiar as it was strange.

I always carried lunch for us. A sandwich for me, some pieces of chicken and cheese -- and his favorite, slices of apple -- for Max, and a flagon of cool water to share in the shade. These Saturdays were for Max and I, just as this day was for Jennifer and Maria, alone.

I knew what was going on, and I knew they knew, and still, I just let it be, then I'd look at him sitting there, looking at me with those big brown eyes, and I'd look at him like he was my best friend in all the world -- because he was.

"Everything's going to be okay, isn't it, Max?" I would say to the passing wind, and he'd look up at the trees and smile.

"Yeah, I knew you'd say that."

◊◊◊◊◊

One Saturday Max and I walked into Horta, down to the breakwater, down to David Latham working on his Bolero. I could see his cancer taking a toll on him now, and it seemed to grow in direct proportion to the beauty that now claimed Bolero. Every piece of the boat seemed to glow from inside with some unknown form of energy. The exterior wood was a blisteringly bright honied-bronze, and all the topside metal was so meticulously polished that I could watch the reflections of passers-by and make out even the smallest detail.

On this Saturday as we approached Bolero I saw David half way up the fifty foot tall mast. He was lacing up the spreaders on the mast, adorning them with brilliant white twine to keep the sails from chafing when close-hauled. It was so odd watching him, knowing that imminent death stalked him every moment of every day, yet he seemed to be at peace with his future, at peace with the beauty he had promised the rest of his life to. I was taken for a moment back to Fahrenheit 451, to those lives dedicated to preserving one work of literature, and I could feel those same forces working in Latham. He was making the Bolero his life's work, preserving her for the future.

Max sat on the breakwater looking up at David, his head cocked to one side and his tail brushing the concrete; I was sure Max must have been totally confused by most things we humans did, but seeing Latham dangling from the mast must have really gotten to him. Every now and then Max would whimper or moan as David pushed-off to lace-up the farthest reaches of the spreader, and after one of these outbursts David looked down and saw us on the breakwater.

"Come on aboard," he called out. "I'll be down in a minute. Go pour a couple of lemonades!"

"I don't know, David. Max's claws might tear up this varnish."

"Screw that! Come aboard; I wanna hear about these rumors."

I hopped on Bolero -- it had been a long time since I'd been aboard -- and she was transformed. The last time a helicopter had taken me off, but now this was a totally different boat. Max seemed to understand the dilemma his claws presented, and hopped gingerly aboard and launched himself across the cockpit, coming to a rest on a cushion. He curled up into a ball to ward off the chilly October air and watched David as he lowered himself down the mast. I could tell the old boy was relieved when David's feet hit the deck -- hell, so was I!

I poured a couple of drinks and returned to the cockpit. Now up close, I could see David's skin was now turning pasty gray, and his eyes were a little sunken and rimmed with dark circles.

"How's it going? You look in your element up there."

He knew where this was going, I think, so jumped right in. "Oh, I'm doing good. Some days are better than others, but all in all, you know, it's not as bad as I expected. Maybe it's the meds, I don't know."

"You keeping up with the lab work?"

"No, not really. I mean, what's the point?"

I nodded understanding, but I really couldn't understand his attitude.

"How's the boat coming along?" I knew I was going to have to come up with better questions soon, or I'd wear out my welcome.

"So," Latham volleyed back at me, "what's all this stuff I'm hearing about Maria and Jennifer."

"What stuff?" I asked.

"Everyone's talking about them up at the bar."

"Really?"

"One of the old men, a gardener I think, saw some stuff. Lots of talk about it now. Pretty weird stuff, Pete."

"Weird?"

"So, what's going on? Are they in love?"

"I don't know? Maybe?"

"Sounds pretty heavy, dude. For a small place like this."

"Could I give you some advice?"

"Sure, man. Fire away."

"Get up to the clinic and get some blood-work done, would you?"

"Sure, Doc, sure." He reached over and gave Max a scratch under his chin, and I could see the old boys eyes roll as he gave in. It's so simple. Receive pleasure, relax, and all is right with the world. It was only when human morality enters the equation that things got sticky.

"So. You ever gonna take this tub out again?"

"Tub? Did you say tub?" He grinned -- but looked ready to cover me in varnish...

"Hell yes, Dave. Tubs sit around in the water. Boats, you know, get out there, on the ocean. It's what they're for."

"Shit, Pete, I didn't know you was a philosopher. Gosh dawg! Ain't that somethin'."

"Shut up and answer the question?" I smiled at him, wanted to challenge him a little.

"Maybe next weekend. Want to go?"

"Shit yeah. Can Max come along?"

"Shit yeah. Why not. You think you can keep from getting sea-sick?"

"Fuck you, Latham," I said as I laughed, counting one more story to live down...

"And the horse you rode in on, Pete."

"See ya next week." I started to walk off, leave David to his work, but Max went over and sat by him. He put his graying muzzle up in Latham's lap and let out a long, contented sigh. This was a first as far as I knew, and David scratched the old boy behind his ears for a while. Max's fluffy black tail swept the cockpit seat, and David looked down into Max's eyes.

"You okay, buddy?" he said gently.

Max licked his hand then got up and walked off the boat, on down the seawall. I looked back at David. There was a little tear falling down his cheek.

Dogs are like that, you know. They're smarter than we are about most things. All the important stuff, anyway.

I knew David was itching to get back to work on Bolero, but I also knew something extraordinary had just happened.

I turned to walk after Max. I didn't know if the girls had had enough time alone yet, didn't want to bust up there time together.

Pretty weird stuff, yes indeed.

◊◊◊◊◊

When I got back to the house I could tell by the sounds I heard coming from inside that things were still pretty hot and heavy in the bedroom. I went to the faucet by the garden and filled Max's bowl, then I drifted down to the bluff overlooking the rocky beach below.

And something about it all left me feeling hollow inside. I felt unclean, like I was part of a conspiracy of silence. Like my soul was hurting, and I didn't want to be around this anymore.

I saw Max by my side, his tail wagging, his eyes warm with expectation. The two of us headed out again, and this time out we walked west along the bluff overlooking the sea.

We walked for a long time that day, and we had a nice talk.

◊◊◊◊◊

I was, during these weeks and months, still living at the same little hotel, only now, more often than not, Max was my roommate. We returned to the hotel that night and I gave him a bowl of kibble, then I showered and went to bed. I found in short order that I couldn't sleep. All I could see was Maria's latent hostility all around the room.

I knew. I knew about her life in the shadows.

There was something profoundly wrong with everything happening here. Something that in my confusion I had ignored, something that had gone terribly amiss between Jennifer and myself. Their relationship wasn't an accident. It wasn't about my future, or Jennifer's. It was Maria's design, her plan, her needs working themselves free from bondage after so many years pent up in repressed angst. Jenn and I had happened along at just the right time, and I had provided cover for Maria's design to take shape.

She had asked me about my future with Jennifer, but I'd been vague, hadn't I? So, what was my role in all this? Had I inadvertently set her plans in motion?

And now, what about Jenn? Was she truly in love with this woman, or was she just lost in her newest infatuation, to the attention paid her by a Saint?

I think by then I instinctively knew the answer to that question.

I was no longer necessary to either of them. I had written myself out of their equation.

And it hurt. It hurt more than I could say as I stared at the dark walls of my little room.

Max slept with his head on my shoulder, looking up at me every now -- and then moaning.

◊◊◊◊◊

We all walked down to David's boat next Saturday. All of us. The girls and Max walked ahead of me out the breakwater, yet I was conscious of people all over town looking at us. Who knows, maybe they were looking at Maria and Jennifer more than me; I couldn't tell, but I could feel people's eyes burning away in the back of my neck as I walked out there.

And Latham was ready and waiting. Bolero gleamed.

Once aboard, he cast off his lines pushed us free, and we drifted out into the little sheltered harbor inside the inner breakwater -- then Latham hoisted the main. Bolero caught the breeze and slipped into the outer harbor and he raised the high-clewed yankee up front and the boat bit into the wind and heeled over, began dancing through the light chop within the little bay. As seagulls flitted along behind us, I felt wonder at how much like flying it feels to sail.

Latham tacked and Bolero came up on a northeast heading; we sailed past the light on the end of the outer mole and out into the straight between Faial and Pico. The distant volcano stood in stark relief that day, a clear reminder dancing under the sun, and I remembered thinking that we -- Jenn, Maria and I -- were all dancing on a volcano. There was no telling when it would blow, yet I knew we -- one way or another -- were all going to be burned.

Maria had packed a little picnic lunch and of course brought along some Sangria, and as Bolero settled into a groove and danced along the waves she brought out the food and we sat in the sun, lost in our thoughts as the boat sliced through the morning. We picked at our food as we watched the sea and the mountains, then...

...a bottle-nosed dolphin broached alongside; Max stood in the cockpit and looked at the gray form sliding through the water, and he jumped back -- lost his footing -- when the dolphin jumped high into the air off the right side of the boat. We all laughed as Max regained his composure, and within moments the single dolphin was joined by dozens more, and we were soon bouncing off the waves while this huge pod of dolphins danced and turned in the sea everywhere around Bolero. Max and I slid up to the bow and lay side by side along the rail, watching as dolphins came close and played in the bow wave, and Max eventually moaned in frustration. He wanted to join them, and I know he did because I did too. I reached down and slapped the side of the hull, and one of the dolphins came very close to me, and as I reached out for it...

...the thought of sliding into the deep blue below my hand and swimming quietly away was suddenly irresistibly appealing. Why was human life so complex, I thought, so full of complications? And why when had the desire to drift away from problems become so overwhelming? Were we really so out of our element now we couldn't see what we were doing to ourselves?

We continued to sail away from Horta on a northeast heading, and the sun continued to pour down on us, even after the dolphins left. Max looked around at the water occasionally; it was soon apparent he had enjoyed the experience as much as we had, and he missed his new aquatic buddies.

Just after we squared away the remains of lunch, one of the dolphins reappeared, and this one jumped out of the water alongside us and began to chatter excitedly at us. And moments later the sun disappeared.

So intent had we been to work the wind, to carry our journey forward, we had simply not checked the horizon behind us. There behind Horta was a wall of black cloud, and two white snakes writhed in the air, uniting cloud and sea. David ducked below and turned on his VHF; there were now gale warnings being broadcast in Portuguese and English, and we all looked aft at the boiling gray clouds and the malicious waterspouts.