Beautiful
by Greta Igl
Across the pool in the open air restaurant, white-shirted waiters with thick, dark hair busied themselves, laying place settings for the evening meal and murmuring slurred Spanish amongst themselves. Sounds drifted up from the beach, disembodied wanderers alienated from their source, the murmur of voices, the susurration of waves, the sharp thwack of a hand on a volleyball. All around her, the hot air lay thick with the smell of salt water and overblown flowers, an overripe dusky scent she’d come to associate with Mexico in the spring.
Beautiful.
A shadow passed in front of her.
“Senorita.”
Joan looked up, over the top of her paperback, through the swirl of smoke from her cigarette.
A man, Latin umber, smiled down at her, his round face divided by a thin, neatly trimmed moustache. Silhouetted against the bleached white of the late afternoon sun, he was handsome in that stocky, knowing way that only a woman over forty could appreciate. She recognized him. The chef here at the hotel. She’d seen him at the buffet last night, checking each station as he wiped his hands on a towel.
She remembered he’d looked authoritative.
A spark, something stirred.
“Yes?” She lowered her voice an octave, hoped she achieved sultry.
“I hope you will forgive my intrusion, but I could not resist introducing myself. Such a beautiful woman.” He tutted. “You should not be sitting alone.”
Beautiful.
She savored every syllable.
Beau-ti-ful.
She was no young girl, whose head was easily turned with a compliment, a beguiling turn of phrase. No, Joan knew it paid to be circumspect.
“I travel alone, Senor.”
“Perhaps because you have not found the right companion.”
“Perhaps.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, white teeth gleaming in that swarthy, dark-like-a-pirate complexion.
Yes, circumspect.
But then there was nothing wrong with having fun, either.
Joan gestured to the pool chair next to her, her hand a graceful swan with bowed neck. Her muscles still remembered their grace, even if her skin now sagged with age.
His teeth flashed again in his brown face. He pushed the chair closer and sat down.
*
Gustavo. That was his name.
Joan knew she should probably resist, but Gustavo was a riptide that carried her tired old body along. It was his day off. He was nearly divorced and, as such, had no wife to concern him; she was at loose ends, too. Why not spend the day touring this little stretch of coast with him? She would not regret it, he promised.
His eyes were deep and sincere.
So she found herself on the back of his motorcycle, weaving in and out of traffic, darting around tour buses, taxis, sun-faded compact cars, puttering mopeds topped with half-dressed touristas, anything with wheels and a motor. Her arms wrapped around Gustavo’s ample waist, the heft of him manly and substantial, The substance of him intrigued her. Gustavo was a man who savored life’s pleasures.
They whipped through the streets of the village, brightly colored market stalls streaming by on both sides with the surreal thrill of a carnival ride. The breeze kissed her cheeks, teased her hair. Her loose dress fluttered coyly in the breeze, threatened to fly over her head. She felt like she could fly away.
*
They stopped at a café down the beach a ways, nestled on the edge of the rainforest that tumbled down the sloping foothills.
“Dos cervezas,” Gustavo gestured to the woman behind the makeshift bar, two fingers up, a number, a sign of peace.
Joan felt the woman’s eyes appraise her, her expensive dress, bought just for this vacation. Then the woman’s eyes landed on Gustavo, who gave her an impatient look.
“Cervezas, Manuela?” he repeated.
“Si,” the woman—Manuela, apparently—said.
Gustavo seated Joan at a small table alongside the bamboo railing, deep in the shade of the thatched roof with the white sand and azure water glistening beyond the cool dimness.
The woman in her plain cotton dress walked over, set two glasses on the table in front of them. She did not meet Joan’s eyes, but there was a pucker between her eyebrows and a tight set to her lips that spoke volumes.
Manuela retreated to her dim perch behind the bar.
Gustavo lifted his glass. “To a beautiful day with a beautiful woman.”
Joan lifted her own glass, averted her gaze.
“Cheers,” she murmured.
She was in Mexico on a beautiful day with a handsome, sophisticated man.
She wondered why Manuela seemed to dislike her.
*
And so they drank, one thin, sharp beer after another, until the sun set and the moon rose and Joan’s head swam from the delicious wantonness of it all.
The woman remained a shadowy presence in the corner, lurking on the edge of Joan’s awareness like an evil spirit waiting to damn her. Or was it she, Joan, who was the evil spirit, she wondered, her thoughts muddied from the beer. The more she drank, the more something seemed to menace her, but she knew it was probably her own paranoia that drove her to such miserable thoughts.
“So,” Gustavo said, drawing out the syllable in a slur that had nothing to do with drunkenness, but everything to do with desire.
Joan shook her hair out behind her, felt it brush against her shoulders, tanned and bare above her turquoise sundress. She lifted her flushed cheeks to the gentle ocean breeze, imagined her neck still had that same fluid curve it had had so many years ago.
So many years ago, she had been a dancer, graceful, desired.
Beautiful.
A lifetime ago that suddenly stretched effortlessly, joining then to now.
“So.” She flashed him a smile, looked away at just the right moment.
“So,” Gustavo repeated as he reached across to stroke her hand. “Where do we go from here, Joan?” Her name came out as Zh-oan, all soft and smooth and rounded like a woman’s naked body anointed for her lover.
Gustavo’s finger stroked a spiral down her palm. Joan felt herself slip away with it, back to a time when such attention was commonplace.
Where did they go from here?
Anywhere she wanted.
*
They sped back into the night, whizzing along on Gustavo’s motorbike, the inky black sky above them, the whispering ocean and rainforest all around. The dusky fragrance of decomposing plants and salty air forced itself into her nose and lungs as they sped along the curving road. Her skirt flew up around her waist and she laughed at the sheer insouciance of it. Who cared where they were going and what the outcome? She was young again and beautiful. This night was made for romance.
Gustavo would take her back to the hotel, where they would make love until the sun crept quietly over the horizon. He would tell her that he loved her, that he needed her. He would tell her that she completed him.
Where would they go from there? Who knew? But they would go there together.
She clung to Gustavo’s back and let her skirt and hair fly in the wind behind her. The past washed over her, soporific, memories of naked flesh that gleamed silvery in the moonlight, unintelligible words of love murmured hungrily against the skin, desire so fierce it heated the air between a man and his woman.
The woman.
She let the memories play out, pushing aside the grim face of Manuela. That was another memory, an unpleasant one.
She hated how the memory played tricks.
*
The morning came too soon, pale and shifty as the sun pulled itself over the horizon. Joan woke first, her hair a tangle on the pillow, an unpleasant taste in her mouth. A hairy leg intertwined with hers.
Gustavo!
She had to get out of bed, brush her teeth, her hair, make some sense of herself. It wouldn’t do for him to see her so middle-aged and ordinary, not now, when they were poised at this beginning.
She untangled her legs from his, lifted the cover aside to pad to the bathroom.
She was just coming out of the shower when she heard a soft rustling from the bedroom. “Gustavo?” she called. She wrapped a towel around herself, caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face showed the ravages of the night before, but there was no time to fix herself up. A shower would have to do.
“Gustavo?” She opened the bathroom door, saw him standing outside the patio door, smoking, dressed in his rumpled clothes from the night before. He spoke quietly into a cell phone, a rapid spate of Spanish that Joan had no hope of following, ending with something that sounded like Manuela.
Manuela.
He gave her a sheepish grin.
“Querida.” He smiled, crushed the cigarette out under his heel, flipped the phone shut and thrust it into his pocket.
She pined for that morning-after feeling with its promise of something dear.
He crossed the room and Joan stood expectantly. Would he sweep her into his arms?
He took her two hands instead.
“Joan. Dearest.”
Joan studied him, uneasiness flitting through her stomach. Gustavo was different this morning, as if the new day had washed away yesterday’s image of him and replaced it with something more…
No, he’d been sincere, or she never would have…
Manuela.
“I must thank you for a wonderful evening,” he said, squeezing her hands too tightly.
Something in her recoiled from her earlier, more hopeful aspirations.
“You can stay for breakfast, can’t you?” Her voice sounded uncertain, a thin waver in the coolness of the morning.
Gustavo tsked, his face folding into a semblance of disappointment as one hand stroked hers reassuringly.
It reminded her of a priest, offering comfort to the bereaved. She pulled her hands away. Had Gustavo’s smile been so oily last night? His palms so sweaty? His eyes so evasive?
“Alas, no, my dear.” He turned away to reach for his cigarettes, lying on the nightstand. A flicker of a match, then smoke wafted up from his mouth to curl into his nostrils.
He exhaled a blue-white plume.
“My day off is over,” he explained. “And I have received just now a mucho importante phone call. I am needed in the kitchen immediately.” He smoked for a moment, seemed lost in thought. “So much for our stolen day,” he finished. “But it was beautiful while it lasted, yes?”
Beautiful.
Joan reached for a cigarette, her hand arched gracefully as she placed it between her lips.
Gustavo was the image of solicitousness as he held a match beneath her trembling cigarette.
Beau-ti-ful.
Joan smoked a moment, looked out at the sun as it finally cleared the horizon. Another beautiful day in paradise. What new threat, new promise might this day bring?
“Yes,” she agreed. “It was beautiful.”
Gustavo gently kissed her goodbye.
I am a former technical writer and graduate of the Professional Writing program in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I live in a northwest suburb of Milwaukee with my husband, daughter and three cats. Contact Greta.
