Blown Page 19
Cuffy hesitated. “Mind if I join you?”
She seemed startled by the request. “Um, well, I don’t see why not.”
Cuffy pulled out a chair and sat across from her.
The taverna spilled into the alley, as if the throughway was just another part of the restaurant. A strand of lights entwined in the grapevine blinked on, and a young waiter brought a red metal pitcher of white wine and plonked it on the blue-checked tablecloth.
She poured the wine into two tumblers. Cuffy took his and said, “Cheers.” She smiled at him and touched her glass against his. “Yamas.”
Cuffy took a sip. The wine was delicious. “This is excellent. Is it local?”
She shook her head. “I believe it’s from Santorini.”
The waiter came over to take their order. Cuffy shrugged and looked at her. “This is your place, why don’t you order? I’ll put my life in your hands.”
She smiled. “Little-known fact, this is one of the best restaurants in the world. They grill everything on charcoal.”
Cuffy thought he detected a twitch in her smile, a subconscious reveal. He’d come to the island with a question for her, but was unsure how to ask it. He was equally unsure what would happen if he did. He took a long, deep sip of wine and watched as she ordered what seemed like an excessive amount of food for both of them.
“You must be hungry.”
She looked at him. “Aren’t you?”
The food never stopped coming: a Greek salad, octopus boiled in vinegar, dolmas, large beans stewed in tomato sauce, fried zucchini croquettes, eggplant in various forms, saganaki, calamari grilled over coals, and then lamb baked with lemons. Every bite he put in his mouth was amazing, as sensual and life affirming as anything he’d ever experienced. And the wine didn’t stop. As soon as they finished one red metal pitcher, another would take its place.
Cuffy felt sated. They were both full of wine and food, and the dread he was feeling lifted. Another pitcher arrived and she began filling their glasses.
“Thank you.”
“Thanks for the company.”
Cuffy looked at her, their eyes locking. He realized that this was probably the best, maybe only moment to ask her the question that had been haunting him for two years. “I hope this isn’t too forward of me, but there’s something I want to ask you.”
“A personal question?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
She smiled. “As long as it’s not about sailing.”
He smiled back at her and said, “I know this is going to sound strange. Out of left field really, but I need to know.”
She looked slightly worried. “Okay.”
“I’m not judging in any way. I’m looking for advice, really.” He took a sip of wine, then said, “How do you live with yourself?”
She blinked. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“I thought that the money had sunk with the boat. You know, boat’s gone, money’s gone. Everyone’s dead. But then I thought, well, maybe there was a rescue. So I looked into what other boats were out there at the time. Maritime records are sketchy, but you were out there.”
She hesitated, then said, “It’s a big ocean.”
He could see she was getting agitated, as if she was about to get up and walk off, so he tried to reassure her. “Look, I’m not a policeman. I don’t want the money. I’m not going to cause you any trouble.” He paused. “You don’t have to say anything. I already know.”
She glanced over her shoulder, as if to make sure they were alone. “What do you know?”
“Most people would do what you did.”
She seemed to recognize something in his expression. “How would you know?”
Cuffy locked eyes with her. “Kill or be killed. That’s what I told myself anyway.”
She let out a sigh and hung her head. “I’m so fucking tired.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what happened. To close the loop, I guess.”
She blinked back tears and then he saw the realization form on her face. “You’re the embezzler.”
“Yes.”
She took a deep breath. “Neal said you’d been killed by a speargun.”
The mention of the speargun made Cuffy reach for his shoulder. “I eventually washed up.”
She raised her glass, took a sip. “I imagine you had quite a ride.”
He didn’t reply. It had been quite a ride. But then again, the ride wasn’t over. Finally he asked, “So Neal was alive?” Tears spurted out of her eyes. Cuffy handed her his napkin and said, “Never mind.”
She blew her nose and tried to compose herself.
He sighed. “You did some nice things with the money. The hotel is really lovely.”
“Thanks.” And then she added, “Consider it your home away from home. No charge. Stay as long as you like.”
“Wouldn’t that be awkward?”
She shrugged. “Fuck if I know. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m happy to have someone to share this thing with. It’s such a burden.”
“I know.”
Another red metal pitcher of wine appeared at the table. She leaned in and spoke softly. “So? What do we murderers do?”
“I wish I had an answer for that.”
“I’ve been praying. Every day.”
“Does it make you feel better?”
She shook her head. “I feel like shit after I go to church.”
He refilled their glasses and said, “I avoid spirituality. There’s no good end for us when you start down that road.”
Her face reddened. Her lips trembled. Finally she said, “Fuck.”
They sat there in silence, sipping the delicious white wine from Santorini, feeling the breeze off the ocean drift through the alley, listening to the sounds of the people around them, smelling the food from the taverna. The world around them was fully alive, saturated. Cuffy felt that he was part of the continuum of history, here in this alley—a piece of the pulse of humanity. For the first time in his life he felt connected instead of disconnected.
“I see why you like this place.”
A group of tourists walked past them. Laminated cards from a cruise ship spun on lanyards around their necks.
Chlöe wiped some mucus from her nose. “I can’t believe I did it. You know? Fucking money.” He handed her another napkin. “That’s the thing, right? You always think, If I just had a few million dollars everything would be great, and then … you get the money and … you know.”
“Everything is shit.”
He couldn’t tell if she was sad about having to relive it or relieved to have someone who understood, but seeing her cry brought tears to his eyes, and he found himself sobbing softly with her. Everything was shit and everything was beautiful. They were both haunted by the dead. So were these streets, so was this island, and yet it didn’t stop the place from brimming with life. Cuffy thought about his parents—the way people carried the dead with them, how that fueled their lust for life—and for the first time in a long time he felt safe: linked to the past, looking to the future, happy in the moment.
Cuffy raised his glass:
“Everything is shit and everything is beautiful.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am deeply indebted to my editor, Corinna Barsan, for her intelligence, enthusiasm, generosity, and humor.
Big ups and undying gratitude to the crew at Grove Atlantic: Captain Morgan Entrekin, Judy Hottenson, Deb Seager, Justina Batchelor, Zachary Pace, Allison Malecha, Gretchen Mergenthaler, and Julia Berner-Tobin. Thanks to Nancy Tan and Susan Gamer for eyeballing the copy. Bart Heideman at Uncanny Design; and Martin Rusch for the photograph. And to Mary Evans, Julia Kardon, and Brian Lipson for taking care of business.
Special thanks to Indy Flore, Jamison Stoltz, JoAnn Chaney, Liska Jacobs, David L. Ulin, Diana Faust, and Olivia Taylor Smith for their thoughtful comments on the manuscript and to Mara Amster, Laura Grey-Street, and Gary Dop at Randolph College for giving me some space to write in.
An
d a shout-out to my friends and family who encourage this work in innumerable ways: Tod Goldberg, Agam Patel, Bruce and Cynthia Faust, Jim Peterson, Katie and Amy at Society of the Spectacle, Alex Wolff, Norman B, and Jules Haskell Smith.