Matala (15 page)

J
USTINE WATCHED TWO MEN CLIMB
down the ladder of the yacht into a low fast-looking boat moored at its side. The throaty engine coughed and started, and the boat came toward the beach.

The girl was watching, too. “You asked the question,” she said. “Are you going to answer it?” She gripped Justine's shirt. Then she let go, knelt on the sand, and leaned her head against Justine's thighs. “We could be so good,” the girl said. “So perfect. You and me. I would obey you.”

“What about Will?”

“Will's tired. He needs to go home, get on with things. Don't you think? He needs to get away from you—and me.”

Justine looked down at the girl. She couldn't know half the truth, but she was right. It had been good with Will. Good for him and for her. She'd needed to find him. She hadn't realized how much, and she hadn't known what to expect. She never planned on things going nearly as far as they had, on its becoming so involved, but it was so sweet in the beginning. Her baby boy.

“What is he to you really?” the girl asked.

“I knew him when he was a baby. I took care of him.”

“Are you related?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, the wise girl, and showed no surprise whatever. “I thought it was something. Does he know?”

“Not that I know of.”

The boat neared the beach at a fairly high speed so that when the pilot cut the engine, it coasted to the sand and up onto it. The two men on it wore suits. They climbed out and began to walk up the beach toward the women. One of them carried an attaché case.

The girl remained on her knees, head bowed now, as if she were some queen on the block, waiting for the headsman. The men had come close enough for Justine to see that one had very dark skin, black hair, and a thick mustache and the other was lighter and clean-shaven.

Someone shouted from the other end of the beach. It was Will, running toward them.

“Oh, good Christ,” Justine said. In that moment she felt things coalesce in some way—or release. Perhaps that was it. They released. She felt things leave her and other things stay. To Little Bitch she said, “Get up.”

“For what?” the girl said. “So you can sacrifice me?”

“Just get the hell up.”

“Not until you answer the question.”

“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Darcy. I wouldn't. I can't. Is that what you want to hear?”

“It doesn't matter what I
want
to hear.”

“Well, it's the truth.”

She looked up. “You called me Darcy.”

“Will you just shut your pretty mouth and come the fuck on.”

“Then what?”

“What do you want?”

“Well, I'd like not to be sold.”

“Beyond that. You up for another game?”

“I am. Absolutely.”

“It's risky.”

“Isn't it always?”

“I suppose it is. Let me see your purse.”

The girl stood up. Will had reached them now, panting, and the men were steps away.

“Darcy,” Will said, “get out of here. They're kidnapping you.”

“No,” she said. “I've been sold to them.”

“What? Get out of here!”

Justine nodded as the men approached and reached for the case, but Will ran at the man holding it and shoved him. “Go!” he shouted at the girl. The man dropped the case and punched him in the stomach, doubling him over, and pushed him to the ground. The other man, the lighter-skinned one, the one who had not carried the briefcase, pulled a small revolver from beneath his suit jacket and held it down at his side so that it was not conspicuous but so that they could see it. He placed his other hand on Darcy's arm. The first man looked at Will a second and then bent and picked up the case. He was about to hand it to Justine when, from the tree line at the head of the beach, another man called out: “Darcy!”

This one was tall and somewhat heavyset, and wore a blue seersucker suit, a white shirt, and a geranium-red tie. And he, too, held a gun, a large nickel-plated automatic. It was aimed in front of him, at the two Arabs. And he spoke to them now: “Back away, or I'll shoot you both.”

They froze, watching him. They did not back away, but the one with the gun removed his hand from the girl.

“I will shoot you,” the large man said. “I have license and money to do what I want here. I will shoot you both dead and then get on a plane and fly home. I will suffer no consequences. If you don't believe me, stay where you are.”

The two men took a tentative half step away from the women.

“Wait,” Justine said. She went toward the men and grabbed the briefcase, but the man holding it would not let go.

“No!” he said.

“Let go of it, you fuck,” Justine said, and with her other hand she brought up the onyx-handled folding knife that the girl had stolen and pulled from her purse in the American Café in Venice. Justine held the tip at the man's eye. He released the case.

The large man came toward them. Will had gotten to his hands and knees, and was gagging and spitting in the sand.

“Go!” the man yelled. The two Arabs stepped farther away but did not leave.

Justine looked at Little Bitch. The man in the suit was glancing at her, too, without quite taking his eyes off the two Arabs. “Hello, Darcy,” he said. She smiled at him. He wore round eyeglasses, and his thinning hair was a fine flaxen blond you don't see in most people by the time they reach adulthood, the hair of a little child. His face was flushed, his cheeks beamed, and the combination of the rosy visage and the hair made him look very young, though Justine guessed that he wasn't. Early thirties, she thought.

The two Arabs had stepped farther away but were not leaving, and the one still had his gun out.

“It's high time,” Justine said to the girl. “I'd lose the pack if I were you. Will,” she said, “are you all right?”

“Maurice told me,” he said.

“I thought he might. Do you hate me?”

“I guess not.”

“Darcy—” said Will.

“Go home,” the girl told him. “It's time. I'll be in touch.” She reached into the bottomless purse and took out a rubber-banded stack of bills, drachmas and liras and sterling, and dropped it beside Will. It looked to be the wad she'd stolen from Maurice in Venice, plus some she'd added.

To the large man in the suit, who was now beside them, Justine said, “Did you see our man back there? He's armed, too. We'll get him.”

“No,” said the man.

“Can you hold this?” the girl said. She shoved her pack into his chest, which knocked him off balance.

“Run!” said Justine.

W
HEN THEY REACHED THE CAR,
Karl, who had dozed off, was so startled he didn't know what to do except get out—especially when Justine yelled at him, “Get out!” From the trees, twenty-five or so yards behind them, came the shouts of the men.

“There's a man chasing us!” Justine said. “He's got a gun!”

Karl, in his dopey confusion, lumbered along the pathway toward the trees.

Justine slid behind the wheel and started the engine as the large man emerged from the trees and ran into Karl. Then the two Arabs and Will arrived, and Karl somehow seemed to run into them, too, and there was much shouting and threatening and pointing of handguns. At least that's how Justine imagined it. She couldn't really hear because she was busy putting the car into reverse and spinning it around. She heard no reports, so she assumed they hadn't actually tried to kill one another.

“Wait,” the girl said. “Give me the knife.” She leaped out, ran to the white Mercedes, and plunged the blade into the left front tire. Justine looked over her shoulder and saw the men still arguing, and then one of them pointing at her. The girl punctured the left rear tire as well and got back in.

In her haste, Justine sped through a group of young travelers, two men and a woman, Americans or Canadians, riding Rent-a-Vespas. One of them, a tall boy with curly hair, had to cut it into the sand to avoid her hitting him, and he pitched forward. She was glad to see in the mirror that he got up and gave her the finger.

As they drove toward the hills, it was Little Bitch's turn to cry. She sat silently, with her head down, and Justine could see her shoulders moving. She reached across as she drove and put her hand on the girl's neck. They were not tears of sorrow or of joy, really, but of relief, Justine imagined. And of the realization just now of how truly close to being gone forever she had come. It was a startling, sickening thing to realize after the fact how narrowly you've escaped an especially black chasm. Justine had felt it before: the heat of a bullet after it passed your ear, the smell of the inside of a Marrakesh police car after being rescued from a converging group of drunken men. And she knew that something had been broken in the girl, or at least shifted. That she would be different in some small way. She couldn't help it. No one could.

After a few minutes, the girl stopped, wiped her face, looked up, and smiled.

A
S THE OLD
M
ERCEDES CLIMBED
back into the mountains, headed this time for Iraklion and the quickest possible way they could find off the island, neither of them spoke. Darcy was watching out the side window, wiping at her eyes every now and again. It wasn't until they passed the American military installation they'd seen on the way over that Justine said, “Who was that man?”

“That, I'm very nearly positive, was Matthew Raines, my rescuer, my pursuer.”

“The seersucker savior.”

“Did you just love the suit or what?”

“I did.” Justine drove a little farther and then said, “However did he find you, do you suppose? And just at the right moment.”

“I called him last night before Will and I went back to the room. I had this feeling it was time. He was in Iraklion. I said I'd tell him where I was if he agreed just to watch me.”

“Or?”

“Or I'd run away again.”

“Ah.” Justine smiled.

“He'll probably keep coming, you know.”

“As will Maurice and those Arabs whose sixty thousand quid we just nicked. Are you happy?”

“That I'm not being sold into white slavery? Duh.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“You believed that crap back there? ‘Oh, Mother. I'm yours. We'll be so happy.'”

Justine looked sharply at her, and now Darcy started to laugh. She said, “You're pretty damned sentimental underneath it all. You know it?”

“I am,” said Justine. “Always have been. Can't help it.”

“Well, I forgive you.” Justine's right hand rested on the gear shift. Darcy placed hers over it and said, “Silly old bitch.”

A
MONTH OR SO LATER
an envelope arrived in the box at my apartment building in Charlottesville, where I'd returned to finish my degree. It was sent by my mother and contained another envelope, this one pale airmail-blue, postmarked Ankara, Turkey. Inside was a snapshot of Darcy and Justine with their arms around each other in front of a huge mosque. Across the bottom in black marker was written
Hagia Sophia, Istanbul.
Along with the photograph were two notes.

One said: “Will—I hope you loved most of it. I think you did, or you will, one day. I love you. You know that. I don't know how. It's confusing. Confused. But it was time for you to go, my sweet boy, and find your life. Godspeed. Justine.”

The other said: “Hey, lover. Having a wild time. I'm sure we're under the threat of imminent death from either Maurice or the Arabs, or both. But Matthew's still following me, if you can believe that, so I don't feel scared. Kind of turns me on, actually, thinking about it.
XXXOOO
D.”

It was the last I was ever to hear from either of them.

In Matala, I had waited with Matthew Raines for an auto service to come and replace his damaged tires, and so we had a chance to speak. He was a nice guy, if a little miffed that Darcy had duped him and extended his tour of duty, who knew for how long. I gave him an overview of the whole thing from my perspective, and he filled in some details for me. He gave me his card and offered me a ride to Iraklion, but I said no thanks. I needed to just think, not to talk anymore or be around anyone I knew.

I never went back to Maurice's to reclaim my things. I didn't need them anymore. I kept the Matala spoon Darcy had lifted in my pocket for some reason, some kind of good luck charm or something, and that was all I wanted. I still have it.

I hitched a ride back over to Galini and caught a bus north that afternoon.

I like to imagine that what those two women saw and felt when they were leaving was much the same as me. But I don't think it was. I was a looker back.

As the bus groaned up and away from the sea, it passed through a clearing from which I could just make out, to the east, the red cliffs of Matala. I sensed even then that I would probably never see the place again, this ancient coast, this land where stories began. And so I bid it good-bye—but only good-bye in real time, which I had finally begun to recognize as the illusion it was. In other, more important sorts of time I would see this place often again, and I would come to know it in ways I had barely touched upon while actually there. I would know it, and it would come to know me, so that we would meld, finally, into a single being that was not either one of us in life. And then we could begin, each of us, to invent the other.