The Right Words
I didn’t think of Paul, or his
hometown very often, so it was a shock when Chet finally told me. I had to think for a split second why the
destination made me uneasy, felt ominous somehow, more significant than I could
immediately pinpoint. Then I remembered and
my brain went into a tailspin, one memory among the whole rising like a black
plume of smoke.
Chet stood non-plussed meanwhile, the
knot in his forehead made the breath snag in my throat. It always did.
“What’s the matter, Savvy? You haven’t
been there, have you? Do you want the bookings changed?”
“No, I haven’t been there” I tried to
figure out the right words, but there weren’t any, “it’s fine, really.”
His frown smoothened. Should I tell
him? Wouldn’t that make it seem more important than it was? I dithered; the
chance passed. It was a memory I was
happy to forget, I had buried it deep. It
was all so long ago.
Paul and I met at Perugia, both of
us out of our respective hometowns and I massively out of my depth. We were both doing language programmes, both
lonely. I talked to him about my island
home, and he told me about his. He was
on a sabbatical, an air-traffic-controller or a coastguard or something, studying
Italian to better his career graph. I
didn’t have any job experience, or any experience for that matter, just a
meagre scholarship.
Soon I was in love with that
asphyxiating desperation only youth can muster.
We spent more and more time together, I spent more and more of my
scholarship money on things most unscholarly, it’s a familiar story. The only difference was the end. Instead of the usual dust up, Paul robbed me,
then beat me almost to death, and left for good. Friends picked up my pieces and put them back
together. I had failed my exams, had no
money, had no stomach to ask my parents back home for help or explain the whole
sordid saga. So I made a patchy recovery,
stayed on and worked at whatever meanly-paid jobs I could find. I lost my self-esteem, but I managed the
degree.
I left Perugia a year later, came back
home. I never mentioned Paul to anyone. My parents were puzzled, but they attributed
the changes to my being away, alone, among strangers. I never corrected them, didn’t see the use. The nightmares persisted for some years. I avoided going out, avoided men. But time coats the most excruciating memories
with the tarnish of forgetfulness, fades every scar. There were others later, who helped rub them out. It had been a long time.
Chet was the guy next door. He moved in and on the first evening knocked
to ask for coffee because his wasn’t organised.
We kind of fell into the habit of seeing each other. He wooed me slowly, as though he had all the
time in the world, and he'd flash me that
high-voltage slow smile making my heart turn over.
This time love washed over me in an
insidious tide, I never quite knew when the waters got so deep, so thrillingly
high. Yet there was also a coming to
rest, a firmly grounded, bone-deep contentment in the very centrepoint of my
life. When he brought up the idea of
marriage, I didn’t even have to think. I
was the wedding planner, it was going to be a simple one anyway. Chet ran a
travel business, so naturally his were the honeymoon arrangements. He had asked my preferences a few times,
diffident, wanting to please. “Surprise me,” I had said breezily. And so he had, and how!
The wedding was a blur. I tried to look suitably dignified, but
probably smiled too wide and too much.
Chet’s hand at my waist rested with an authority I’d never experienced
before, his fingers taking the moonstone clips from my hair later had an
entirely new tenderness. In all that
time, among the people, and then away from them, I never figured out the right
words. Not even when Chet kissed my
scar.
The flight out was uneventful but I
felt edgy for no logical reason. I had a
brand new husband who loved me passionately, and who I loved as deeply, life
was as good as it can possibly get. What
were the chances of something going wrong?
It was a fine, clear day and the
island sat like a jewel embedded in a turquoise sea. We landed and came through to the customs
from the baggage carousel.
“Welcome to Valletta, ma’am, can I
just have your bag in the scanner for a minute?”
The voice was the same. I looked straight at the same face that had
looked at me as I had coughed blood and fainted, only then I hadn’t noticed how
sly his smile was, how cruel his eyes set deep in their sockets. I saw them widen and knew that I too had been
recognised. I checked the name tag, but it
was totally superfluous.
“Savannah? Savvy?”
“Paul.”
I had expected to be nervous, too freaked
out to think straight, but my voice was steady.
I had forgotten, he was a customs officer. From the look of it, his sabbatical hadn’t
helped his career graph much. I turned
to Chet, his forehead was knotting up in that delicious way again.
“Chet, this is Paul. We studied together at Perugia. I was
lovesick for him once, but got cured after he beat me to a pulp. He’s the one
who gave me that scar.”
I didn’t speak especially loud, but
the words carried. Another officer
looked around, astonished. No-one said
anything. Our cases came through the
baggage X-ray. I grasped Chet’s hand and
drew him close, my heart soaring at the firm squeeze he gave my fingers. Paul remained frozen, his mouth agape. We picked up the bags, walked on and out into
the sunshine.
WC - 995
FCA
