Issue 27 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

At her request he puts the bills in a brown paper envelope and
seals it. She puts the envelope and the travellers' cheques in a
pocket of her handbag.
When she walks out of the windowless room, her husband
emerges from the shadows. He walks with the quick impatient
steps of the doctor who has little time. He, too, always surprises
her when she sees him after even a short absence. She never
remembers how youthful he looks, with the smooth cream skin,
the light freckles she associates with his race, which has always
seemed to her both familiar and exotic. Sometimes his skin looks
so smooth she thinks it looks like a mask. He is not tall but slim
with a thick head of dark hair, a nose she thinks of as aquiline and
soft, dark, rather close-set eyes. He smiles a crooked smile and
inquires, "Done?"
"Done," she says, and they walk out onto the piazza, arm in
arm. He squeezes her arm and says, "Good for you."
The sun does not have the strength of summer sun; there is a
soft haze in the air, but the leaves of the olive trees are filled with
gold light. A slight breeze nags at the hem of her dress. She kisses
the husband on his smooth cheek. She says, "Let's just have a look
at the shops, for a minute, and then we'll take a picnic in the
launch to the beach."
The husband says, "The shops can wait until later this afternoon.
We ought to check into the hotel now and put all this money
away. It's not safe to walk around with so much."
She asks the hotel manager if she might put something in the
safe. He, too, says, "Of course, Signora," and ushers her into a small
room with a big blue bowl filled with white lilies. She can smell
their strong, slightly cloying odor.
Her husband waits in the lobby with the luggage while the
hotel manager opens the safe for her and takes out the box. The
wife puts the lire in the box and takes the key. She keeps the
travellers' cheques in her handbag.
The wife looks around their big white-washed room. She
admires the painted iron bedstead, the armchair covered in bright
yellow linen and the embroidered cotton framed on the walls. She
walks out onto the veranda into the sunlight and gazes at the pool
below, which is shadowed by palms, purple bougainvillea, and pink
and white oleander. She says, "It's lovely, so lovely here, isn't it?"
The husband says, "You don/t miss the house at all, do you?"
The wife shakes her head. "No, I don't, actually. Funny isn't
it? I have always preferred hotels, anyway. You don't have to make
your bed," she says. She picks up her handbag with the travellers'
cheques, opens and closes the drawers of the dresser and the
cupboard doors. There is nothing that locks. She hunts in her
handbag for a pen. She says, "I ought to write a postcard. Why
don't you wait for me downstairs?"
The husband says, "Write the postcard later. We'll miss the
boat."
The wife puts the handbag on the yellow chair by the door
and slips on her navy blue swimsuit, her new light blue towelling
shorts, and her expensive, gaily-colored, high-heeled sandals. She
looks at her slim brown legs in the mirror, ties back her blond hair,
and rubs cream into the lines of her upper lip.
The husband watches her and says, "I am glad you are happy."
He picks up the key to the room and the basket with the food for
the picnic. The wife picks up her handbag. The husband says,
"Leave your handbag here. You won't need it on the beach."
The wife smiles nervously and says, "Oh, I think I'll just take
it along with me."
The husband says, "All right, then give it to me," and puts the
handbag into the basket with the key to the safe and the bottled
water and the prosciutto sandwiches for the picnic. The wife takes
the basket from her husband and slings it over her shoulder.
They walk across the wide piazza and down the steps to the
pier where the small motor launch is waiting in the calm, clear
water. The boat-driver wears starched white shorts and a white
shirt and clean white shoes. He smiles at them. He has a
mustache and a healthy, reddish face. He takes the wife's hand to
help her into the launch. She steps unsteadily into it in her high
heels. She turns to take the basket from the husband who passes
it precariously, she thinks, over the water to her. She sways and
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