but they made brief visits only once or twice a year. I pitied their frail familial connections.
Max and Jonathan toasted my dissertation, which I’d defended successfully two weeks earlier. Mummy had urged me to return home sooner, but I’d resisted. I’d wanted to prolong my independent Canadian life a touch longer. Soon, I’d be enveloped in the responsibilities and obligations of home. My job at the prestigious Indian Institute of Technology would begin two months hence. I’d be introduced to a number of prospective brides.
And so I booked my flight for June 22, telling Mummy that I needed time to pack and say goodbye to my Canadian friends. And anyway, I’d paid my rent to the end of June, I’d argued. Later she’ d blame herself for not pushing the point more, believed that her anxiety about my return date was some sort of prescience.
I drank a second beer and we discussed Jonathan’s research frustrations and Max’s gripes regarding his supervisor. I accepted a third beer and boasted about my new academic post. And then my tongue loosened and I told them about my afternoon with Nora.
“Man, your life is golden!” Jonathan exclaimed.
“Fuck yeah. A PhD, a job lined up, and today you got some pussy!” Max added.
I didn’t think it was nice for him to talk about Nora that way, but I grinned and burped. “It’s quite golden, no?”
Ameera
∆
My left eyebrow ached. Just the left one. I pinched it, the pain pooling red under my lids. I turned over and hid from the harsh light streaming through the window. No matter how I rigged the drapery panels, they refused to meet. My stomach gurgled a distress call and I lay still, vowing to never again drink a jumbo travel mug of Enrique’s new concoction.
A dream fragment shifted behind my eyelids, and I willed it forward. There was a faint voice beckoning me, calling my name. I think it was a man’s, but it was too hoarse to identify. It had stalked my nights for weeks and sometimes its residue of lonely dread lingered through the day. It was masochistic, maybe, but I closed my eyes tight to dwell within the dream’s reach.
When Blythe flushed the toilet in our shared bathroom, the dream’s vapours evaporated. I sprang awake; it was already 9:00 a.m. and I had to be ready for the new guest orientation in half an hour. Somehow, Blythe always managed to be in the shower when I needed it.
I hoisted myself out of bed and laid out my clothes. I sniffed yesterday’s skirt and decided I could wear it another day. I chose new underwear and a fresh blouse. I left the mandatory navy-blue and aquamarine striped tie looped over the dresser mirror, dusty now from disuse. None of us wore the regulation accessory except during semi-annual inspections, except for Oscar; he said it distinguished us from the gardeners and maintenance workers, who wore similar uniforms. Really though, I think he enjoyed his conspicuous formality because it made him appear as our superior.
Blythe belted out “Royals,” out of tune, from the shower. The water shut off and I waited for the lock on my side of the adjoining bathroom to click open, then the door to Blythe’s room to shut, the signal that it was safe to go in. To distract from my overfull bladder and complaining stomach, I switched on the TV and found an American weather station. The newscaster was almost pissing himself with excitement, reporting on a blizzard in New Jersey. I turned it off and willed Blythe to finish in the washroom.
Since learning about the promotion, I’d been envisioning my manager suite. It would come equipped with its own bathroom and sitting area. I’d mentally furnished it with local art and tchotchkes, clay pots, and rugs. But that morning, self doubt wormed its way into my daydreams. What if the complaint hinderd my promotion? Maybe I’d have to live in my drab quarters and field tourist foibles for another three years.
I shook away the depressing thoughts; as the self-help gurus in O magazine proclaimed in bold font, it wasn’t productive! I would remain positive!
I checked my phone to see if Anita had sent a reply to my e-mail, but the cinder-block walls of the old building jammed the wireless signal.
Amongst our crew, only Blythe and I took advantage of worker housing. Roberto used to live across the hall, but moved to Santa Maria, forty-five minutes away, after he got married. Oscar lived three blocks away from Roberto, with his wife and three kids. Manuela stayed with her family in nearby La Crucecita, but that made no sense to me; she was twenty-six and had to share a bedroom with two sisters. I once tried to convince her to move to Atlantis, but she lectured me about how Atlantis was a make-believe town and she preferred to live in a real town with real stores and real people.
Even though I appreciated the simplicity of living on the resort — it kind of reminded me of a university campus — I understood what Manuela meant. I often ventured into La Crucecita’s noisy streets on my days off for a dose of reality. I liked to watch people rush to work, do their banking, take their kids to the dentist. Each time, I’d wander into a grocery store and purchase a single mango, or a bag of Sabritas chips and bring them back to my rectangular room.
Minutes later, as I rinsed my hair in a lukewarm shower, “Royals” stalked my thoughts. I imagined the irksome tune hiding out in the faucet, escaping through the uneven spray, landing on my scalp, and colonizing my mind.
∆
At 9:45, I joined Manuela and Oscar at the ampitheatre entrance. Together, we created a chorus of “good morning” and “welcome” as we handed out orientation leaflets. The tourists reciprocated with their own replies of “good morning” and “thank you,” and the cheerful din brought back my headache. Blythe climbed onto the stage and adjusted a microphone stand.
“We’ve just been talking about Nancy at Waves,” Manuela stage-whispered once the hall had filled. “Do you know her?”
“Yeah.” My first year in Huatulco, I spent all my free time with foreign tour reps, including Nancy. We travelled in a pack, a dozen American, Canadian, and European women, nightclub-hopping and lying on the beach. We leaned on one another when homesick. We gossiped, had arguments, made up. It was like summer camp for grown-ups. Eventually, I grew bored with it and drifted from the group.
“It’s a disgrace on our profession. I’ve worked in the industry over twenty-five years and nothing like that has ever happened,” Oscar muttered.
“We don’t know the full story, guys.” I fumbled with my phone to check my e-mail. Still no reply from Anita.
“Good morning!” Blythe sang into the microphone. An electronic squeal ricocheted around the theatre, eliciting a collective startle response from the assembly.
Oscar hurried to the stage in a half-jog, his sciatica making his movements jerky. He adjusted the amplifier’s dials and I covered my ears while Oscar and Blythe performed sound checks.
“Sorry! Let’s try that again. Good morning!” Blythe yelled. This time, the audience droned a feeble reply.
“Okay, we’re going to tell you all about the resort and the excursions in just a moment. But before we do that, we’re going to play a little game!” The audience rustled its discomfort. I rubbed my temples, craving caffeine.
“All right, stand up if you are here in Huatulco for the first time!” Nearly everyone stood, except for a line of bored-looking people at the back.
“Stand if it is your first time travelling with Oceana! … Stand if you are from Toronto!
