“Why is your English so good?” Reed asked, knowing it was rude but too curious to stay silent.
“Oh, I grew up in San Diego. Then my family got deported, and we came back here.”
“Oh,” Reed said. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s not your fault.” She turned to go.
“Sorry, one other thing,” Reed said. “Do you have any wrapping paper?”
“What? You’re already thinking about Christmas?” She paused. “Maybe I have some. I’ll go look.”
Laughing at him, the proprietress made her way back across the courtyard, looking for wrapping paper. A few minutes later she’d brought him a large sheet of blue shimmery paper that featured cartoon monkeys shouting “Feliz Navidad.”
“It will have to do,” she said, handing him the wrapping and a roll of tape.
When she had gone, Reed closed the door and then sat down on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, the cement underneath providing firm, cool support, the worn mattress had just enough cushioning and give. He placed the warped Murakami book into the paper and folded it as best he could, sealing it with tape. He set it next to the pillow and stretched out, letting his legs hang off the edge. His eyes lost focus, and in seconds he was asleep.
* * *
Reed awoke to the sound of Marisol’s voice and a light tap on the door.
“Mister Haflinger?”
“Hold on!”
“Just letting you know your friends are back.”
“Thanks, I’ll be right out. Do you know what time it is?”
“Almost five o’clock.”
How could he possibly have slept for almost four hours? It didn’t make sense. He never did that. Not since college.
Finally he stood up.
“Turns out I’m staying after all.”
Marisol poked her head in and smiled. “All the best do.”
With Laurel gone he sure didn’t have to be staring at the clock anymore. He’d stay here overnight. Wouldn’t kill him. But already he saw the vacation he’d imagined a few days ago was over. Even returning home would be tense, uncharted. It would be strange trying to explain why he’d spent the night at a youth hostel. Even stranger would be feeling like he had to keep it secret.
He went to the rickety enamel sink in the cramped bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes seemed darker, more purple than he’d ever seen before. Any darker and he’d look like he’d been punched in the face. Maybe it was the damn bed in that hotel room. Maybe he’d needed the sleep, just not realized it.
He undid his shirt and tossed it on the bed. Naked from the waist up, Reed turned the faucet and waited as the lukewarm water popped and hissed and finally turned into a stream he could wash his face with. The small bar of soap was the same brand they had at the Cancún hotel: Venus Rosa. It was bright pink, with a cloying fragrance that lingered on the skin for hours. He lathered his hands, still unsure if he’d turned on the hot or the cold water, and splashed his face, then finally let the water trickle down his neck and shoulders, before wiping himself dry with the clean but threadbare hostel towel.
Lifting an arm, he could still smell the pungent cumin of his body odor. It would have been wise to bring some toiletries, but how the hell could he have known he’d be staying longer?
He picked up his shirt, shook it, and put it on, buttoning it quickly, trying to calm himself but also think about the time. Grabbing the Murakami book, he walked to the edge of the doorway and peeked out through a crack into the courtyard. It was already dusk, the sun down, long shadows stretching out across the garden, which was flooded with people, a stark contrast with the emptiness he’d seen when he arrived. The bar and kitchen area was packed with couples and threesomes—some chopping onions or avocados, others frying things on the big black grill, others working in minute self-staked-out prep areas on the narrow counters. The two picnic tables were full, and there were even a few groups that had temporarily claimed the hammocks in the back for lack of space elsewhere. A Mexican pop tune was playing from an MP3 player that someone had hooked up to some speakers, and a girl with a fluorescent pink wig was dancing to it on the loose stones.
All he could catch of the song lyrics was, “Mi amor, mi amor.”
For a few minutes he just stood on the edge of the bungalow’s shaded terrace, looking around at the people, hoping to see the brunette and her friends, but nobody looked familiar. Everyone there seemed to be with someone else, seemed to already have a group of friends they were traveling with. Reed realized that he might be the only person in the entire courtyard who didn’t actually have anything he needed to do. No food to fix, no friends to talk to, no beer to drink with buddies.
He wiped his forehead, already so hot he felt dizzy. The sun had baked the stones all afternoon and now they radiated heat—they would remain warm until long after the stars were visible. Reed stepped off the patio and walked across, past the girl in the pink wig, who mistook him for someone approaching her for a dance. For a few moments he tried to get past her, first one way, then the other, while she courted him with an exaggerated belly dance. Neither of them spoke, and she finally let him pass by.
He went to Marisol and ordered a beer.
“I can’t believe there are so many people here,” he said, as she popped the top off and handed him a bottle.
“Everyone goes to the beach in the morning. By evening, people are hungry. Then at night, at night is when the party starts.”
“So it’s a party at the beach during the day?”
“No, mostly people just turn into iguanas. They stretch out, pull up some sand, and sleep. Most relaxing vacation in the world.”
“I was doing that in Cancún and after three days wanted to shoot myself in the head.”
“Why?”
“Nothing could be more boring than sitting by a pool.”
Marisol laughed. “That’s because it’s just a pool. The beach? You’re on the edge of something wonderful, this great life force, it’s different every day. Dangerous, even. Different currents, different ships out there. You can plunge in and see fish and beautiful creatures. Ever go diving?”
Reed shook his head. “Everything you just said is why the ocean scares the hell out of me. Doesn’t sound fun at all.”
“Your friend’s a diver. You should get her to take you diving.”
“My friend?”
“Your lady friend. The bookworm.”
“No, I’m not here to see her. Returning the book was just a good excuse to do something, get out into the real Mexico. I was dying there at the pool.”
“What? A handsome guy like you came all this way…to
