The Safekeep(34)

Hendrik came to join Isabel, collapsed on the towel. He brought with him the chill of the water, carried on the air. He fumbled with his discarded trousers, looked for his cigarettes, found them. They sat together for a while, watching Eva and Sebastian’s play as it unfolded: Sebastian suddenly running, catching up to Eva, Eva shrieking, delighted, a tug-of-war, Eva allowing herself to be caught. Held, laughing, laughing.

“Aren’t they a sight together?” Hendrik said. He was leaning on one elbow. His hair was wet, water running down his neck, and his smile was an odd one; sad, or happy, or tired. But he was right: they did make for a sight, something from a movie scene—Sebastian’s broad back, the sun’s glint in his dark curls, his forearms darker where he’d rolled up his sleeves in spring. He’d wrapped his arms around Eva, her back to his chest, and she held him by his wrists. The line of her thighs, the stretch of skin over ribs, the bump of her soft belly under her swim shorts. They both stood out in the lake’s crowd—darker-skinned, more defined. Sharp. Nose, chin. Italian youths, perhaps, if one were not to look too closely. From this distance the off-yellow of Eva’s hair didn’t seem so bad. The frizz of it pressed into Sebastian’s cheek when she turned her head to say something. He smiled, a show of dimples.

They looked like a couple on a honeymoon.

“Ah,” Hendrik said. “A pretty deception.”



* * *



Isabel did not touch herself.

Arousal, when it came, was an inconvenience—a wrench in the routine and a distraction. It was a heavy blanket weighing her down in the night, it was the drag of honey into lungs. It was never bound to anyone. Not a face, not a body, not the promise of a touch—never the promise of a touch. It rose and fell with the same unpredictability of a fever caught outside the house, the same disembodied mystery—who had it been? Who was it that coughed, passed this on?

And much like with a fever, she would sweat the worst of it into the sheets. It was rare that she gave into it. She hated the headiness, the wet, the excess of the experience. But then, on some summer nights—on some winter nights—when the house hummed with its own emptiness, cavernous rooms upon rooms upon rooms—she would dip into herself. She would make sure she was still there; a body, a heartbeat, a toppling hunger between two legs.

She would be quick about it, impatient for the thing to break, for the illness to crest. She would stuff the hem of a sheet into her mouth, find the folded seam of her underwear, bunch it up, pull, rub. She would think of nothing, would keep her mind wide and empty. Only sometimes, on the edge of the peak, a thought would come to her—not an image, but a voice. Please, it said. Just that, nothing else. A breath, a release. Please!



* * *



Isabel dove into the water—a shock of cold sucking her in. She stayed under, swam until the air ached in her chest. When she resurfaced, the day had shifted around her: the breeze blew with more purpose. An angry waving of gray up the horizon. Above, the afternoon sun still beat down heavy and full-bodied, but a chill crept in on the breath of the wind.

She swam more and watched the bad weather inch near. Treetops were swaying.

The others were up on the embankment, sharing food—bread and cheese and grapes. A rumble in the distance, and the whole lake turned its face in unison. Swallows, dots of black against the summer storm, swooped and climbed and swooped.

Isabel hurried back up the incline, dripping and shivering, arms tight around her chest. The first fat drops began to fall. Hendrik was tossing everything back in the basket, and Sebastian handed Isabel a towel and said, “Quickly, quickly.”

They ran back to the car, half in clothes, half out. They were all inside already except for Eva, who was wriggling into her trousers, laughing incredulously at how quickly the weather had turned. “God, that came out of nowhere! Out of nowhere!” Her shirt clung to the wet top of her bikini—two wet marks.

Her arm brushed Isabel’s when she got inside: cold, a damp touch. She closed the car door behind her. The windows fogged up immediately. Hendrik wiped the windshield with his arm. The rain drummed on the car roof. Other parked cars took to the narrow road; poor bikers pushed through the rain, some still in swimwear. Sebastian wondered whether they should head back home and Hendrik said, “Why should we go back! Why should we let the Dutch summer chase us away!”

They would look for an inn, a café, somewhere to sit out the rain; they’d dry and they’d warm and they’d drink something. They drove slowly, pointing at buildings in the distance—a roof spotted over the peak of a dike, a windmill that might be a brewery. They found an establishment at the end of a small two-street village: an impressive old country house, repurposed as some sort of hotel, some sort of tavern. Several couples were running toward the entrance with newspapers over their heads. They were decked out in tennis clothes. The lawn was well-kept, bright green.

“This looks nice,” Hendrik said, and the rest were quiet for a moment.

“Very nice,” Sebastian said. It was either wry or genuine; it was hard to tell. “You should probably put your trousers back on.”

“Ah,” Hendrik said, looking down at his bare legs. He was handed back his trousers. It was a clumsy show, wedged behind the wheel. They all ran from the car at once. It was raining even harder now. Eva cried out some exclamation, her face wet.