(Originally published in issue 43 of Conjunctions.)
But the first thing that happened, just as the plane touched the ground, was he burst into tears. The wheels jolted against the concrete, and his face collapsed slowly in on itself, his eyes squeezing shut, his head bowing as if in prayer.
It wasn’t so much a bursting into tears as a subsiding into them.
It was unexpected.
Outside, the sun was just beginning to burn into the day, the ocean swimming with light, the shadows from the line of trees along the shoreline falling sharp and long across the sand. There were three yachts out already, racing each other away from the island. He blinked, and the tears fell across his face. He wiped them away, roughly, with the backs of his hands. The plane jerked to a halt at the end of the short runway and began to taxi round to the terminal buildings.
He kept his face turned to the window, surprised and a little embarrassed by his reaction. Outside, men with orange jackets and ear-mufflers waved coloured sticks, coaxing the plane into place. People were already standing and reaching for the overhead lockers, fetching out their bags and heading for the exit doors. There was a slight delay while the steps were rolled up against the fuselage and the great heavy doors were swung open, and then light and air came flooding into the cramped cabin and people began to leave.
He sat for a while longer, composing himself, watching a flock of seabirds whirling elastically through the sky. He saw the first passengers outside, crossing the concrete on foot. They were moving awkwardly, stiff and slow after the flight. There were no clouds in the sky. He stood up, blew his nose, and headed for the door. He was the last passenger to leave. The stewardess smiled blandly at him as he stepped into the light.
Enjoy your visit with us sir, she said. He wondered if he should kneel and kiss the hot ground.
He took a taxi to the hotel. The driver didn’t say anything to him.
It was hot. It was not even breakfast time, and the air was clammy and close around him. By the time he’d checked in, carried his case up two flights of stairs, and opened the windows of his small room, his shirt was wet through with sweat. He stripped off to his underwear, filled a plastic tumbler from a tap in the bathroom, and sat on the end of the single bed. The room was clean and basic; the bed, a wardrobe, a radio, a bathroom without a bath, and sliding doors that opened onto a narrow balcony. There were framed tourist posters on the walls, and a stack of leaflets and maps on the bedside table. From the street outside, he could hear the first of the morning’s traffic; voices, bursts of music, a woman singing the same few lines of a song over and again.
He ran the tap in the bathroom and splashed his face, walking back into the room and letting the cold water run down his chest.
He picked up the phone beside the bed and dialled a long number, and it was a while before anyone answered.
Hello it’s me he said, and he pushed his finger into his ear to block out the sounds of the street.
About an hour ago he said, it was fine, yes, food was no good though, and he smiled.
It’s okay he said, looking around, bit small, but I’ve got a balcony, yes, no, no bath but there’s a shower, yes.
What time is it there? he said; oh, yes, so it is, yes.
Were you? he said; okay, okay, right.
He didn’t say anything more for a moment, he turned and looked out of the window as though trying to remember something.
He said and you’re sure you’ll be okay? You’re not going to be bored or anything? And he laughed briefly and said no, no, of course not, I suppose not.
He paused again, wiping his wet face with the palm of his hand.
Right then he said, I’d better go, this is probably not cheap.
I’ll phone you again soon he said.
Let you know how I’m getting on, he said, quietly.
I love you too, he said, I will, and then he hung up the phone and went and stood by the window. He looked for a moment, he stood up on tip-toe, he tried the other window, and the balcony, and he even went and stood on the bed and pushed his head against the ceiling but it was no good. He couldn’t see the sea. He’d wanted a room with a sea-view, and he couldn’t see it.
He slept, and then went downstairs for lunch.
Later, when he’d unpacked his clothes and had a look through the leaflets and maps on the bedside table, he went for a walk. The hotel opened straight out onto a busy road, and he followed this road towards the town centre. There was no pavement, and he had to press up against a wall whenever a lorry went rumbling past. Nobody else was walking, and he wondered if he should have got a taxi; he was running with sweat after a few minutes, and the dust thrown up by the traffic was getting in the back of his throat. But eventually the road widened out into a square, and there were shady trees, a fountain, and benches. He sat down, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and had a look around.
There were two old men playing chess. A man holding carefully onto his grandson beside the fountain. A newspaper vendor arguing with an older man. He looked at each of them in turn, and he leant down to adjust the straps of his new sandals where they were digging into his feet. He was very thirsty.
He walked over to the men playing chess and asked for directions to the beach. They told him. He said thank you, and looked at them for a moment. He didn’t ask them anything else. He said thank you again, and followed their directions to the sea.
Earlier, at the customs desk, the official had asked him the purpose of his visit and he’d come very close to telling him. Holiday, he’d said instead, pleasure, and the man had stamped his passport and handed it back to him.
He undressed and waded out into the sea, which was colder than he’d expected. The sun hurt his eyes. The drone of a distant fishing boat carried across the still water, and when he plunged his head beneath the surface he could still hear it, faintly. He swam out until he couldn’t touch the bottom, floated on his back for a few minutes, and swam back to the beach again.
His sandals were rubbing his feet too much to walk, so he took a taxi back to the hotel. The driver didn’t say anything to him.
Outside the hotel, two men were sitting on upturned crates, smoking. There was a bucket full of sand between them, planted with the stumps of old cigarettes. He said hello, and they each raised a hand and inclined their heads. He went up to his room and got changed.
Later, he took a tray from the salad bar to his room, ate, showered, and read through the leaflets and guidebooks in his room, planning out an itinerary. When it got dark he stood out on the balcony and watched people in the street. Now that it had cooled down there were more people walking around, a lot of well dressed teenagers, older couples, children racing backwards and forwards on rackety bicycles. There was a young woman standing by a bench opposite, apparently waiting for someone, and he tried but failed to stop himself from staring at her. She was remarkably beautiful; dark haired, full bodied, elegant, wearing a thin dress that hung delicately down to her ankles. She kept checking her watch and looking up and down the street, shifting her weight on uncomfortable looking shoes, folding and unfolding her arms.
Downstairs, the hotel dining room seemed to have become a bar for the evening, judging by the loud babble of voices and the thump-thump of disco music. He thought about going down for a drink, and decided not to. He phoned his wife to say goodnight, but she wasn’t there. He listened to the radio again, trying to tune it to the World Service.
He drank two large glasses of whisky, and he went to bed.
For most of the night he dreamt of dark-haired women in long dresses, dancing.
In the morning he got up early, walked into town, and caught a bus along the coast. There was a breeze up, and waves were whipping quickly across the sea, whitecaps flashing in and out of place as the swell was caught by the wind. They passed a beach with fishing boats hauled up out of the water, old wooden boats with peeling paintwork, piled high with nets and tackle, surrounded by broad-shouldered men in white vests and blue caps. They passed a row of houses, white-washed and red roofed, their low doorways opening onto shaded interiors, their shutters held closed by rusting clasps. They passed roadside market stalls, and fruit-heavy vineyards, and olive groves, and when they got to the next town he got off the bus and went straight to the local museum.
It was easy to find, a large sign on the outside of a long white building, a rack of postcards beside an open door which lead straight into the first room of exhibits. It was pleasant enough inside, cool and airy and light, and the artefacts seemed to be well cared for; but there were relatively few of them, and none of the captions had been translated into English. He was really quite disappointed. He went for a light lunch, and then followed a footpath down to the beach. He swam, rested, and caught a bus back to the hotel.
In the evening, he phoned his wife and told her about the day. He said I’m not really sure, I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here, I think I’ve made a mistake. He said no I know I know, but it just doesn’t feel right, it’s not what I expected. He said no I don’t know what I expected but I. There was shouting outside, a sudden crescendo of voices, a round of noisy laughter.
I’ve been pretending he said, that just being here could be enough, but I don’t think it will be at all.
I can’t just walk round he said, as though I’m only on holiday, not when I know that I might; and then neither of them spoke, they listened to each other breathing and wondered what to do next.
He said but actually he’s probably not even here now and maybe he never was.
Every morning, for a week, he got up, showered and dressed, had breakfast, and caught a bus to a different part of the island. His sandals stopped rubbing by the second day, so he spent most of his time walking around; looking in souvenir shops, visiting museums, swimming, eating lunch in cafes with pavement seats. He didn’t really talk to anyone, beyond the basic necessities. He wanted to, but he didn’t quite trust his vocabulary, or know what to talk about, or have the confidence to try. Once, he thought he heard someone call his name from across the street; but he’d misheard, and it was somebody else who shouted back, and somebody else who ran across the road to shake hands and be embraced. And even though he knew it wouldn’t happen like that – that it couldn’t possibly happen like that – he was still disappointed.
Another time, a man started talking to him in a cafe-bar. He’d been the only person in there; when he’d come through the door the girl behind the counter had looked up for a moment and waved at a buffet table, saying is help yourself sir, is all that you can eat. And he’d only been there a minute or two when an older man had sat down at his table and said excuse me you looking for someone? He’d had trouble swallowing his food when the man had said that, he’d looked up in surprise and wondered what was coming next. But then the man said you looking for very nice girl and he’d told the man no not at all he was just trying to enjoy his lunch.
He got to know the island quite well, especially around the coast, and there were a couple of museums he went back to more than once. There was one in particular which had a display about the island’s experiences during the war; a set of uniforms, some weaponry, maps and diagrams, medals. There was a series of photographs of men who had fought in the island’s various battles and defences, including one from 1945. He studied this photograph closely, looking at each of the faces in turn. The men looked very young, most of them younger than him, and they all looked very different, their hair slicked into waves, their arms raised in confident salutes. One of the men in the photo was stooping to kiss the soil. Another had his fist pressed against his heart. None of them were smiling.
Every evening, for a week, he phoned his wife and described for her what he had done that day, while she listened and wondered if he had anything else to tell her. Eventually, when he was halfway through his planned stay, she asked him.
What are you doing there? she said, after he’d told her about another old man he’d seen, outside a bar on one of the southern beaches.
He hesitated, he looked at his reflection in the mirror, the spread of leaflets and guidebooks on the floor beside the bed.
You know what I’m doing he said, quietly.
No, I don’t, she said. I know what you think you’re doing. Tell me what you’re doing there.
I’m looking for my father he said, and he turned away from the mirror, towards the window.
Stuart, she said, calmly, quietly, what are you doing?
He didn’t say anything.
I’m looking for my father he said again, sinking slowly onto the bed.
Stuart, she said, and finally her voice had a note of pleading threaded through it. Stuart, your father died three years ago. He’s buried in Birmingham. What are you doing there?
He held the phone away from his face, wiping his eyes with the same rough back-handed gestures he’d used on the plane.
He put the phone back to his ear. Helen, he said, I, and then he was quiet.
Stuart, come home, she said. You’re not going to find anything there. You’re not doing yourself any good. I miss you. Please.
There were things he wanted to try and explain. He’d had time to do a lot of thinking. There were things he wasn’t sure she understood. There were things he needed to say.
The sky was darkening outside. A breeze blew into the room, the sliding doors open to the empty noises of the evening.
He said, I don’t know.
He said, I miss you too.
He said, I’m coming home, love, I’ll be home soon, okay.
He put the phone down, and he went for one last walk in the warm night, moving among the crowds without speaking or making eye contact, letting the music of foreign voices wash over him, walking for hours until he was sure that sleep would be ready for him in the stifling heat of the hotel room; and in the morning he packed his suitcase, paid his bill, waited outside for a taxi, drove to the airport, and found himself a seat on the next available flight home. It hadn’t been quite what he was expecting.
