“Amen,” said Peter, utterly tongue-tied.
“Hans, tell me what’s happening.”
Peter searched desperately for something logical to say, then spoke the only truth he dared. “I can’t speak yet…”
He pulled her out into the warm water, feeling her breasts soft against his chest. “That wasn’t your corpse in the car. I knew it. But whose was it?” Corpse? He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know.” “Jesus, you’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you?” He laughed, soundlessly, without meaning to. Was there some kind of trouble he wasn’t in now? “I have a knack for the obvious,” she said, with girlish embarrassment. And then, “Does this mean I’m in trouble, too?” Good Lord, I hope not, Peter thought, and lied. “No,” he said. “Of course not.” “Was it you who sent that e-mail? Are you IslandMan?” Emal? IslandMan? He felt a shiver go through him and tried to adopt a neutral expression. Tell her to go home, he thought desperately’. Tell her to get the hell out, tell her to forget about you, tell her that you’re never going to see her again. “I missed you so much,” he sad, feeling tears burn his eyes. Was that his body speaking for him or was he now speaking for his body? Or was there no longer any difference? This last thought simultaneously frightened and liberated him. He watched, mesmerized by her beauty as she gazed out over the luminescent bay. “I dreamed about this place,” she sad.
“Did you? I did, too, I think.”
She looked back at him and smiled a lovely smile. So much warmth in it, such affection. “You used to come here, didn’t you, when you were a little boy.” He frowned. “Did I mention that?” he guessed. “Not really.” She darkened. “You never told me anything. Was that fax from you? Who was that kid in the car?” His head spun as he pulled her closer. He could feel her trembling and realized that he was as well. “I don’t want you to worry,” he said. “But I want you to be careful. We can’t stay too long together here. Not now. She stared at him in alarm. “I can’t leave you after just finding you!” His heart spoke again. “I don’t want you to leave,” he said. “But… “I should be scared, shouldn’t I? I am scared.” He nodded gently. “What car did you see?” “A Range Rover, driven by a young guy, maybe mid-twenties. He was waiting for me at the airport when my flight landed and then he came to the hotel.” “You spoke to him?”
She shook her head, feeling suddenly so sane for doing what had seemed so crazy. “I didn’t take the plane. I snuck over on the ferry and watched the plane come in. I saw him, he didn’t see me.” He felt a burst of admiration. She was smart and brave and intuitive. And lucky, he began to think, too. Who was that? “Did he look military?”
“I think his car was. He just looked-kind of intense.” His mind was racing. He kissed her softly, hoping his pounding heart wouldn’t betray his own growing fear, “Change hotels.” “No need. I’m at the Casa del Frances.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Hans, your mother…”
She left the sentence hanging. All he could do was nod, torn between his desire to know more about his past-every-thing possible, as a matter of fact. And about this marvelous woman. But also by a terrible fear of betraying himself as an imposter-or worse. “She okay?” he asked lamely’. “She’s okay’. She was devastated, as you can imagine. But she’s tough. We talked. A lot. About you.” He squeezed her hand. “The less she knows… “Yes. I understand. I don’t suppose you can tell me either.” “No. Not yet.” Peter thought: I’m in hell and I’m in heaven and I can’t tell the difference. “Can you live with that for now?” Christ, he thought, I don’t even know her name. “Yes,” she said. “So long as I don’t lose you again.” “You won’t lose me,” he said with utter conviction, taking her face in his hands. Their lips met again and then they were making love, more slowly this time, a thing that was tidal and profound and full of mystery. There was a point when both of them were crying, and then they passed beyond even that. He felt her tremble on the edge and hold back, and then give in, coming over and over. And then it was his turn-and still later their turn-until everything just fell away. the sea and the moon and the stars, and there was only the two of them together, suspended in a miracle of light against the primordial darkness. How much time had passed? He had lost all track, and it was a long while before the uneasiness crept back in. But creep back in it did. He had no idea how long he had been gone from the base. “I have to go,” he said.
He felt her tighten. “Where?”
He shook his head, and to his relief, she answered for him. “Not yet. Okay. When do I see you again?” “Tomorrow night,” he heard himself say.
“Should I believe you?”
“Yes,” he insisted, meaning it.
“Will you tell me what’s going on then?”
“I’ll explain what I can,” he said carefully, as though he were testifying in a court of law, “The Casa del Frances?” “Yes.”
“Wait there. Don’t go out. I’ll try to be there by six. Can you wait that long?” “Of course I can.”
He looked in her eyes. Everything was as he had dreamed it, down to the barely’ discernable scar tissue along the eye sockets, the strangeness of her face and its amazing, unaccountable familiarity. “What name did you register under?” She frowned, puzzled. “My own name. Oh, you mean because of the kid. No, I had to give the hotel my credit card.” “Yes, of course.” All right, he thought, I can find out her name when I get there. “Good-bye,” he said. He kissed her deeply and disappeared.
Elizabeth watched him go.
She waited until he had vanished around an outcropping of rock, then put her clothes back on and started back for her car. She felt as if she could almost have been dreaming, or had, perhaps, gone mad. But for the first time in weeks, she felt crystalline and strong. She had Hans back again, one way or the other, and nothing else mattered. And not only was he back, but he was back as a Hans tempered by an experience she hardly dared guess at, informed by a depth she had never felt before. There had been a sensitivity in his lovemaking that for the first time put her pleasure ahead of his own, and a gentleness, a sadness and, in the midst of their passion, a sobriety and tact that were light-years away from the Hans she had known. As if he had matured overnight, turning from being a brash and cynical boy into a tender, caring man wise beyond his years. What in God’s name had he been through?
Almost giddy, she realized that she knew less than ever who her lover Hans Brinkman really was-and was more compelled than ever to find out. 10
Peter went hack through the trees in a daze. What the hell is going on and how am I going to find out about it? Worse, what did I do tonight, what was that? How could I do that to Beatrice? And the most frightening question of all: who the hell am I? He knew the answer to none of these questions. All he knew for sure was that something disastrous had happened and if he didn’t pull himself together, worse was to come. That he had betrayed Beatrice for the first time in their marriage had begun to torment him the instant he left Phosphorescent Bay. There had never been anyone but Beatrice, not even during those first difficult years, when they had fought every day, when neither knew from month to month whether the marriage would actually last. And there is still no one, he tried to tell himself, as he ran back down the beach, watching his pale shadow before him on the barren sand. He thought wildly that perhaps he had just experienced a fugue episode. Maybe something had gotten miswired between his brain and his body during the transplant and now he was locked in a dream and couldn’t escape. He could see that therein lay madness, but it also made perfect sense. Whatever the reason, he was terrified of three things: that somehow the membrane between fantasy and reality had been ruptured irreparably, that his conscience had been dealt a mortal blow and that he would never again enjoy the safety and order of the rational world he had to this moment so much taken for granted. What am I going to tell Beatrice?