Cuban Diner
Sebastien once asked me why I didn’t make an effort to speak Delphine and the girls’ language. I told him French was a relic. Everyone knew this, except, the French.
Inspired by Austrian novelist Stefan Zweig, a believer in Europe and cosmopolitanism.
On the third day, water began to beat the island from all side. The girls spent their days at the indoor pool, circled by a pack of teenage boys. Delphine and Sebastien roamed the lobby, Sebastien wearing his pale, urban face like a badge of honor. Every afternoon they sat at the mezzanine bar and had long, conspiratorial sibling talks, probably, this time, about why I had suddenly decided to take time off and ship us all to Cuba. I didn’t join them. I had learned French in school, like most Swiss children, but after graduation I had shelved it. Sebastien once asked me why I didn’t make an effort to speak Delphine and the girls’ language. I told him French was a relic. Everyone knew this, except, the French.
It suited me to be left alone. I combed methodically through our hotel, checked the bars, terraces and smoking lounges, and regularly scanned the new arrivals, gathered at the reception. Herr von Zweig was expected any day, despite announcements of torrential rain and a slew of cancelled flights. The hotel staff joked about the coming storm with tired bravado, and forty-eight hours later La Chica made entry. Wind gusts slapped the island, dragged the rows of palm trees sideways by the tip of their crowns. At night I stationed myself on the sea-facing balcony and watched the kamikaze waves along the promenade pulverize to white dust. That’s when it happened. A slow release of memories. Details came back to me, gestures, scraps of conversation. Smells of that other night, downtown in the rain laced with fried onion and meat. As if a tight fist in my brain was unclenching. I waited almost passively for the results. This was new too. This letting things happen, instead of asserting control. It wasn’t a conscious choice. After Magda, my life had turned into a string of vigilant, lucrative decisions. In hindsight, I could see clearly that Magda was doomed. But that’s hindsight, what I had lacked was foresight. You don’t court a dead woman without being haunted, eventually.
Excerpt from story, still in revision.