That evening, dinner was a nostalgic ritual. New lacey blue dress, new ecru linen suit and a white T-shirt, silver earring, blue-faced watch, perfume, praise. Hand in hand like a couple in an early date. Without planning, Marisa and Marco revisited the past in a quiet bistro that invoked another from the time he was still her teacher. But in the present there wasn't fear of being seen together nor the ghost of Lorena: Marco's account had lifted a fog obscuring their relationship from the start.
Lorena's shadow had abandoned his body, it no longer marked his features with the scars of bitterness and his lost daughter. For a few hours, Marco and Marisa sufficed each other and their bond composed a painting of perfect colors. The composition shifted when the two caught sight of a couple in jeans and colorful tunics in the atrium: Zoe and Jean-Philippe. The two were looking for them to have champagne in Robert and Eliana's cabin before the Intrepid show.
At the mention of them, Marisa stiffened with no excuse for backing off. Zoe linked one arm to hers and they walked ahead while Marco and Jean-Philippe followed behind. The rustle of passengers and the music from the piano bar left a trail of joy Marisa was far from sharing. She felt ashamed of her dream and didn't dare face Robert as though their intimacy had been real. She felt ashamed of her disproportional reaction.
As for Eliana... In a flash, Marisa recalled Madame Lefèvre's prediction the previous month. She had discussed it with Valentina and decided it was nonsense. Amid the rush to pack, Marisa erased the fortuneteller from memory. Now her prediction returned with a wave of panic, more oppressive than ever.
Another woman is about to win Marco's heart.
Marisa's eyes clouded and for an instant her legs faltered. Squeezing Zoe's arm, she tried to control her qualm. She couldn't avoid Eliana and Robert indefinitely. It was nonsense, she said to herself. But upon entering their cabin on Deck 11, Marisa had a dejà vu feeling that renewed the acrid taste of bile and apprehension in the back of her mouth. A fluttering Eliana welcomed them in a dress with layers of sandy gauze. At each of her gestures, the gauze rustled while she rattled in a singsong voice how she had called their cabin but no one answered, how great it was that Zoe and Jean-Philippe had managed do find them, how they would pop a special champagne brought from Miami.
On cue, Robert showed them a bottle of Krug 1995 and Zoe whistled. Soon the cork leaped to the ceiling and the golden liquid cascaded to the glasses. Jean-Philippe and Zoe occupied the sofa, Marisa installed herself in the armchair with Marco by her side on a chair subtracted from the balcony. Eliana and Robert sat on the edge of the bed—he, in exceptionally good spirits, wore a jean shirt with rolled-up sleeves and seemed to unwind as the days progressed.
"So what's the occasion?" Jean-Philippe asked Robert.
"We're happy for taking this trip and making new friends. Let's toast to the unexpected paths life unravels."
So they did, and the champagne bubbled to the roof of the mouth with a refreshing note of honey and nuts. The open balcony door let in the starry night with the sea breeze and the murmur of the waters. They remained silent for a moment savoring their drinks.
Marisa loathed every minute. Alienating herself, she escaped by thinking of other things. The next morning they would stop at a private island in the Bahamas and she pictured herself running across the hot sand, open arms, all alone. She realized Marco was talking to her.
"Marisa likes indie rock, right, Mari?" He looked at her with what she deemed condescendence. "I'm past that phase but can still enjoy it."
"Indie rock is good in any phase." Robert smiled and turned on the MP3 player on the nightstand. "Have you listened to Food for Clouds, Marisa?
Don't close your eyes to love
Welcome it in your heart
It comes from within and above
Through that mystical dart
She nodded. The Brian Jonestown Massacre was one of her favorite bands. Listening to that familiar track brought comfort and made her forget momentarily her uneasiness. Robert showed other songs from other bands, inquired which she liked and Marisa loosened up. Her favorite artists: The Doors, Sublime, The Cure, Zero 7, Air. And his: Led Zeppelin, The Racounteurs, Bonnie Raitt, David Bowie, Traffic.
"Did you noticed our list only includes old bands? What happened to the new groups?" Robert speculated.
"They're all the same. I don't even know if you can still call that music."
And Marisa turned up her nose. She mentioned the radio hits fabricated by the same producers with the same formulas based on algorithms. Studies showed melody had become dramatically impoverished and the complexity of lyrics was compatible with seven-year-olds. According to research, the hits playing over and over on the radio atrophied listeners' intelligence and creativity because they didn't stimulate the brain.
Robert explained that in reality those songs were popular precisely for their battered form and repetition. The human brain needed stimulation indeed, but it also got attached to what sounded familiar. It was easier to persuade people into liking a track with a predictable formula playing a thousand times than another track that met their taste but played seldom. A purely commercial strategy. Marisa retorted that was garbage. Robert quoted Peter Gabriel: you knew a culture from its trash.
"Come sit here." Eliana stood and motioned to Marisa, yielding her place. "Robert loves music and you two have a lot to talk about."
Marisa politely declined. Eliana insisted. They switched positions, and Marisa found herself between two forces exerting an unbearable pressure within her, pulling and stretching, compressing and suffocating. On one hand, Robert's proximity and the smell of his aftershave lotion, that disturbing lotion saturating her dream and her nudity on a bed that only existed in the imagination. On the other hand, the proximity of Eliana and Marisa's impotence to push her away or prevent Marco from gravitating to her. Now Eliana discussed education with him. The two, apparently, also had a lot to talk about.
Everywhere and nowhere, there's where Marisa stood. She chatted in autopilot and pretended to enjoy the music she didn't hear. When the group got ready to leave, she was the first to step out the cabin. During the show, Marisa stayed with Marco next to Jean-Philippe and Zoe in the huge theater with a shell-shaped stage, amidst a blue sea of chairs disdained by the crowd that wouldn't quit dancing. Her tension subdued. Later, though, it returned and distended. They followed the bar circuit and the formation of the group kept changing: one moment the interaction was collective, the next it split between men and women or the pairs shuffled.
Although they were cordial to Jean-Philippe and Zoe, Eliana invariably wound up talking to Marco and Robert to Marisa. The couple expanded, occupying more space near the two. Eliana laid her hand on Marco's arm and shoulder in a natural manner, and it occurred to Marisa her body never rested, always alert in an artificial fluidity. She detected in Robert that same deliberation while he too touched her with a frequency that began to affect her. Robert and Eliana must have developed a similar posture by living together, Marisa thought. At times they hugged and exchanged a knowing look, then they parted and soon resumed their amicable harassment.
At two the group left behind the last counter with a row of empty glasses and speakers pouring Chris Isaak's liquid guitar interweaved with the first lines of Please. They stumbled into the panoramic lift singing: Please, please... By now, they all carried in their blood a considerable amount of alcohol and disinhibition. Zoe and Jean-Philippe, giggling mischievously and leaning against each other, said their goodbyes on Deck 7. When Marisa and Marco prepared to disembark on Deck 10, Eliana and Robert insisted they accompanied them. No clarification was offered, only smiles.
The four got off on Deck 11, and as they burrowed into the hall, Marisa's torpor dissipated. She had an uncomfortable suspicion of what Eliana and Robert intended. The two of them walked ahead and, halfway to their cabin, Eliana threw a backward glance without pausing. She winked at Marco and Marisa.
It was like in a movie, the camera at once zooming in and closing the focus on Eliana's profile. Marisa registered every detail, the curve on the corner of the lips, the translucent layer of rosy power on the cheek, the eyelid that dropped like a guillotine blade letting the hint of an invitation tumble in their direction.
We're happy for taking this cruise and making new friends. Let's toast to the unexpected paths life unfolds.
In Marisa's mind, the magic cube clicked in place: a couple swap. That's what Eliana and Robert had been scheming the whole evening. She entered their cabin against her will and remained by the door, conjecturing how Marco would react to the proposition. He appeared at ease—much at ease. If he really wished to quench his old desire for Eliana, what was the point of opposing it? That wouldn't eradicate the desire. Perhaps it was best to let him screw Eliana all night to the brink of nausea. That's how one pruned a desire.
What if Marco had a blast and wanted to repeat the experience? What if he had such a blast he didn't want to stop anymore?
Propping herself against the door frame, Marisa saw the magic cube colors mixing in a snap. She imagined Eliana's blonde hair sprawled on Marco's dark skin, the wet kisses, the sticky genitals, his moans low and hers lasciviously loud. Please, please, you're killing me. Marco would at last satisfy himself in her flesh, the whore covered in jewelry, the whore whose black claws scratched his torso impeccably while she spread her legs wide to receive all of him, more, more, the whore satiating her curiosity, her unresolved attraction to Marco now brought to light under the pretext of a wrecked marriage.
Then Marisa imagined Robert's ardent breath on her own body, the slow touch and all of a sudden the urgent penetration, as urgent as in her dream. He inebriated of her and the love potion, hips colliding against hers, his sex reaching her entrails and she expanding to invite him deeper, swooning among the spasms that almost hurt because it was so deep, it was so good, and they grunted like two animals imprisoned in the same laborious, synchronic, chronic rhythm, until the entire cadence shattered in a vortex of lava and vertigo...
And afterward?
Trapped, she eyed the three of them and directed an oblique gaze at the bed, computing the possible configurations. She wanted to yank Marco away from that cabin. Indecision, however, arrested her.
At this point, Eliana approached Marisa and took her by the hand.
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Hmm... Challenge: control your nerves! xoxo