Peg Boyers

It was a beach like all beaches, only perhaps more beautiful. And the sand was pink not red. We would arrive in caravans, hampers overflowing with food and drink like Aziz and his party on the way to Malabar. The colonials and their servants away on an outing. We would stop under thatch umbrellas, towels and tablecloths spread out against the sea. My mother in her skirted swim suit surrounded by fathers of other children, her olive skin lit through her straw hat. They would laugh and drink beer and leer while the children did the usual beach things, boring futile tunnels to China, running at waves and then away, daring each other to be swallowed. I would go out by the forbidden rocks and pick off oysters, then give them to the men to pry open, cover with lime juice and suck dry. Once, I saw my mother sucking an oyster out of another daddy’s hand. Her dappled face bobbed and smiled and her tongue searched the shell for pearls.

En Cuba tuve— I’m tired of hearing your complaints. All that whining about elexilio, the tragedy of loss, In Cuba I had— the catalogue of things, the status, the riches, the opulence of it all. I had a mate. We were a pair. Our mistress was young. We were young. We would dangle on her ear Concentrate on what you have. Forget the past. and go out on the town. Mojitos at La Floridita, dancing at the Tropicana and later No, don’t tell me about later. in the jewel case, an aqua Tiffany box with white satin interior, we Tiffany’s? From New York? I didn’t know you— would lie together in the pillowy luxury, my ruby top layer and his aligned, our bases Please you needn’t— touching, my diamond waist and his forming a continuous line. Sometimes we would switch backs, I’d push I understand that in communities of exile the population my piercing needle through his back, his through mine. That’s tends to lose ground politically as assimilation takes place, that how I liked it best, a little harsh, but sweet. Tu y yo, you and I, is what she called us because our very longing is a constitutive ingredient of not only the condition of exile but— body parts were paired, he and I, forming a single unit, an I and a thou. Apart Surely you have adjusted. Look, you’re mounted on a ring, you are independent, and prized. Very attractive for your age, I might add. we are nothing. Longing doesn’t quite— One adapts? As to an amputation. And La Revolución? Don’t make me vomit.

At supper he whispers something in your ear, the Judas boy, who wants you. We go to the garden where it’s cool and wait. From my place against the tree I see you through the window, watch as you walk from door to desk, reach into your pocket, pull out your wallet, empty it and leave it by the lamp, pick up a pen, lean over to write, then don’t, take something heavy from the drawer, put it back then sweep the money into a paper bag. You walk from desk to door and out, your hand reaching back to put out the light. On the security film you leave the building alone, holding the heavy bag. Off camera you walk towards the Charles, leave your saddle shoes under the pedestrian bridge. We wait in the garden. And wait. We don’t know yet whom you meet or why. We don’t know yet that the river has claimed you.