At night Sven comes to the window and calls softly. He waits until Antje’s asleep before he sneaks out. Which means he still hasn’t told her. I’m applying no pressure. The old man has taught me at least one thing: you can’t force men to do anything.
We go down near the water. Sven lays a camping mat on some flat rocks. At night the Atlantic roars even louder than it does during the day. The racket drowns out our cries. The darkness is absolute. A kind of darkness unknown in Berlin. Even if the old man were standing a few meters away, he could neither hear nor see us.
Sex and oceans — many corny things have been said about that subject. I’m afraid they all apply. Mostly it happens pretty fast. Then we wrap ourselves up in a blanket and wait half an hour before beginning again. More slowly, with a different sort of force.
Sometimes, in the midst of it all, panic suddenly overcomes me. Something’s not right. The whole thing’s too improbable. I’m losing control. It’s as though Sven could at any moment rip off his face, and someone else’s would emerge from under it. My father’s. Or the old man’s. Then all at once hatred is mixed in with pleasure. I want to draw up my feet and kick Sven in the stomach so that he falls backward into the breakers. When Theo slaps me around, at least I know: this is reality. Unmistakably. Senseless, unfair, brutal reality. No error possible.
Such thoughts soon vanish again. Most likely I’m just not used to being treated well. It scares me.
We go back, not touching each other, and separate in silence. Each to one side of the sandlot, each to a different house. In the morning, when I wake up: a sudden flood of happiness. Like a child on Christmas morning, I know something lovely is in store. I get up and make coffee for me and the old man.
11
We strolled down to the port. The evening was mild. The island enjoys about three hundred mild evenings per year, but this particular evening had something special. The breeze was so soft it made me suspicious again. The contours of people and buildings looked vaguely blurry. On the other hand, all sounds seemed somehow to have sharp outlines. Theo and Jola also noticed something. While we walked along the steep asphalt road, he kept moving closer and closer to her. After we reached the harbor promenade, she allowed him to put his arm around her. She even leaned her head on his shoulder. When I saw that, I felt relief. I let myself drop back a few steps and looked in another direction, as if we weren’t together.
The small group of people stood out even from a distance. Gathered at the spot on the quay where the berths for yachts over twenty meters began, they didn’t appear to be waiting for a table at one of the restaurants. Rather they were gazing across the harbor basin toward the arrival jetty on the inner side of the mole.
“Can you believe these morons?” Jola said. “They’re actually waiting for that Stadler bitch.”
Yvette Stadler was a famous German singer and actress, whose name I’d heard for the first time that morning. Antje’s Spanish was good enough to extract news from the chatter she listened to on Crónicas Radio, and at breakfast she’d relayed a bulletin: the sailing yacht Dorset, chartered by the German protein-bar heir Lars Bittmann, was expected to arrive early this evening at the marina in Puerto Calero. Among the passengers on board was the aforesaid Yvette Stadler. Antje laughed when I asked who that was.
“Just drive over to Puerto Calero and take a look.”
“Are you nuts?” I asked. “Why would I do that?”
And there I was. It had been Jola’s idea, like everything else we’d done over the past few days. She had on insect sunglasses and a fancy turban, accessories to what she called “going incognito.” No matter what disguise she wore, I would have recognized the space between her teeth.
“I’m looking forward to seeing all those dopey faces,” Jola said.
“Just imagine, Sven,” Theo added. “They’ve been waiting two hours, and for a B-list celebrity.”
It was the first time in two days that Theo hadn’t called me “Little Shit.” His eyes were gleaming with happy anticipation, which shone under Jola’s sunglasses as well. The Dorset seemed to mean something to both of them.
“Bittmann always does this,” Jola explained. “He gathers together some members of the cultural jet set, sails halfway around the world, and faxes his guest list to the news agencies. The most famous person on the list isn’t really on board at the time.”
Thinking about German celebrities made me nauseous with indifference. I didn’t understand what was so funny about watching a few island tourists waiting in vain for Yvette Stadler. But Theo and Jola were feeling cheerful for the same reason — the first time that had happened in days — and I spotted Dave among the group of onlookers. He was taller by a head than anyone he was standing with. Theo’s arm was still around Jola’s shoulders. I couldn’t have wished for a better statement to make in public; I even imagined we might be at a turning point. I thought maybe Jola had just been using me in recent days to win Theo back. Women pulled things like that, ultimately harmless tricks that led straight back into normality.
“Dave!”
He turned to us, and I could see him register what he saw, and in what order: me, then Jola and Theo, and then the fact that they were walking arm in arm while I strolled along next to them, relaxed, hands in my pockets. “Hey,” I said to Dave, patting him on the shoulder. We always spoke in English. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Just paying my respects to a world-famous beauty.”
“Yvette Stadler? Don’t tell me you’re a fan.”
“Christ, no.” Dave laughed. “I’m here for the boat!”
“The Dorset’s the biggest gaff cutter in the world,” Jola explained. “Built in 1926, meticulously restored in 2006. Sails under the British flag.”
The look Dave gave her showed his deep amazement. It was as though Jola had just changed from a talking doll to a genuine human person right before his eyes. “So you know about the Dorset?” he asked her.
“She’s a legend! She held her own against modern boats at the Superyacht Cup in 2007, then took two first places at the Saint-Tropez Regatta the following year!”
Another few seconds and Dave would be proposing marriage to her. “You’re saying she can do nine knots?”
That was surely a trick question. No boat wins a regatta with a speed of nine knots. Jola’s mouth spread in a wide grin. “You’ve got to be kidding! Bittmann says she’s done seventeen or more, and she was recorded as breaking twenty-two back in the twenties.”
It was all over for Dave. Generously and resignedly, Theo removed his arm from Jola’s shoulders. Once again, he was lending out his girlfriend.
“You know a thing or two about boats,” Dave said.
“My dad’s always been into sailing,” Jola answered as they took a few steps to one side. “I was co-skipper by the time I was twelve. I knew exactly when to reef the sails or start the engine.”
The longing expressed in Dave’s body language was something to behold. He bent his six-foot-four frame slightly so he could come as close as possible to Jola’s face. While she spoke, he stared at her mouth. Theo followed my eyes. His lips curled in the familiar sneering smile. “Anyone who wants to own a mare like that has to be tolerant when other stallions come sniffing around her,” he said.
At first I thought I’d misheard him, and then I didn’t know how to reply.
“Look at me,” he said. He spread out his arms like a Mafia godfather. “I put up with you banging her. So you have to put up with the Englishman gawking at her a little.”