Tim Alter separated the hotel curtains, turning his back on his crew mate Jackson, who had claimed the better twin bed by throwing his duffel right in the middle of it. Tim wanted to see if there was any kind of view, any sign of this “insurrection” along the coast that had kept them from their original port. Another stop on the Asian leg of the yacht race, the last in a string of watery towns whose names he couldn’t pronounce and probably wouldn’t remember. Tim closed the curtains in disgust at the sight of a three-inch-long cockroach on the water pipe just outside the window. The view beyond was nothing but a brick wall. It must have been the heat that grew things so large in this sweaty part of the world. Tim’s policy was to stay with the air conditioning and try not to think about anything.
“You coming?” Jackson said in a voice so flat with lack of enthusiasm that it told what answer he wanted.
“Don’t think so.”
Jackson looked relieved. He was basically a good guy, and he probably sympathized even if he hadn’t seen what actually happened. It wasn’t Tim’s fault, but the skipper still thought it was. Everyone would be listening to him relive how Tim had supposedly waited too long to give the sign. Tim wasn’t going to sit there and pretend he didn’t know the skipper had been the one to delay, the damned sail wrapping around the mast like a dead sailor’s shroud. The race was dead enough now, and it was easier for the skipper to blame his crew leader than say he was the one who messed up himself. Losing was bad enough, but then the boat had been rerouted down the coast, and they were all tired as well as disappointed. Going out with them was an impossible choice: Tim could either keep his job or keep his pride. He simply chose not to choose.
Jackson stood, silhouetted in the open doorway. “We have two taxis waiting. There’s room.”
“No, really. I’m tired. Go on.”
Jackson, his duty met, shot out the door without another word.
Tim showered quickly and, since he didn’t like to be alone, took the stairs down the four dank, warm flights to the lobby level rather than wait for the unreliable elevator. There was supposed to be a nightclub, though the International Hotel didn’t look big enough for much. It was about the only game inside the walled compound, though. By the time he got to the lobby, the rest of the racing crew had gone into town to submerge the loss in local alcohol. No taxis anywhere. He was glad he’d begged off. Even outside the lounge, Tim heard music thumping against the wall. He nodded at the doorman as he entered, the beat louder now, a series of detonations. Good. He didn’t want to think, just sit and have a couple of beers, maybe dance if there were any good-looking women. Usually in these clip joints they made sure there were, even if they had to scrounge them up from the next town over or whatever. Even if you had to pay for the lady’s drinks and God knew what else.
Jackson had said that the International compound was built as R&R for American servicemen back during the Vietnam War, and it looked old enough. Tim pictured his father here, wild young version who flew helicopters, pretty impressed with himself, a girl on each arm, but oblivious to the greed and desperation in their glances. The last time Tim had seen his father, the old man had bragged about feeling invincible, being invincible. “I’m still around, aren’t I?” said Dad. “Most of the guys I knew didn’t have what it took.”
Tim had just looked at him, realizing that he was older than his father had been during his Asian tour. Still no clue, his old man. No survivor’s guilt, no respect for the cosmic roll of the dice, flip of the coin, track of the bullet that said you live, you die. “Maybe you’re still alive because of dumb luck, not because you control the universe. I thought combat was supposed to teach you that,” Tim would tell him one day.
The nightclub’s dim lighting disguised how run-down it was. Tables and chairs surrounded what passed for a dance floor in front of a stage where a cover band’s full-on amps disguised how badly they played. Besides some tourist couples and a few other Westerners, there were two tables where local women and men in same-gender groups sat eyeing while pretending not to notice each other. Everyone shouted over the music. The air conditioner was inadequate, and you could feel the bodies marinating. Tim decided that this nightclub, beached in a foreign land’s second-rate port town with a sign in English over the bandstand proclaiming its name Opportunity, this outpost at the end of the known world, with its mood of lust without expectation, fit his mood exactly.
He seated himself at the bar, knowing they could charge you ten times as much if you sat at a table, where several thirsty women might swarm you within seconds. Just when he’d decided he was only there to watch the show, he saw a white woman come through the door alone. Maybe she’d found exactly the right place, too — whether it was a lost yacht race or some psychic defeat, it didn’t matter here. Thin and fair and almost unremarkable, she wasn’t beautiful. But her gray-blue eyes were, the expression at once hopeless and still searching for next of kin. It was as though life had been a terrible swindle up until now, and her very ill-fortune made her believe her luck had to change. Somehow he could tell she wasn’t American. He guessed British; you found them everywhere. She was walking toward the bar, toward him.
Before she could say anything, Tim said, “Hello. Fancy a drink?”
In a clear English accent, she said, “That would be lovely,” floating weightlessly onto the barstool beside his, leaning in to be heard and extending a fine-boned white hand. It was small and pale, trembling like a dove trapped in his suntanned, work-weathered hand. “I’m Ann Gamble. Would you be one of the yachtsmen, then?”
Tim smiled. “Word must get around,” he said, gesturing for the bartender, who brought a drink to Ann without being told. Tim’s smile turned into a laugh. “Guess that saves me the line where I ask if you come here often.”
“Oh dear, how embarrassing, but I won’t deny it. My elbows have worn a hole in the bar by now, believe me.”
“I believe you.” He ordered a San Miguel beer for himself; safer to get something in a bottle. “So you live here?”
“I won’t deny that, either.”
The band took a break, so they were able to talk without shouting, though a stereo now played the unintelligible minor-key wailing of singers who must be complaining about being stuck in a place like this all their lives.
But Ann was no complainer. She was a good listener, and Tim felt easy talking to her, even if he held back telling her the reason why he was in the nightclub by himself rather than with the rest of the crew. He said, “I was here so I could meet you.”
She blinked. Perhaps with her British reserve she was surprised at his forwardness. While she assimilated his interest in her, she was silent. Then she surprised him in exchange by asking, “Do you dance, Tim?”
The band had returned, and after one fast version of “Roxanne,” turned to slow enough numbers for Tim to get by on the dance floor. Several other couples were out there, too, so nobody could really tell what he was doing with his feet. In a heavy accent, the singer was saying she was every woman in the world to him. And there was some kind of magic in the brothlike air, because for a few minutes, with Ann light in his arms, Tim forgot where he was, the dance transporting him as though it were a ritual. Didn’t the Hindus believe that? It didn’t have to make sense. He pictured a cloud in a hot turquoise Asian sky, the image of a naked goddess, dancing. He wondered if Ann’s light linen dress would slip off easily, what she might be wearing underneath, what she’d look like naked. But it went farther than that. He wondered what she would look like with sleep in those seeking eyes, barely focusing in the morning. Maybe every morning.