‘I’m okay.’
‘Yes, Miss, you will like?’
‘Well, not—’
‘I know you will like, Miss,’ he says, slowly, assuredly.
‘I’m not—’
‘Miss, come on, you will like.’
I nod tentatively and follow him into the restaurant.
I snap awake at 5. I wipe my forehead and the back of my neck. My stomach is bloated. I feel blocked. Gassy. I want to stab myself with something thin and sharp to release the pressure in my belly. Instead I jab it harshly with my fingers.
Cockerels crow in the near distance. I wonder how far away they are from the strength of their cry. It’s still dark outside. I try to distract myself from how sore I feel by trying to count them, I get to eleven and quit, unsure if I’m counting the same cock twice.
I massage my stomach and think about Bev, Maria, Zander, Jacob, the whole set-up on the beach. As I replay it, I wonder if there’s something I misinterpreted.
A bout of nausea hits me when I remember how much I ate in the restaurant.
I groan.
I want to punish myself for overeating by eating more.
When it gets brighter, I open the flimsy curtains and check Maria’s room, to see if she’s back, if she has company. It looks the same as when I went over last night. I scan the courtyard; the grandmother wrings clothes near the family’s room. I wave at her but the old lady doesn’t notice.
I open the plastic bag with the garlic bread and chocolate and peck at them. I wonder how I can face Maria again. I’m embarrassed about leaving. I’m embarrassed about being there in the first place.
Absently, my fingers pick at air and I look down. Crumbs and flecks of melted chocolate remain.
I don’t want to go to the breakfast area in case I bump into Maria coming home. There’s supposed to be an English bookshop somewhere but I haven’t been able to locate it yet, but I decide this morning, I’ll find it, even if I have to ask the locals where it is.
The high street bustles. Dublin would be only warming up now with traffic and workers, but here it’s already like lunchtime. I ignore all the cries for my attention, go down the street, armed with a map and the name of the bookshop. My thighs chafe against my denim shorts. I try my best to keep my breath even in the crowds of foreigners. I’m the foreign one here.
Stopping to take out the map, I stall at a doorway. I check whether anyone’s watching. I’m carrying little cash if I’m to be mugged at gun or knifepoint. All I have is the equivalent of thirty dollars in local money.
I figure out where I must be on the map and turn it upside down to see if the street goes in the direction I’m going in. Right. Third turn on the left. It should be beside a surf shop. There’s nothing that resembles a bookshop on the street. I go up and down it a few times. I stop suddenly. That’s the problem. I’m expecting to see an Irish-style store when it probably is nothing like one. With a fresh perspective I turn back on the street and start over. The sun is risen, yawning and stretching white rays in the calm blue sky.
I concentrate and locate the building; it’s lined with frangipani and succulents in cement balcony planters. Once I find it, the sign is obvious. ‘Bookshop’ written in a simple yellow font on a red background. How did I miss it? There are two bookshelves in one window but also loads of souvenirs, paintings and cards. In another window, colourful tapestries of Balinese art backdrop small wooden handcrafts. It looks like all the tourist shops I’ve seen here.
The front door is locked. A sign beside the shutters says in English that the place stocks new and used books in twelve different languages, and it says something else in a language I assume is Indonesian. The daily opening hours are written underneath. Fifteen minutes to wait. I lean against the wall, under some shade, and admire the town around me. The heat is bearable and the sun’s hard light makes the colour and vibe seem fun. I notice how friendly the people are to each other, their laughter and smiles. Jesus, they never stop with the smiling.
An older Western man wearing a dazzling white shirt and black jeans walks down the street, stops at the bookshop.
‘Is not open?’ He turns to me. French, I guess, from his voice.
‘Not for another five minutes at least,’ I say and look at the time on my phone.
He whistles. ‘Western time or Balinese time, I wonder.’
He has horn-rimmed glasses. His paunch bulges slightly under his shirt. A gold chain around his neck glimmers when it catches the sun. He smiles at me and I find myself smiling back.
‘You,’ he says, ‘you enjoy to read?’
‘I finished my book and have re-read it already. Need something new. Badly.’ I show him the book.
He takes it from me; his nails are trim and clean. He inspects the book, opening the first page, reading the last page.
‘This looks rather interesting,’ he says.
‘It’s only okay,’ I say.
‘What genres do you like?’ he asks and stands nearer. His cologne is freshly cut citrus.
‘I don’t really know. I haven’t read much since school. I only picked this up in the airport because it was in the number one spot on bestsellers and I thought I’d heard of the writer before.’
‘It’s a romance, no?’
‘Yep.’
‘You do not like romance?’ he asks.
I scan for sarcasm in his comment but can’t find it. ‘I do – well – I dunno. I thought the book was silly. Unrealistic. The characters in it, they didn’t seem like real people.’
He chuckles. ‘They are characters. They are not real people.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But the storyline wasn’t credible. What they did to each other, if they did that in everyday life, I think that the other one would steer clear or maybe call the police. It was a romantic book but not about real love. Real living love.’
‘And what would that be? Real living love?’ he asks, wrinkling his nose.
I relax a little. ‘Isn’t it what makes you whole? You can trust that it’s safe to be yourself. That you’re attractive being yourself. That you’re okay.’
‘Do you not feel these ways, little lady?’ He edges forward; his chin is at an angle.
‘What?’ I move back.
‘Do you not feel these ways within you already?’
I shake my head and turn my torso away, unsure of where he’s going with this.
‘Then how could somebody else give them to you?’ he asks and puts his hand out. ‘I am Jean-Luc.’
A young Balinese woman stops beside us and smiles. ‘Moment,’ she says, unbolting the door’s shutters.
The bookshop feels airy with its high ceilings and natural light flooding in, but the aisles are cramped with piles of books and random musical instruments. Jean-Luc strolls around and returns with finds. ‘You will enjoy these.’
I read their blurbs but in the end swap my book for another schmaltzy romance.
‘Is about real living love this time?’ Jean-Luc asks, his eyes twinkling.
I giggle and touch my hair. ‘Don’t make fun of me. Do you read in English or French?’
‘Pffft.’ He waves. ‘French, but of course. My English is not to that standard.’
‘It is,’ I say.
‘No, no, not so. But I accept the compliment.’
Though both of us are finished browsing, we linger at the doorway. I can’t find a way to hang on to him so I ask him about the different writers of the books he showed me earlier.
‘I do not want this to end either, little lady, but I am hungry. Have you eaten?’ he asks.
I blush recalling the chocolate garlic gorging I did earlier. ‘No.’
‘Would you like to join me for brunch, I know this beautiful place near to here? It’s where I eat all my meals.’