Sunday evening, after a final copulation, a bouquet of tearful goodbye kisses, Luisa limo-ed off to the airport, promising to return in two weeks’ time. She had paid for the suite until Monday morning and told Snow that he should stay the night and charge whatever he wanted to the room, but cautioned him about over-tipping and, semi-playfully, advised him not to bring up any girls. The admonition was unnecessary – Snow was whipped. He ordered a thirty-dollar cheeseburger, fries, and two Cokes from room service and sat on the balcony, eating, watching combers rolling in, reduced to wavelets by the time they hit shore. Too tired to think, he lay down on the bed around eight-thirty and slept until one. South Beach would be still going strong and he briefly considered rejoining the party. Ten years before he would have, but now he went to the refrigerator and opened a bottle of water and stood at the kitchen counter, attempting to concentrate on the big issues: what next, whither, and so forth. He noticed a shadowy bulk at the end of the counter and switched on a light. A striped gift box – inside was a camp shirt he had admired in a shop window and a pill bottle containing about twenty blue capsules and a note. The note was in Spanish and read:
I can’t carry this through customs. For God’s sake, don’t take more than one at a time.
It was signed with a lipstick imprint and a cartoon drawing of a tubby little heart.
Snow pocketed the pills. He was still getting dark webs in the corners of his vision from the previous night. Distended or broken capillaries, he figured. But there might come a time when a blue pill would seem an appealing option. Feeling vacant, lethargic, he rode the elevator to the lobby, staring at his reflection in the mirrored walls, and went out to the deserted pool area and lay back in a lounge chair. A thin layer of clouds diminished the stars. The rectangle of placid aquamarine water lit by underwater spots and surrounded by empty white chairs complemented his mental state. He closed his eyes and thought about Yara, Guillermo, Tres Santos, redemption, but arrived at no clean answer to the question they posed. Now that he knew something, it seemed he understood less than before. One thing was clear, however. None of his passions were American and perhaps he was no longer an American but a citizen of some international slum, a country of losers without borders or passports or principles. The idea that he had wasted his life brought forth a self-pitying tear. He supposed everyone felt this way at one time or another, even people with lofty accomplishments to their credit, yet they had some basis for redemption, a foundation upon which to build a new life, whereas he did not.
‘Hey!’ said a voice above him.
A skinny kid of thirteen or fourteen in baggy swim trunks and a navy blue T-shirt peered at him through strings of long brown hair. ‘Is it too late to go in the pool?’
‘I think so, but I don’t know for sure,’ Snow said. ‘You could dive in and find out.’
‘My dad’ll kick my ass if I get into trouble.’
‘You down here with your folks?’
‘My dad and his girlfriend.’ The kid flopped onto a chair beside Snow – his lugubrious, bored-shitless look was the same that had dominated Snow’s expressions during his teens, and he had a cultivated flatness of affect that armored him against potential human interactions . . . and yet he appeared to want company.
‘How’s that going?’ Snow asked.
‘It fucking sucks.’
The writing on the kid’s T-shirt was in small lower-case white letters and read:
i went with my father to south beach, the home of wicked, beautiful, diseased women with unnatural desires, and all i caught was this lousy t-shirt
‘I like your shirt,’ said Snow.
The kid glanced down at his chest and sniffed. ‘My dad had it printed. He thinks it’s funny.’
‘But you don’t, huh? Why you wearing it?’
‘Because if I wear it long enough, like every day, it’ll start pissing him off.’
The water in the pool lapped against the tiles, the distant surf hissed, and a breeze stirred the chlorine smell.
‘How come you were crying?’ the kid asked.
‘Huh?’
‘You were crying when I came over.’
‘Oh . . . yeah.’
‘How come?’
‘I was remembering this old movie.’
‘Which one?’
‘Bladerunner.’
No sign of recognition registered on the kid’s face.
‘You ever see it?’ Snow asked.
‘Nah. What’s it about?’
‘These people, they’re called replicants. They’re clones, they only have a lifespan of a few years. Twelve, I think. Which makes them angry. They do all this dangerous work in outer space, in the far-flung corners of the galaxy. They fight humanity’s battles. They’re better than people. Stronger and better-looking. So like I said, they’re angry, and a few of them return to earth to try and learn if they can get an extension. Have a longer life, you know.’