Bermuda, 1996
Poetry by Evelyn Lau
When the plane begins its descent, volumes
of blue light spill and spread through the cabin,
startling you awake. The water, blue
like nothing in nature. He grips your hand,
squints at you through flashes of sun
as the island rises and rushes towards you.
Two days of travel, leaning against each other
in rigid airport chairs. A decrepit hotel,
mess of eggs and grease-slicked potatoes
in the breakfast room. Goddamn it,
he mutters at the waitress, why isn’t there any
coffee creamer on the table!
Sir, we keep the cream in the fridge,
we don’t want you to get sick. It’s for your own good, sir.
Jesus Christ! I swear there’s a conspiracy
among restaurants to make customers miserable!
You stare at your plate, perspire with embarrassment.
Picture another year of this — a decade, a lifetime.
Then the island, its haze of tropical heat.
Roads wind past gardens lined with pampas grass,
stubby palms shaped like pineapples —
hilltop houses painted lemon-lime, Popsicle hues of grape, watermelon.
Have you folks ever been on a cruise? the driver asks.
Oh yes, we went to la once by boat. Then from la we flew, let’s see —
Searches your face for the answer, remembers
his wife was on that cruise. Somewhere, he trails off.
Stares out the window at greenery
flaming by the roadside. Across the water,
white roofs burn in the sun. The balcony doors
of the hotel open above a pool which mirrors
the teal of the ocean steps away.
It’s really beautiful, isn’t it? he says, pleased.
But you’ll stop noticing it soon enough.
He says the same thing about relationships.
You’re so young you think, fiercely, I’ ll never
stop noticing. The water with its shifting moods
and climates, cloudy in patches, clear in others,
striped fish flickering along the red-sanded
bottom, shapes and shadows that rearrange
themselves endlessly in their formation of a whole.
Sweet smells of hibiscus, oleander, frangipani —
purple tubas of morning glories that grow
like weeds. At the double sink, you paint
your eyelids cotton candy and tangerine —
he splashes on aftershave that smells of orange
groves, saltwater. Breakfast in the grand
dining room, milling with staff in coral jackets.
One afternoon on a restaurant terrace,
you knock over your glass of white wine —
a spray of liquid arcs across his plate, his shirt
and trousers. The day so bright, the clarity of
water and wine the same in the strata of shining
light. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you say,
expect him to take your hand, communicate it’s nothing -
but he shoves his chair back, dabs for long,
silent minutes with his napkin, a severe v
between his eyebrows. The waiter bears
the drowned plate away. Anything else, sir?
No, I was already finished. You can dress her up
but you can’t take her anywhere. He laughs -
harsh, loud. When you offer to pay,
he doesn’t protest.
Afternoons you sit at a wrought iron table
on the balcony, penning postcards. Moody water
shifts beneath the sun. Clatter of cutlery
and glasses by the poolside tables,
sunbathers with towels draped over their faces.
A yellow raft drifts offshore, and you are seized
by the need to absorb this, knowing one day
you’ll forget. This island, this man,
this time in your twenties.
On the private beach he leans down and writes his name
in the sand with his finger, pink grains soft
as snow. The same pink sand plugged
into tiny bottles tied with ribbon, sold in the gift
shop on the lower concourse of the hotel.
This is just like a commercial, he marvels,
just like the brochures. The next wave washes up,
scrawls over his signature.
Below the balcony the slow, rustling sounds
of guests by the pool, finishing their multi-hued
drinks at dusk as tree frogs start their clamour.
The frogs so ardent once dark has fallen,
he has to close the balcony doors to sleep.
You struggle to breathe in the airless
room, try to calm the staccato of your heart.
Press oxygen from the air like wine from grapes.
But then it’s morning —
when you draw aside the drapes,
a wall of water meets the horizon.
Far off, a sailboat with its sculptural sail
unfurls, a cream ribbon winding and unwinding,
the ocean blue ice garnished with a curl of rind —
When he turns to look at you, glancing up
from the newspaper or his leather journal,
the sun is on his face, inside it. Below,
scooters roar down the narrow streets, an orchestra
of horns. This is where, one afternoon in bed,
he will make the mistake of calling you
by his wife’s name. Oh, he winces,
catching the slip. Irritated at himself,
he slaps your shoulder. I knew that would
happen. It was just a matter of time.
It’s all right, you say, it’s okay.
Kiss him all over his face, wrinkled neck,
swallow the fear that beats in your throat.
On that last night in the hotel lounge,
the local singer wears a spangled silver dress,
winks at you as her husky voice swells the room.
I’m sad to say I’m on my way,
I won’t be back for many a day . . .
His glasses catch the lights over the parquet
dance floor, become mirrors. He reaches
to take your hand across the table, bounces it
in his as though weighing it. I am very happy right now,
he says. You know, Clint Eastwood
just married a woman 35 years his junior . . .
Surrounded by swaying honeymooners,
vacationers sipping island cocktails,
bent over board games —
you’re happy, too. But your silence
will give him your answer.