Le Caprice
by Laury A. Egan
Robin stared at the green grass rug beneath her black shoes. She couldn’t look at the casket, the bent heads, the flowers in disposable gray vases; she couldn’t imagine her mother’s body sealed in the airless coffin. She couldn’t imagine her dead. But her mother was dead. Robin had watched the final stillness come, early in the morning, as the world was waking.
Alone, Robin drove home and booked a flight, a connection, and a hotel, and then slowly undressed, her fingers lingering on the shiny ebony buttons of her blouse. After each garment was folded into its smallest square, she laid the clothes in a box with the shoes on top, noticing the cemetery’s red earth licked to the leather soles. Neatly, like a baker protecting a cake, she tied string around the sides and placed the box in the closet.
She opened a suitcase, working its surly zipper with care. White clothes only, she thought, as she began to pack.
Three hours later, a cab deposited Robin at the airport. As she waited for the boarding announcement, she observed the stream of passengers blurring into pastel colors as they pressed toward gates. Everyone was rushing to meet lovers, husbands, wives, or “significant others.” She smiled at the vapid phrase and stared at her fingers. The tips were blackened with newsprint. Had she read a paper? She didn’t remember.
The flight was called. She flew for ten hours. The jet landed. In a daze from the sleepless night, Robin wandered toward the Olympic counter and was directed toward the prop plane for Mykonos. The next thing she knew, she was circling over a rocky island dotted by tiny whitewashed chapels, whimsically fashioned as if by children. Once outside the airport, the heat and dust carried from the deserts of far-off Africa shocked her face. She was relieved to see the hotel car waiting. Sometimes it was nice to have money, her mother’s money, now hers.
That night, Robin dressed in loose white gauze blouse and pants. As she left the hotel, the wind blew through her clothes, giving her the sensation that she was wearing nothing at all. Aimlessly, she wandered along a stone promenade that faced the sea and soon found herself at the open door of a club, Le Caprice. The sounds of laughter and music were inviting. Robin stepped inside and sat on a turquoise sofa by a large open window that framed the Aegean. She ordered wine, but after two glasses, she decided wine was too tame. A Metaxa? Perfect. Its orange scent in the snifter, the bittersweet taste—it was serious, this drink. She had another. The waitress was smiling dimples, her dark brown hair rising from the center of her forehead and falling straight to her shoulders. Standing above Robin, the woman lit a slender taper and then the wicks of eight floating candles set amidst a riotous bouquet of wildflowers. As if the candles were a bonfire, Robin felt the heat on her chest and on her cheeks—or was that merely a sympathetic response from her skin reddened by several hours of afternoon sun? She stared at her forearm against the brilliant white of her sleeve and was dazzled by the contrast.
“May I buy you a drink?” the waitress asked. Her expression was friendly, easy, her eyes liquid amber in a sea of white. She made no attempt to hide her amusement—whether at herself or Robin or life in general.
“Ehfaristo,” Robin answered, smiling back. “What’s your name?”
“Ah, what is yours first?”
“Robin Hill.”
The woman whispered the name softly, trying to sort out its simplicity. “I like that name,” she said. “I am Leandra.”
As magically as she had appeared, the woman disappeared. Robin drained the last of her brandy, feeling its bright burn. Turning to gaze out the window, she watched the spotlights pick out the bow of an incoming cruise ship. Waves fluttered white fingers in the black night.
“Do you dream of someone far away?”
Robin turned and saw the waitress again. “Yes,” she replied. “Someone farther away than any place on earth.”
The sentence was too complicated for Leandra, but the sadness translated. She sat beside Robin. “Are you an American?”
“Yes. From Maryland. And you?”
“I am from Athens.” She handed Robin a flute glass of champagne and then touched the rim with her own. “Stin iyia sas.”
Robin nodded, taking in the woman’s perfume, a faint trespassing scent of jasmine. She sensed the heat of Leandra’s arm against her shoulder as she drank the champagne, which was a little nondescript, a little flat, but she didn’t care. Was she beginning to forget? That’s why she was here. To erase and tape over with new memories. There was nothing else to do. No family left, no house to tend and bind, no job to fret over. By the single felling of one woman—her mother—Robin was the last tree standing in her personal space.
A recording of a Greek singer came on, her voice scarred by years of smoke and seared with tragic intensity. Robin asked who it was.
“Ionatos,” Leandra said. “She is amazing, is she not?”
“She is.” Robin took a sip of champagne, thinking how pale it was in taste and color. Like swallowing air. “Would you like to dance?”
“So, you do like women, yes? I was not sure at first.”
“I like you. That’s all that matters,” Robin answered.
The waitress threw her head back and laughed, showing a long neck that plunged into a light blue blouse. Robin wanted to feel the line all the way down to the curves that hid beneath, past the flat of her stomach.
Another glass of champagne appeared in front of her. The waiter, who had delivered it, faded into the clouds of cigarette smoke that also enveloped the dancers. Robin drank and then stood, her hand finding Leandra’s. The woman’s fingers were lean and strong and cool as they grasped hers.
The dance floor was crowded with bobbing heads and swaying bodies. Beams of light broke over the dancers, creating a fluctuating chiaroscuro effect, illuminating a face, a shoulder, a waving hand. The music powered through Robin’s chest.
She took Leandra in her arms and drew her close. She let her cheek rest against Leandra’s cheek as she traced the curve of her spine. Moving without contemplation, Robin trusted the innate intelligence of her feet. The champagne had blown through the Metaxa and the wine; it had blown away everything except vague desire. They danced and slipped into sinuous, dreamy silence.
The song was over before Robin comprehended that it had ended. Leandra led her to the sofa. They picked up their empty glasses.
“Come with me,” the woman said, still holding Robin’s hand. At the bar, a white slip of paper was pushed forward. Robin reached for the slim wallet in her pocket, counted out the drachmas, and added an extravagant tip, or what she hoped was one. The bartender gave them two bottles of champagne, and the next thing Robin knew, she was on the beach, her bare feet dug into cold, damp sand, her back against the overturned hull of a caïque.
Although she didn’t recall the “pop” of the cork, her glass was again brimming with sparkles. She stared at it as if it held all answers and drank, as did Leandra, who was pressing against her side, her hand on Robin’s left breast. They exchanged a kiss. A moment later, Robin’s blouse was open, the drawstring untied on her pants. Then her clothes were gone.
“You hair is gold,” Leandra murmured. “So beautiful…” She kissed Robin deeply, passing champagne from her mouth to Robin’s.
Robin swallowed and drank more. The stars blurred and spun like whirligigs. She was being touched and loved for the first time in her new life. Her life alone. Yielding to Leandra’s skill, Robin ignored the sand rasping her back as she allowed the hot crescendo to unfold through her body. Even though the sea water was cold, it seemed to sizzle when it overlapped her bare skin. Then, slowly, the blend that was Leandra and Robin ceased as she drifted into the early minutes of eternity or was it a swift dive into sleep? She floated in this space until a voice surrounded her head, and consciousness washed over her.
From somewhere, her name was being called, although she saw no one. Did the voice come from beyond that distant wave? Robin came to her knees, the water sucking sand over her hands, brushing cold against her legs. She listened intently.
“Robin…”
She waded into the black sea and slowly fell forward, the water sliding over her. Coming up, her head broke through, and she breathed in the salty air as a wave crashed its whiteness down. Was the voice farther away? Yes, she thought, as she began to swim.
The cool water slid along her naked flanks, like froth against the sides of a fiberglassed ship. At first, her arms felt strong and powerful. She was the essence of grace. Smooth and rippling. Hope surged in her heart, and joy flooded her mind, extinguishing the orange coals of despair. Oh, the sublime universe! There was no rush, the strokes so, so easy. No need to breathe the air or see the stars. Everything was inside her, the inside that had been warmed by Leandra’s loving lips and fingers.
“Swim, my darling,” came the silvery voice. “Swim.”
Robin laid her head down, thirsting for the sea, aching to reach the horizon. She pulled through the water with tired arms, kicked with legs deadened with fatigue. The persuasive voice, a voice she knew so well, called to her again. She knew her ultimate destination. It would be the last place in her new life, a place where her future would be swallowed by the past.
by Laury A. Egan
Robin stared at the green grass rug beneath her black shoes. She couldn’t look at the casket, the bent heads, the flowers in disposable gray vases; she couldn’t imagine her mother’s body sealed in the airless coffin. She couldn’t imagine her dead. But her mother was dead. Robin had watched the final stillness come, early in the morning, as the world was waking.
Alone, Robin drove home and booked a flight, a connection, and a hotel, and then slowly undressed, her fingers lingering on the shiny ebony buttons of her blouse. After each garment was folded into its smallest square, she laid the clothes in a box with the shoes on top, noticing the cemetery’s red earth licked to the leather soles. Neatly, like a baker protecting a cake, she tied string around the sides and placed the box in the closet.
She opened a suitcase, working its surly zipper with care. White clothes only, she thought, as she began to pack.
Three hours later, a cab deposited Robin at the airport. As she waited for the boarding announcement, she observed the stream of passengers blurring into pastel colors as they pressed toward gates. Everyone was rushing to meet lovers, husbands, wives, or “significant others.” She smiled at the vapid phrase and stared at her fingers. The tips were blackened with newsprint. Had she read a paper? She didn’t remember.
The flight was called. She flew for ten hours. The jet landed. In a daze from the sleepless night, Robin wandered toward the Olympic counter and was directed toward the prop plane for Mykonos. The next thing she knew, she was circling over a rocky island dotted by tiny whitewashed chapels, whimsically fashioned as if by children. Once outside the airport, the heat and dust carried from the deserts of far-off Africa shocked her face. She was relieved to see the hotel car waiting. Sometimes it was nice to have money, her mother’s money, now hers.
That night, Robin dressed in loose white gauze blouse and pants. As she left the hotel, the wind blew through her clothes, giving her the sensation that she was wearing nothing at all. Aimlessly, she wandered along a stone promenade that faced the sea and soon found herself at the open door of a club, Le Caprice. The sounds of laughter and music were inviting. Robin stepped inside and sat on a turquoise sofa by a large open window that framed the Aegean. She ordered wine, but after two glasses, she decided wine was too tame. A Metaxa? Perfect. Its orange scent in the snifter, the bittersweet taste—it was serious, this drink. She had another. The waitress was smiling dimples, her dark brown hair rising from the center of her forehead and falling straight to her shoulders. Standing above Robin, the woman lit a slender taper and then the wicks of eight floating candles set amidst a riotous bouquet of wildflowers. As if the candles were a bonfire, Robin felt the heat on her chest and on her cheeks—or was that merely a sympathetic response from her skin reddened by several hours of afternoon sun? She stared at her forearm against the brilliant white of her sleeve and was dazzled by the contrast.
“May I buy you a drink?” the waitress asked. Her expression was friendly, easy, her eyes liquid amber in a sea of white. She made no attempt to hide her amusement—whether at herself or Robin or life in general.
“Ehfaristo,” Robin answered, smiling back. “What’s your name?”
“Ah, what is yours first?”
“Robin Hill.”
The woman whispered the name softly, trying to sort out its simplicity. “I like that name,” she said. “I am Leandra.”
As magically as she had appeared, the woman disappeared. Robin drained the last of her brandy, feeling its bright burn. Turning to gaze out the window, she watched the spotlights pick out the bow of an incoming cruise ship. Waves fluttered white fingers in the black night.
“Do you dream of someone far away?”
Robin turned and saw the waitress again. “Yes,” she replied. “Someone farther away than any place on earth.”
The sentence was too complicated for Leandra, but the sadness translated. She sat beside Robin. “Are you an American?”
“Yes. From Maryland. And you?”
“I am from Athens.” She handed Robin a flute glass of champagne and then touched the rim with her own. “Stin iyia sas.”
Robin nodded, taking in the woman’s perfume, a faint trespassing scent of jasmine. She sensed the heat of Leandra’s arm against her shoulder as she drank the champagne, which was a little nondescript, a little flat, but she didn’t care. Was she beginning to forget? That’s why she was here. To erase and tape over with new memories. There was nothing else to do. No family left, no house to tend and bind, no job to fret over. By the single felling of one woman—her mother—Robin was the last tree standing in her personal space.
A recording of a Greek singer came on, her voice scarred by years of smoke and seared with tragic intensity. Robin asked who it was.
“Ionatos,” Leandra said. “She is amazing, is she not?”
“She is.” Robin took a sip of champagne, thinking how pale it was in taste and color. Like swallowing air. “Would you like to dance?”
“So, you do like women, yes? I was not sure at first.”
“I like you. That’s all that matters,” Robin answered.
The waitress threw her head back and laughed, showing a long neck that plunged into a light blue blouse. Robin wanted to feel the line all the way down to the curves that hid beneath, past the flat of her stomach.
Another glass of champagne appeared in front of her. The waiter, who had delivered it, faded into the clouds of cigarette smoke that also enveloped the dancers. Robin drank and then stood, her hand finding Leandra’s. The woman’s fingers were lean and strong and cool as they grasped hers.
The dance floor was crowded with bobbing heads and swaying bodies. Beams of light broke over the dancers, creating a fluctuating chiaroscuro effect, illuminating a face, a shoulder, a waving hand. The music powered through Robin’s chest.
She took Leandra in her arms and drew her close. She let her cheek rest against Leandra’s cheek as she traced the curve of her spine. Moving without contemplation, Robin trusted the innate intelligence of her feet. The champagne had blown through the Metaxa and the wine; it had blown away everything except vague desire. They danced and slipped into sinuous, dreamy silence.
The song was over before Robin comprehended that it had ended. Leandra led her to the sofa. They picked up their empty glasses.
“Come with me,” the woman said, still holding Robin’s hand. At the bar, a white slip of paper was pushed forward. Robin reached for the slim wallet in her pocket, counted out the drachmas, and added an extravagant tip, or what she hoped was one. The bartender gave them two bottles of champagne, and the next thing Robin knew, she was on the beach, her bare feet dug into cold, damp sand, her back against the overturned hull of a caïque.
Although she didn’t recall the “pop” of the cork, her glass was again brimming with sparkles. She stared at it as if it held all answers and drank, as did Leandra, who was pressing against her side, her hand on Robin’s left breast. They exchanged a kiss. A moment later, Robin’s blouse was open, the drawstring untied on her pants. Then her clothes were gone.
“You hair is gold,” Leandra murmured. “So beautiful…” She kissed Robin deeply, passing champagne from her mouth to Robin’s.
Robin swallowed and drank more. The stars blurred and spun like whirligigs. She was being touched and loved for the first time in her new life. Her life alone. Yielding to Leandra’s skill, Robin ignored the sand rasping her back as she allowed the hot crescendo to unfold through her body. Even though the sea water was cold, it seemed to sizzle when it overlapped her bare skin. Then, slowly, the blend that was Leandra and Robin ceased as she drifted into the early minutes of eternity or was it a swift dive into sleep? She floated in this space until a voice surrounded her head, and consciousness washed over her.
From somewhere, her name was being called, although she saw no one. Did the voice come from beyond that distant wave? Robin came to her knees, the water sucking sand over her hands, brushing cold against her legs. She listened intently.
“Robin…”
She waded into the black sea and slowly fell forward, the water sliding over her. Coming up, her head broke through, and she breathed in the salty air as a wave crashed its whiteness down. Was the voice farther away? Yes, she thought, as she began to swim.
The cool water slid along her naked flanks, like froth against the sides of a fiberglassed ship. At first, her arms felt strong and powerful. She was the essence of grace. Smooth and rippling. Hope surged in her heart, and joy flooded her mind, extinguishing the orange coals of despair. Oh, the sublime universe! There was no rush, the strokes so, so easy. No need to breathe the air or see the stars. Everything was inside her, the inside that had been warmed by Leandra’s loving lips and fingers.
“Swim, my darling,” came the silvery voice. “Swim.”
Robin laid her head down, thirsting for the sea, aching to reach the horizon. She pulled through the water with tired arms, kicked with legs deadened with fatigue. The persuasive voice, a voice she knew so well, called to her again. She knew her ultimate destination. It would be the last place in her new life, a place where her future would be swallowed by the past.
