Black Elvis

Santorini

130 The Australian girl and Harrison were standing about two feet apart in the center of the hotel pool, discussing the respective merits of the American and Australian versions of mtv. Rivulets of water ran down the pronounced V of Harrison’s chest, the result of his last submersion. Every now and then, he dunked himself down into the water, then popped back up and shook his long hair like a dog. The girl was blonde, generically pretty, with a ponytail, on vacation with her family, and in the noon sun her white bikini top was blindingly bright—a special effect above her prominent ribcage and below her strong swimmer’s shoulders. Flo poked Laura’s foot. “I see,” said Laura, who had been imagining the girl in a sunny freefall over the cliff edge, two hundred yards down to the shimmering Aegean. “It’s so cute.” Thegirlgotoutofthepoolanddriedherselfwithatowel,wrapped a see-through white skirt around her waist, and climbed up the steep whitewashed steps that led to the pool area. Above, the apartments of Sunshine Villas spilled down off the rim of the caldera, clinging to the steep sides. A few moments later, Harrison came over and settled himself into a chair next to his mother’s. Laura watched the moisture on his tanned skin as it evaporated. She thought she could feel him counting, trying to decide how long was long enough not to seem obvious. Then he reached over and tapped Flo’s shoulder. “I’m going for a walk.” “Pick up a bottle of water for the room, would you, honey?” He stood, retrieved the novel he’d been reading from the arm SA NTO R INI S A N TO R I N I 131 of his chair and closed it, then looked over at Laura. “Going for a walk.” “Of course you are,” she said. He hesitated, then turned and headed up the steps. “I didn’t know bodies like that existed in the real world,” Flo said. “I was always told they had something to do with airbrushes.” “She’s got a nice butt, I’ll give her that. Did you hear her accent? Every sentence ends in a question mark.” “I heard her say something about a ‘life of bread.’ What do you suppose that is?” “Not life. Loaf. A loaf of bread. I think she might have been talking about lunch.” Flo burst out laughing. “I was lying here thinking she must work in a bakery. I’m so dumb. Do you think he’s meeting her?” “What do you think?” “She seems a little old. But you have to admire him for trying. ‘A life of bread.’ Wow. What would that even be?” “Sounds kind of nice to me,” Laura said. “Warm. Comfy. You want to split a salad? Since it’s just us girls?” Flo sat up and retied her yellow bikini top around her neck. She looked good, Laura thought, in spite of her bouts of sadness. They both did. At home, Laura ran five miles every other day, went to the gym the days in between. In Athens, the desk clerk at their hotel had assumed they were part of the college tour. “Here’s to a life of bread,” Flo said, when their salad came. They’d ordered a cold bottle of the local retsina, too, and each held a glass. Laura’s shoulders were starting to ache from the sun. She hated how she felt right now. She thought about the Australian girl’s breasts. They weren’t her fault—she was a teenager. She was supposed to look like that. Laura checked her watch. 132 S A N TO R I N I “Don’t worry,” said Flo cheerfully. “Harry’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.” She speared an olive with her fork and popped it in her mouth. On their third night in Athens, Harrison had come up to the hotel’s rooftop garden where Laura was drinking bourbon and staring out at the Acropolis. She was forty, the veteran of long-term relationships with three perfectly decent men, as well as shorter ones with a couple of jerks. The last long one—a guy named Franz—had ended two weeks before, when he’d announced he was in love with his ex-wife, and tonight a sense of squandered time had crept inside her and made her...