Castle of Water: A Novel(39)
“Well, fried chicken and a cold beer would be nice, too, but I can live without those. Painting, on the other hand … that’s something else. That’s part of why I hated my old job so much. I had hardly any time to paint. And then when I did have time, my—” And Barry caught himself. “Ex-girlfriend hated it.”
“Why?”
“She said she didn’t like the smell of the turpentine I used to clean my brushes.”
“You could have stopped using oil paints and just switched to acrylics. Nobody uses oils anymore.”
“I think the real issue was that she thought it was a waste of time. No money in it, I guess. No future.”
Sophie sniffed sympathetically. “Well, you never know. An easel and some watercolors could wash up any day now.”
“I won’t hold my breath.” Barry nudged her. “Et vous?”
“You say ‘toi,’ ‘vous’ is for people you don’t know well.”
“You think we know each other well?”
“Starting to, I suppose. And I would bring an espresso machine. Coffee would be nice. A subscription to Le Monde, too, so I could have something to read and keep up with the world.”
“No drafting table and AutoCAD?”
“Pfff, no, I don’t think so,” she answered, frowning at the thought. “Architecture was something étienne and I did together. We were a good team, and we would build off of each other’s ideas. I’m not sure I could do it without him.”
“I don’t know. You did a pretty good job on our little house here.”
“Robinson Crusoe is a less demanding client than the ministre de la culture. And my little sand castles aren’t quite up to par with Le Corbusier.”
“Great artists have to work with the materials they have.”
Sophie was quiet for a moment; Barry worried he had said something wrong.
“Everything okay?”
“Oui. And there’s one part of my birthday wish still left.”
“What’s that?”
“I said that after my octopus salad, I’d like to take a walk down by the water.”
“I think that can be arranged.” Barry climbed to his feet and helped Sophie to hers, brushing the loose sand from her back. “Après vous.”
“It’s not ‘vous,’ it’s ‘toi,’ putain, how many times do I have to tell you?” And she feigned annoyance, but in reality she was quite pleased. Far from saying something wrong, Barry had given her an idea with his last comment about great artists, and the brisk clockwork of her mind was already whirring—Barry’s birthday was less than two months away.
They did a lap of the island over the course of a moonset, after which Sophie suggested a swim. Barry was reluctant at first—he didn’t want to get his bandages wet, and the incident with Balthazar still gave him the willies. But then again, Sophie had experienced far worse with sharks. Sure, why not, he finally agreed.
Sophie went in first, stirring the water around her with her fingers. Barry followed close behind. The warmth of the day persisted in the shallows, and he couldn’t recall the ocean ever feeling so pleasant. They waded out until it reached their chests, then turned on their backs to admire the light show above. The distance from the shore was making Barry nervous, but Sophie didn’t turn back, so neither did he.
The moon was low and bright. The ripples shimmered. They took to treading water and floated side by side. From their vantage point, they could see the entirety of their island, a quiet sanctuary in a star-crossed sea. “C’est tellement beau,” Sophie whispered over the sloshing of the water. Barry, whose French had improved enough to at least understand that much, concurred. She looked at him, eyes glossy with moonshine, and smiled. He smiled back, his heart quickened, and she moved in, just a little bit closer …
And then something pale and sleek came crashing down into the water between them.
“What the f*ck?”
Then it happened again to the left of them, and twice more behind, and in seconds, a hail of feathery torpedoes was raining all around. Sophie dove under the water while Barry shouted and covered his head. At least until the anonymous dive bombers came plopping up to the surface, many with fish still wriggling in their mouths. Sophie resurfaced just a few seconds behind them, pushing the wet hair from her eyes for a better view.
“It’s the birds!” she cried out in pleasant surprise. “They’ve come back to the island!”
Indeed they had. The island’s entire colony of sooty terns had returned that very eve, from wherever they had fled to avoid the destruction of the cyclone. Habitual night feeders, they exploited the nocturnal habits of fish to their own advantage—when the schools rose to the surface to feed in the moonlight, the sooty terns were happy to greet them.
Barry slapped water at a nearby tern and couldn’t help laughing. Sophie splashed water at Barry and couldn’t help joining in. The return of the birds felt like something fortuitous, if not portentous, their own Capistrano brought down to miniature.
“Let’s head back in and let them eat in peace. They’re probably starving.”
“So? Two hours ago, so were we.”
“Come on, it’s time.”
Sophie led the way with an elegant sidestroke; Barry trailed reluctantly behind, doing his very best doggy paddle. They swam until the water became too shallow, then stood up on the sand and walked the rest of the way in.