Via Dolorosa(57)

“You can lose yourself in them,” Emma said soothingly, meaning the fireworks.

“You certainly can,” he agreed.

“The colors remind me of a dream,” Emma said.

“We should leave now,” Isabella said.

“The display isn’t over yet,” he said.

Isabella pulled a playful frown. “My Nicholas, it is very bad luck to stay till the end of the fireworks. One must always leave before the display is finished. Haven’t you ever heard?”

He shook his head.

“It is customary.”

“I’ve never heard it.”

“Well,” she said, “it is the truth.”

No one questioned Isabella’s authority. Arm-in-arm-in-arm, the three of them walked back out across the dunes toward the lighted, glistening bulwark of bistros down along the boulevard. A startling white flash directly above them reconfirmed the existence of the Harbour Town lighthouse. On the curb, taunted by a demanding horde of preteens, a frayed and grizzled black man strummed a ukulele while sitting cross-legged before an empty Folgers can. Behind them, around them, more onlookers cheered at the fireworks display.

They claimed a cozy, nondescript bistro just off the main boulevard, and a table adorned with tapa, paper towels, and newspapers. The front of the bistro opened into a wide dining area and looked out upon the busy boulevard. Outside, a gathering of bystanders got into it following a few drunken words. Further down the promenade, on the heels of a quick side-to-side glance, a teenage hoodlum proceeded to empty his bladder into the open window of a 1957 Chevy. Several couples strolled with their arms around each other. The rear of the bistro—the taproom—spilled out onto the beach, and all the doors were propped open. A carpet of loose white sand unfurled across the taproom floor. By the bar, a three-piece zydeco band performed while a number of inebriated wayfarers, claiming the open floor as Germany had once claimed territory, danced until sweat burst from their skin and their shirts clung wetly to their backs. Despite the open doors facing the beach, the bistro’s odor was an overriding blend of bad cologne, bare feet, and burnt sawdust.

Pushing his way through the dancers, Nick went to the bar and ordered a bottle of pinot gris and three glasses. Seated beside him on a stool, an attractive older woman smiled in his direction.

Nick nodded. “Hello.”

On a waft of gin, the woman said, “Save the sea turtles.”

“All right.”

“No,” insisted the woman. “It’s important.”

“I’ll bet,” he said.

The wine came and he carried it back to the table. Emma and Isabella were already deep in conversation, laughing and giggling behind cupped hands. Tanned, handsome men had come sniffing around, and were now occupying all the previously open chairs around their table.

“I would have gotten more glasses,” Nick said, setting the bottle and three glasses on the table.

“We’re not drinking,” one of the handsome men said, holding up one hand. There were three of them, and they all could have been related, could have been brothers. They wore pressed oxford shirts and boating loafers, their skin bronze from countless days beneath the sun.

“We don’t drink when we’re on the water,” said the second man.

“You’re in a bar,” Nick informed him.

The first man laughed. It was a single, short burst of sound, and he did not open his mouth very wide to accommodate it. As if he did not want to stretch his face out of shape. “We’re heading back out tonight,” he said.

“Very nice,” Nick said.

“They were the ones shooting off the fireworks,” Emma said. One of the men had slid next to her. In Nick’s seat.

“Really?” Nick said. “Isn’t that something…”

“Get up, Joseph,” one of the men said to his friend, his brother. “Let the man sit back down.”

“We’re stealing his women,” Joseph said, but did not appear to mean anything by it. He looked a little shiftier than his comrades and, as if testament to this, boasted the threat of what, in a few hours’ time, would turn into a perfectly solid black eye. Unfettered, Joseph stood and disappeared without hesitation into a wedge of dancers.

Nick sat, uncorked the wine, and filled all three glasses.

“You’re Nicholas?” one of the men said. “Nick? Yes?” He extended a hand and Nick shook it. “Leslie Hansen.” He nodded toward the remaining doppelganger. “This is Ben.”

“Cheers,” said Ben. Uninterested, he was sucking the life out of a Pall Mall.

“We’ve met your wife and your girlfriend,” Leslie Hansen said, “and now we’ve met you. The circle is complete.”

“To the circle,” Emma said, holding up her glass.

“The circle,” Isabella said, and met Emma’s glass with her own. They drank.

“What is it you do, Nick?” Leslie Hansen asked. He was the one sitting next to Emma. The first three buttons of his oxford were undone, exposing the freshly shaved cascade of his brown chest.

“I’m a painter.”

“No joke? Wow. Hey, that’s something. What do you paint?”

“Paintings,” Nick said.

“Oh, yes,” said Hansen. Nick could tell the man was sitting there, deciding if he was being played with or not. “Too funny.”