Bob Harris watched Charlotte as she swam in the immense but otherwise
vacated hotel pool, wading lazily. Well, it wasn't as if people were going
to go swimming at 4 in the morning. He closed his eyes and sighed in
relaxation, remembering some of the antics he'd experienced and even
participated with her earlier that evening. Who knew pachinko and karaoke
were so much fun?
It had been a crazy last couple of days. He knew he was an aging actor, but he felt so...cheap, being here in Tokyo, filming a commercial for a whiskey he'd never even heard of. $2 million, when he could be doing a play right now. Just when he couldn't understand what had happened, or even understand life anymore, he saw her in the elevator, and then again at the hotel bar that same first night.
She'd been-- no, she still was, he corrected himself-- just like him, strangers in a strange land. He couldn't even understand the goddamn translator. But he understood her perfectly, or at least well enough to know that she understood him, too. Let crazy Japan and its crazy film studios have him-- but only during the day. During the nights, when he wasn't lost in a haze of Suntori whiskey, or tossing and turning through restless nights as state-of-the-art gadgets whirred and clicked in his hotel suite, he belonged to his thoughts, tagging along with Charlotte for the ride.
She's a good kid, he told himself, not for the first time or the last. He winced as he tried to lean his head back, but instead bumped it against the wall of the pool. But she's probably a third your age, he added regrettably, as he caught himself sucking in his stomach and letting it go.
"What are you thinking about?" Charlotte said suddenly, doing a lazy backstroke, facing him.
He didn't open his eyes. "Carpet samples," he said after a moment. He heard her laugh; it reverberated slightly in the vast room. "Lydia. My wife. She's redecorating my study in the house, and I'm trying to remember what burgundy looks like.
"It's one of those color names that you kind of guess you remember what it looks like, but aren't really sure unless you're looking at a crayon," he explained further.
"Like sepia," Charlotte offered. "Or gainsborough. Magenta. Maroon."
"Maroon's easy. That's a dark red. Like dried blood, or a dark brick. But magenta's a pink. Or a neon purple." Bill paused and tilted his head, trying to decide.
She laughed and splashed him as hard as she could with water as he was distracted.
"Gee, thanks," he told her, blinking his eyes and sputtering. Suddenly he roared up, jumping out of the water as high as he could, and came down crashing down on top of her in an improvised bellyflop. She shrieked as the water washed over her and got into her eyes.
They laughed for a moment, all alone in the swimming pool, and for all they cared, all alone in the hotel. In the city. In the world.
"Thanks; it's not as if I'm already completely wet," she grinned, as she wiped the water away from her eyes. "What are you doing?" she asked as he reached over and started sculpting her plastered hair.
"There. Now you're Astro Boy," he said when he was done. Her hair now stood up, in two giant points on either side of her head.
"Astro who?"
"It's nothing," he said, standing just a few feet directly in front of her.
"You better be careful," she told him. "Smiling like that can be infectious. You might find yourself doing it more and more from now on, like some kind of compulsive twitch."
He smiled, and looked down at her. She smiled back at him, looking up at him. Suddenly, he was aware of her breathing, the rising of her chest as rivulets ran down into the crevice of her one-piece hotel swimming suit.
She was aware that they were no longer smiling at each other. She waited.
He was the first to back off. "Carpet swatches," he said again, sighing as he backed up against the wall. "I'm so lost."
"You get that too, huh?" She followed him to the wall, and leaned against it on his left side. "I get it all the time. More recently than not, though."
"I was talking about carpet colors," he lied. Under the water's surface, he felt Charlotte's hand search for his, resting no more than a pinky over his.
"Oh," was all she said. "I have the same problems about gem stone colors," she added, after a moment.
"Which is probably why I've got no real stones on my own ring," she lifted her left hand, and showed the thin platinum band. She laughed, but it turned out into a forced chuckle. "I was born in November, a Scorpio. But I've no idea what that stone is."
He looked at her, watched her slowly drop her hand back into the water, back to her side. The corner of his mouth pulled back into what could have been a tired, half smile. After a moment, he said, "It does get easier, you know."
"What does?"
"Getting lost. Being lost."
He watched her watch him with considering eyes, then got off the wall, and, without warning, lift one pale, lithe leg out of the water and up onto the pool wall. "Help me up," she said, as one arm went flailing, "God, this used to be so much easier when I was a kid." He held her upper torso aloft, as she lifted her other leg out of the water, and rest it next to its mate, so that she floated face-up, her torso perpendicular to the wall and her feet acting like anchors.
"What the hell are you doing?" He tilted his head to one side.
"It's something I do, to lose myself in the pool. Watch," she said. She pinched her nose and eyes shut, and dipped under the water, straightening her back. With her legs still above water, she hung upside down in the pool, her back against the wall. Her face was all wavy as he watched her under the surface for a moment, then watched her as she rose back up to her original resting position and spat out water in a fine mist as her face broke the water.
"I used to be able to do this for whole minutes at a time," she said, gasping. "Now I'm not so sure."
"Again, what the hell are you doing?"
"Try it," she insisted.
Bob gauged the wall. They were standing in five feet of water, and the waves lapped at just below his neck. "There's no way I can get myself up on there," he said, disappointment in his voice. "I'm not young anymore."
"Everyone's young enough. Now try it."
He chuckled under his breath. "I can't."
"So curl up into a ball. Close your eyes, put your knees to your chest, and just sink." To her side, Charlotte waved her arms lazily, sending waves through the pool.
He looked at her funny, then began bending his knees underwater. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he said, then disappeared under the pool's surface. She straightened her back once more, and lay back upside-down against the pool wall.
Through squinting eyes, she saw him curl up into a ball awkwardly, apprehensively, first one leg, then the other. He didn't sink, like she promised, but instead floated to the surface upside down so his back was exposed. Under the water, she saw him looking at her, wave, and close his eyes.
He saw what she meant. The entire world disappeared, curled up like this underwater. I suppose this is what a fetus feels like, he thought to himself. The sounds were still there, but they were warped and distorted, and more like slow whooshing currents of sound swirling around him.
He felt her hand touch against his knee, and he reached out. He felt the water-shriveled prunes of her fingertips, felt the chlorine-roughened palms pressing into his, then realized that, bobbing like this, he was drifting away from her. He felt a pang of urgency, despair, then, and held on fast to her hand, but she let it go, let him go.
Instead, just at the last minute, she hooked her pinky into his.
He relaxed, not realizing that he had tensed up just then. He cleared his thoughts, cleared away Lydia and the kids and the carpet swatches and the study and the stupid commercial shoot tomorrow and everything. He was alone with himself, lost in himself, at last, but, so long as she was his anchor, he was finally okay with that.
It had been a crazy last couple of days. He knew he was an aging actor, but he felt so...cheap, being here in Tokyo, filming a commercial for a whiskey he'd never even heard of. $2 million, when he could be doing a play right now. Just when he couldn't understand what had happened, or even understand life anymore, he saw her in the elevator, and then again at the hotel bar that same first night.
She'd been-- no, she still was, he corrected himself-- just like him, strangers in a strange land. He couldn't even understand the goddamn translator. But he understood her perfectly, or at least well enough to know that she understood him, too. Let crazy Japan and its crazy film studios have him-- but only during the day. During the nights, when he wasn't lost in a haze of Suntori whiskey, or tossing and turning through restless nights as state-of-the-art gadgets whirred and clicked in his hotel suite, he belonged to his thoughts, tagging along with Charlotte for the ride.
She's a good kid, he told himself, not for the first time or the last. He winced as he tried to lean his head back, but instead bumped it against the wall of the pool. But she's probably a third your age, he added regrettably, as he caught himself sucking in his stomach and letting it go.
"What are you thinking about?" Charlotte said suddenly, doing a lazy backstroke, facing him.
He didn't open his eyes. "Carpet samples," he said after a moment. He heard her laugh; it reverberated slightly in the vast room. "Lydia. My wife. She's redecorating my study in the house, and I'm trying to remember what burgundy looks like.
"It's one of those color names that you kind of guess you remember what it looks like, but aren't really sure unless you're looking at a crayon," he explained further.
"Like sepia," Charlotte offered. "Or gainsborough. Magenta. Maroon."
"Maroon's easy. That's a dark red. Like dried blood, or a dark brick. But magenta's a pink. Or a neon purple." Bill paused and tilted his head, trying to decide.
She laughed and splashed him as hard as she could with water as he was distracted.
"Gee, thanks," he told her, blinking his eyes and sputtering. Suddenly he roared up, jumping out of the water as high as he could, and came down crashing down on top of her in an improvised bellyflop. She shrieked as the water washed over her and got into her eyes.
They laughed for a moment, all alone in the swimming pool, and for all they cared, all alone in the hotel. In the city. In the world.
"Thanks; it's not as if I'm already completely wet," she grinned, as she wiped the water away from her eyes. "What are you doing?" she asked as he reached over and started sculpting her plastered hair.
"There. Now you're Astro Boy," he said when he was done. Her hair now stood up, in two giant points on either side of her head.
"Astro who?"
"It's nothing," he said, standing just a few feet directly in front of her.
"You better be careful," she told him. "Smiling like that can be infectious. You might find yourself doing it more and more from now on, like some kind of compulsive twitch."
He smiled, and looked down at her. She smiled back at him, looking up at him. Suddenly, he was aware of her breathing, the rising of her chest as rivulets ran down into the crevice of her one-piece hotel swimming suit.
She was aware that they were no longer smiling at each other. She waited.
He was the first to back off. "Carpet swatches," he said again, sighing as he backed up against the wall. "I'm so lost."
"You get that too, huh?" She followed him to the wall, and leaned against it on his left side. "I get it all the time. More recently than not, though."
"I was talking about carpet colors," he lied. Under the water's surface, he felt Charlotte's hand search for his, resting no more than a pinky over his.
"Oh," was all she said. "I have the same problems about gem stone colors," she added, after a moment.
"Which is probably why I've got no real stones on my own ring," she lifted her left hand, and showed the thin platinum band. She laughed, but it turned out into a forced chuckle. "I was born in November, a Scorpio. But I've no idea what that stone is."
He looked at her, watched her slowly drop her hand back into the water, back to her side. The corner of his mouth pulled back into what could have been a tired, half smile. After a moment, he said, "It does get easier, you know."
"What does?"
"Getting lost. Being lost."
He watched her watch him with considering eyes, then got off the wall, and, without warning, lift one pale, lithe leg out of the water and up onto the pool wall. "Help me up," she said, as one arm went flailing, "God, this used to be so much easier when I was a kid." He held her upper torso aloft, as she lifted her other leg out of the water, and rest it next to its mate, so that she floated face-up, her torso perpendicular to the wall and her feet acting like anchors.
"What the hell are you doing?" He tilted his head to one side.
"It's something I do, to lose myself in the pool. Watch," she said. She pinched her nose and eyes shut, and dipped under the water, straightening her back. With her legs still above water, she hung upside down in the pool, her back against the wall. Her face was all wavy as he watched her under the surface for a moment, then watched her as she rose back up to her original resting position and spat out water in a fine mist as her face broke the water.
"I used to be able to do this for whole minutes at a time," she said, gasping. "Now I'm not so sure."
"Again, what the hell are you doing?"
"Try it," she insisted.
Bob gauged the wall. They were standing in five feet of water, and the waves lapped at just below his neck. "There's no way I can get myself up on there," he said, disappointment in his voice. "I'm not young anymore."
"Everyone's young enough. Now try it."
He chuckled under his breath. "I can't."
"So curl up into a ball. Close your eyes, put your knees to your chest, and just sink." To her side, Charlotte waved her arms lazily, sending waves through the pool.
He looked at her funny, then began bending his knees underwater. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he said, then disappeared under the pool's surface. She straightened her back once more, and lay back upside-down against the pool wall.
Through squinting eyes, she saw him curl up into a ball awkwardly, apprehensively, first one leg, then the other. He didn't sink, like she promised, but instead floated to the surface upside down so his back was exposed. Under the water, she saw him looking at her, wave, and close his eyes.
He saw what she meant. The entire world disappeared, curled up like this underwater. I suppose this is what a fetus feels like, he thought to himself. The sounds were still there, but they were warped and distorted, and more like slow whooshing currents of sound swirling around him.
He felt her hand touch against his knee, and he reached out. He felt the water-shriveled prunes of her fingertips, felt the chlorine-roughened palms pressing into his, then realized that, bobbing like this, he was drifting away from her. He felt a pang of urgency, despair, then, and held on fast to her hand, but she let it go, let him go.
Instead, just at the last minute, she hooked her pinky into his.
He relaxed, not realizing that he had tensed up just then. He cleared his thoughts, cleared away Lydia and the kids and the carpet swatches and the study and the stupid commercial shoot tomorrow and everything. He was alone with himself, lost in himself, at last, but, so long as she was his anchor, he was finally okay with that.