The Vacationers: A Novel (23 page)

“This sounds like a lullaby by a guy in a tiny jacket playing in the corner of a Mexican restaurant.”

Joan looked at her as if she’d called his mother a whore.

“What? Do you actually like this?”

Joan shook his head, which at first Sylvia took as him agreeing with her, but his face turned red, and that was clearly not the case. “This is
Mallorcan
music,” he said, pointing at the stereo. “This is our
national, country music
.”

“Right. And everyone knows that country music sucks, Taylor Swift notwithstanding. Makes perfect sense.” She turned the CD case over in her hand. “Wait, we have to listen to the ‘Taxi Rap.’” Sylvia hit the forward button a few times and waited for Tomeu to start rapping about taxis, which he did.

“Oh my God,” she said. “This is like seeing your grandfather naked.”

Joan slammed the stop button, silencing the car. “You are such an American. Some of us have actual pride in our history, you know! You sound so stupid!”

Sylvia wasn’t used to being yelled at. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window. “Whatever,” she said, until she could think of something more cutting.

“There are five languages in Spain, plus dialects, did you know that? And Franco tried to demolish all of that. And so yes, it is important that we have a Mallorcan singer, who sings Mallorcan songs, even if they are sometimes not the best.”

Sylvia sat as far back against the seat as possible, as if she were in the dentist’s chair. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not all about your swimming pool and whether or not your brother is an asshole,” Joan said.

“You’re right,” Sylvia said again, and said good-bye to the idea of Joan ever coming close enough to kiss her again, and to the idea that the rest of the day would be any good whatsoever. She almost told him to turn around and take her home, but she feared it would make her seem too petulant, and so she just kept her mouth shut and stared out the window.

The restaurant was on a pier, and shabby in the way that Franny liked, with tablecloths that were soft from being washed a
thousand times, and dusty decorations hanging on the wall. It wasn’t for tourists—there was no English menu, no German menu, only Spanish. The waiter brought them two glasses of wine and a plate of olives and fresh bread. Antoni took his hat off and put it on the empty chair beside him. There was a faint mark across his forehead that Franny thought was from the hat, but quickly realized was a tan line.

“Do you enjoy coaching? It must be exciting to work with Nando.” Franny let a piece of bread soak up some olive oil and then dropped it into her mouth.

Antoni took a short sip of wine. “It is good.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but Antoni turned his attention to the menu. A moment later, the waiter returned, and he and Antoni had a brisk exchange. Franny thought she understood the word
pulpo
and the word
pollo
, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Did you ever think about leaving Mallorca?” she asked. “When you were playing on the tour, you must have gone all over the world. Was there ever another place that spoke to you? You know, somewhere you wanted to stay?” She cupped her hand under her face. “Do you have any kids?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Antoni said. “Or maybe you’re still recovering from your brain injury.”

Franny laughed and patted herself on the head, which did indeed still have quite a lump, but Antoni didn’t smile. He wasn’t kidding.

Joan and Sylvia stopped for a coffee in Valldemossa, a charming little town with pitched cobblestone streets and a robust number of tourists wearing backpacks and Coppertone. They sat outside and drank their coffees out of proper little cups, which made Sylvia feel like she’d been a hobo all her life, carrying disposable paper cups down the street. Mallorcans knew how to slow things down. After their coffees were done, Joan directed them up a small hill to the monastery where George Sand and Frédéric Chopin had spent a miserable winter.

“Seriously, if you were going to move into a monastery with your boyfriend . . .” Sylvia said. “No, even if it was in the summer, that still seems like a bad idea.”

Despite scolding her in the car, Joan seemed happy to play tour guide. He pointed out everything—ikat fabric in a shop window that was made on the island; powdery
ensaimadas
, even better-looking than the ones Franny had made; wild olive trees twisted into snarling shapes. He pointed out cats dozing in the sun. When Sylvia began to fan herself, he produced a bottle of water. Every time she accidentally brushed against his arm, Sylvia felt an electric jolt running the length of her body. It wasn’t that he was perfect for her, or even that they had so much in common. Sylvia had more in common with the sullen girl selling the pastries, she was pretty sure, but that didn’t
matter. Joan was as handsome as a man in a Calvin Klein ad, one of the ones where it looked like clothes had never been invented, and thank God. He could have been steering a sailboat wearing only a skimpy pair of underwear and no one would have complained. Complained! Tourists would have paid money to have their photographs taken with him. Sylvia doubted that she would ever be so close to anyone that naturally good-looking ever again. The odds just weren’t good.

It was almost time for lunch, and Joan had a place in mind. They were driving farther north, to the water, but he wouldn’t say more. He put on the Maroon 5 CD and sang along.

“You know Maroon 5?”

“They’re okay, yeah,” Sylvia said. In her normal life, she would have made fun of him, but now she felt like a stupid American who no longer had the right to say if things were good or bad.

Joan took this as encouragement and turned up the volume. He danced in his seat as he drove, mouthing the words. Sylvia couldn’t tell if he was being serious or ironic, but decided it didn’t matter, some people were beyond reproach. They drove for almost an hour, on roads that made her wish she’d packed a Dramamine, before Joan made a sharp turn and the car started to go down the mountain instead of up. Tall pine trees lined the road on both sides, and the abundant sunlight was quickly gone.

“Are you going to murder me?” Sylvia asked.

“Hmm, no,” Joan said, and kept driving, now with both hands on the wheel.

They drove for a few more minutes before coming to a small, empty parking lot. “We walk from here,” Joan said. He hopped out and opened the trunk, removing a sizable backpack and cooler.

Sylvia had never been on an actual date before. She’d gone out with bunches of people, some of whom were boys, and Gabe Thrush had shown up on her doorstep a thousand times, but at no point had anyone ever called or texted or passed her a note that asked her out on a real, serious date. Even before Joan had yelled at her, she’d had no indication that this was an actual date. She wasn’t sure how to behave.

“So you, like, planned this?” Sylvia said.

“Did you want to eat sand?” Joan shrugged. He was a professional.

“Only if you packed sand sandwiches, I guess,” Sylvia said. She sounded like a moron.
Get it together, Sylvia.
The key to being cool was pretending that you’d done everything before; she knew that.

Joan pointed to Sylvia’s feet, clad in her dirty slip-on sneakers. “You can walk in those? It’s a little hike.” She nodded, and then followed him down a narrow path into the trees.

By the second hour, even beatific Terry seemed ready to get on with it. “Oi,” he said to Jim. “You sure you want to stick around for this?” They were perched on a bench in a park along the
water. Franny and Antoni had been sitting on the restaurant’s sunny patio for what seemed like eternity. From his bench, Jim could just make out Franny’s arm movements.

“Yes,” Jim said. “Please.”

Terry acquiesced. “Whatever you want, mate. I’ll just shut my eyes for a moment.” He lay down on his back along the wooden bench, and let out a satisfied groan. “That’s the stuff.” His enormous leather boots rested against Jim’s thigh.

Franny and Antoni must have had at least four courses—the lunch went on forever, and waiters kept coming back to the table, holding aloft more dishes. Jim’s own stomach began to gurgle with hunger. He thought about sneaking into the restaurant and ordering something to go, but he didn’t want to take the risk of getting caught. And so he waited. Every few minutes he thought he could hear Franny’s laugh carrying over the sound of the water, which was enough motivation to keep him going.

Eventually, Franny and Antoni stood up. Antoni put his hand on Franny’s lower back as they walked through the restaurant, and he kept it there all the way until they reached the car. He opened the door for her—Franny always had liked nice cars, even though they thought it was silly to have one in New York. When they got home, if she took him back, Jim vowed he would buy her a car, whatever she wanted. A car and a motorcycle and anything else. He wanted to be the one to drive her wherever she wanted to go. Jim nudged Terry awake.

“Oi,” Jim said. “We’re back on.”

Jim’s biggest fear was that Antoni would take another route—have another destination, like a hotel, or maybe his house—but the car went back the way it had come, straight to the tennis center. Terry and Jim stayed enough of a distance behind that they weren’t obvious, but close enough to catch up if necessary. They stopped in a different spot from where they had the first time, a little ways farther back, because Franny was a nervous driver and was sure to look both ways several times before attempting to pull out into traffic. It didn’t take long—Jim peered over the wall and watched as Franny and Antoni said good-bye. She was facing the courts, and Jim could only barely make out the lower half of her body, the rest hidden by trees. It was clear that Antoni was embracing her, and leaning toward her face, but Jim couldn’t see what was actually happening. Then Franny started to clomp away, always unsteady in those shoes, and Jim hurried back to the bike, pulling on his helmet. He hid again behind Terry’s leg, accidentally hitting himself in the wounded eye on Terry’s knee. “Shit,” he said.

“Okay, there she goes,” Terry said, and Jim hopped back on. He was starting to feel like he’d lived his whole life wrong—maybe he should have been a motorcycle cop, or a private investigator. He’d spent too much of his allotted hours on earth indoors, staring at a page with words on it. Franny would have cried hallelujah to hear him say it—she’d been telling him that for years, that life was lived outside, on the move, out of one’s comfort zone. She’d gone so many places without him, and Jim
mourned them all now. Franny was driving slowly, and Terry matched her pace. Jim wanted to move to England and retroactively send his children to see Terry, clearly the world’s greatest pediatrician.

Terry shouted something, but Jim couldn’t hear him. They were still slowing down. Over Terry’s shoulder, Jim saw the tiny rental car swoop over to the shoulder of the road and come to a halt. Jim knocked on Terry’s back and then pointed at Franny’s car. He held up his palm, STOP in the name of love, and Terry did just that, gracefully exiting traffic and pulling over just in front of Franny’s car.

She hadn’t gotten out but was squinting through the windshield. Jim took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm like an astronaut. He hoped that he looked handsome and rugged, and not like he’d just removed a scuba mask, but he feared the latter was probably true. Recognizing her husband, Franny shook her head and dropped her chin to her chest, just what she did in dark movie theaters when a serial killer was about to jump out and claim his next victim. Jim walked to the driver’s-side window and waited for Franny to press the button to roll it down. She didn’t want to laugh—was trying not to laugh—but she couldn’t quite keep it in.