RED 2: A Trick of Mirrors [#Wattys2017]

38. Territories

After the long conversation with Eliana in the solarium, Marco wandered across the ship among sleepless passengers heading happily to their cabins. The photo gallery was open early for selling the shots from the previous evening, and there he spotted himself with Marisa on one of the panels: they smiled in each other's arms against a marine backdrop. On another photo to the right, Eliana and Robert posed with them. Marco studied the image, revisiting that instant in a vain attempt to determine the point where everything stopped making sense. When he walked away, the scenery followed him along with the fossilized faces of four strangers.

He killed time on the patio of the cafeteria with a plate of untouched food in front of him. After forcing himself to eat a forkful of omelet, he gave up. His gaze got lost on the sea that undulated gently under the sun, a blue meadow sparkling with smiling fairies. In the vastness Marco searched for answers. He only found perplexity.

Marco continued roaming the ship. He didn't—couldn't—see Marisa. Not yet. More than her absence, her presence pierced him with the shards of a broken mirror reflecting all that was and all that would never be, sharp glass digging into his flesh. In the absence of Marisa, the cut became anesthetized and what remained were the passengers in their meaningless coming and going, the never-ending corridors, the locked doors.

The instinct boiling in his guts told him to look for Robert and deliver the blow he hadn't completed, not only for Marisa but also for Eliana. A punch, however, wouldn't alter a thing. Nor would a thousand. During the ball, Eliana shared her discovery about Robert and the psychological torture that was her marriage. At that stage, Marco didn't even dream Robert was manipulating Marisa. But that wouldn't minimize her betrayal. Marisa lacked conviction to resist.

The Aquamarine would soon dock at the Port of Miami, and the atrium filled with the sleepy morning light and passengers waiting to disembark. Marco took a quick shower, slipping into the same jeans of the eve and a black polo shirt. He packed his belongings, called Eliana in the intercom and went to her cabin to say goodbye. When Eliana told him about her conversation with Marisa, a mix of relief and anger invaded him. He externalized his relief. The anger, he kept to himself. It was a farewell tinted with melancholy and Marco walked away immersed in somber thoughts.

On the staircase landing, he found himself face to face with Robert. Shaved, in khaki pants and light blue shirt, he rescinded of lotion and a vague aroma of fabric softener. Robert climbed the last step and halted, a crest forming on his forehead. They assessed each other while a whirlpool of passengers flowed around them toward the elevators—Marco slightly taller, his dark silhouette in dissonance with Robert's, the two of them forming an island of animosity.

Marco's pulse accelerated, his temples throbbed and his vision blurred. He narrowed his eyes to maintain focus.

"Did you talk to Marisa?"

"This is no longer your business."

Robert's confidence, as if he demanded rights over her, further stiffened the posture of Marco, whose eyes sparkled demanding an answer still denied.

"Leave Marisa alone. It's enough what you've done to Eliana."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Several things occur to me. We could start with bed manners."

Caught by surprise, Robert hesitated for an instant. His irritation returned.

"I don't care what Eliana told you. Why do you think she confided intimate things to you?"

"That's irrelevant."

"Let me tell you why. You know that talking about sex leads to thinking about sex, and thinking about sex leads to having sex. It's as simple as that. It wasn't by chance that Eliana invited you to an orgy."

"She changed her mind about the swing party."

"You got it wrong. I changed my mind, not her. Eliana came up with this idea to break our routine and I concluded it would only make things worse. But party or no party, Eliana managed to grab what she wanted: you."

Marco ignored his comment. Robert returned to the charge: "If you want my advice, don't trust her. She flirted with my friends and said she was being just polite. She had an affair with one of them out of politeness too. I, an idiot as I was, forgave her. Eliana knows how to be convincing. For love I subjected myself to her whims, even to not having children because she didn't want to be fat. You want kids, Marco? Get used to that."

"Stop slandering Eliana."

Robert let out a sigh, his exaltation waning into fatigue.

"Listen, I don't want to sound mean. I've been her play thing for six years and I'm drained. Only I know what I've been through. You have no idea. No one has. People regard her as an angel. If I were you, I'd be careful. Eliana gets bored just like that and will discard you without a second thought. Unfortunately, that's the truth. The only reason she hadn't discarded me up to now is because she likes to lead a comfortable life and collect her jewelry."

"Enough, Robert."

Marco's acrid tone forced him to pause. In that pause, both vacillated. Marco considered if it would be possible that he didn't know, had never known the true Eliana. She certainly wasn't the same from old times. Perhaps, by then, she hid inside her this other woman that only waited for an opportunity to surface?

Robert shrugged and adopted a conciliatory tone.

"Eliana's lies don't concern me. She's already hurt me far beyond words. The question now is Marisa. I don't want you to think I've disrespected your relationship with her. But we're in love. There's no way of controlling these feelings, Marco."

"Feelings? What feelings? You've known each other for less than a week."

"That's plenty. Yesterday I proposed that she come with me to San Diego. Marisa accepted. She's still shaken with the whole situation, but it will pass. You and I know your relationship with her was in a bad shape way before I came along, and besides—"

Marco's fist hit Robert straight on the cheek and hurl him against the bronze parapet. He stumbled, fighting to keep balance. Marco grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Robert recovered, tried to retaliate and received another blow on the chin. Alert, he ducked and lunged his head against Marco's chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. The two wrestled. It all happened too fast, not even a minute, not even a fraction of Marco's rage. A group of men passing by separated them.

Wrenching himself off, Marco descended the stairs without looking back, disgusted at his own behavior. He never lost control like that. Ever. The street fights in his teen years had proven the relief provided by violence was fleeting and only fueled anger. Later he learned that true strength came from within, it didn't require punches and kicks to prevail. And yet his instinct had strayed from that long learning curve. What affected him was not Robert's nonchalance or saccharine venom ("There's no way of controlling these feelings.") but rather the sudden awareness of how bad his relationship with Marisa was, much worse than he had imagined. Even Robert had noticed it—which rendered Marco beside himself.

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We're tying up loose ends... toward what? Let's see what comes next... xoxo