RED 2: A Trick of Mirrors [#Wattys2017]

40. The Heart Would Stop

Miami Beach

Marco marched along the hallway on Deck 10, knuckles sore, breathing still erratic. His pace dragged as he approached the cabin, and it was with reluctance that he opened the door. The sight of Marisa, more than hurting, saddened him as on her face years seemed to have accumulated rather than days. It saddened him for those features belonged to a stranger that had nothing to do with the woman he fell in love with, the woman he had trusted without reservations. Everything in her was familiar yet foreigner, her brusque movements while closing the suitcase, the pursed lips, the machine-like hands.

They rolled their suitcases through the corridor with other passengers on their way to the elevator, many of which, like them, carrying luggage. They endured one queue to reach the packed atrium and another to retrace the inverse route of embarkment. Finally, they descended the ship's ramp to the cemented expansion of the port, the smell of salt mixed with engine oil, the rough and faded floors watched by smooth clouds in the sky. With a surreal sensation, Marco saw himself and Marisa arriving there full of enthusiasm and curiosity. It seemed like another life.

The passengers trickled down the ramp in an Indian file and spilled out at the bottom of the ship, meeting friends and family or heading for the taxi stop nearby. Marco and Marisa merged into the second group and took a cab to South Beach. They kept quiet paying attention to the route, first McArthur Causeway escorted by palm trees on an expanse of silver waters, and then Miami Beach with its skyscrapers covered in glass capturing the colors of the sky. The taxi crossed the picturesque streets in pastel hues of the Art Déco District and stopped in front of Hotel Victor on Ocean Drive.

Marco instructed the driver to remove only Marisa's luggage from the boot. She panicked.

"Aren't you coming?"

"No. I'll find another hotel. You can stay here and enjoy the next couple of days until departure. The room is paid off. I'll see you at the airport."

Marisa's devastated expression almost touched his heart.

"I need to speak with you. Please, Marco. Let's talk."

She didn't wait for a reply and jumped out the car, asking the driver to pick up his suitcase too. Marco left the taxi vexed and accompanied her. They paused at the reception for the check-in—the banality of polite answers mocking their state of mind. Then the quick elevator ride, the suite on the third floor.

Marco remained by the door while Marisa moved to the sofa. Seeing her there with her grayish clothes against the sunny backdrop of the window, Marco thought of a sloppy photomontage. Marisa urged him to seat with her and he acquiesced, already aware that the conversation would be brief. Marco conceded her few words, barely registering what she said. It was just sentences repeated since immemorial times that would continue to be repeated until the end of times. Like those cheap soap opera lines. Thus was love—a heap of clichés.

I love you. Forgive me.

She had turned their love into a cliché. For a lapse, Marco loathed Marisa. Nothingness ensued. Marco didn't know what he was doing there. It was useless. He stood and headed for the door. Before opening it, he laughed and faced Marisa.

"You see the irony? If we had gone for the other ship, none of this would happen. But you were right. It was an unforgettable trip."

"Why are you torturing me like that?"

Marco didn't reply, and Marisa disarmed him momentarily:

"If we had chosen the other ship, we would have a pleasant and fun cruise. You'd surf on your artificial wave and I would sunbathe by the pool. We would enjoy all the attractions on board, I could even read a Steinbeck book and we would be back here exactly how we left, with the same problems swept under the carpet. We'd return to Brazil and our relationship would go on as dissatisfying as in Canada. Is that what you wanted?"