the scaly catch as they towed his disabled dinghy to the wharf. Both he and Em smelled strongly of fish when they finally walked along the harbor to the coast guard office, something which pleased the dog more than it did Marco.
The office was a square room with two desks, each with a large leather chair, one of which was occupied by a self-important man in a gray uniform and heavy dark glasses which he did not remove as he inspected the still-dripping Marco, up, then down, then back up to his stubble-bearded face. The man’s glance swiveled to take in the wet dog, who proceeded to give a great rolling shake, sending drops of water flying all over him.
“Sorry,” Marco apologized. “It’s a bit wet out there.”
Giving him a disdainful look, the officer brushed off his uniform with a large, well-manicured hand and asked abruptly what he wanted. Marco got the impression he didn’t much care. He’d probably interrupted him on his way to the café for a glass of wine and a chat; soaking-wet vacationers and their even worse dogs who came in messing up his office and his outfit were unwelcome.
He smoothed back his hair and tried to arrange himself so he looked more presentable, difficult when you were that wet and wearing only bathing shorts, but he had more on his mind than mere appearance. “I came to report a drowning.”
The officer gave him a quick glance from behind the dark glasses. “Who?”
“I don’t know. A woman. Young. She fell off a large yacht.”
“How do you know she fell?”
Marco resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. “I saw her.”
The officer took off his glasses and stared at Marco. He obviously distrusted him. “So? Why did you not save her from this drowning?”
“Sir,” Marco knew politeness was the only way to success with bureaucracy, “I tried. I dived many times but the sea was in turmoil. I could not find her. All I know is she fell from a large yacht, black, and very fast. It took off, she was left in its wake.…”
The officer sat back in the leather chair. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Marco. “What was the name of this yacht?”
Marco said he didn’t know, he had not had time to look.
“And what were you doing out there in the storm? What boat were you on?”
Marco explained he was a vacationer, about his dinghy, that a fishing boat had towed his small boat back to shore. “She was young, though,” he said, then stopped himself. He had spoken in the past tense. “She had on a blue dress, not exactly what you would wear if you meant to go for a swim off a boat.”
The man eyed him coldly, waiting.
“She had— has red hair,” he remembered. “A great cloud of coppery hair, kind of wavy, if you know what I mean.…”
The officer said nothing. He turned away and flicked on his computer. He clicked around silently for a few minutes. “Nobody is reported going overboard. Nobody missing,” he said. “The storm is over. She probably went for a dip.” He shrugged dismissively. “Foreigners on vacation think everything is safe everywhere. On vacation, they become immortal.”
Marco watched him write a message on a yellow Post-it, then walk over to the empty desk next to his own and stick it on the counter. “My assistant will keep an eye on it,” the man said, buttoning his jacket, already heading for the door, which he opened for Marco and the dog.
And that was that, Marco thought, as he squelched toward the café, where Costas greeted him with raised brows and a quick demitasse of boiling hot espresso from his fancy new Gaggia machine, his pride and joy.
Costas did not ask what had happened, that was not his way. Costas listened. He knew everything about everybody and mostly he kept it to himself. And to his wife, of course, the lovely Artemis, ten years younger and second only to the new Gaggia as his pride and joy. So what if Artemis gossiped with her friends, holding back her long dark hair with one hand while the other held her coffee
The office was a square room with two desks, each with a large leather chair, one of which was occupied by a self-important man in a gray uniform and heavy dark glasses which he did not remove as he inspected the still-dripping Marco, up, then down, then back up to his stubble-bearded face. The man’s glance swiveled to take in the wet dog, who proceeded to give a great rolling shake, sending drops of water flying all over him.
“Sorry,” Marco apologized. “It’s a bit wet out there.”
Giving him a disdainful look, the officer brushed off his uniform with a large, well-manicured hand and asked abruptly what he wanted. Marco got the impression he didn’t much care. He’d probably interrupted him on his way to the café for a glass of wine and a chat; soaking-wet vacationers and their even worse dogs who came in messing up his office and his outfit were unwelcome.
He smoothed back his hair and tried to arrange himself so he looked more presentable, difficult when you were that wet and wearing only bathing shorts, but he had more on his mind than mere appearance. “I came to report a drowning.”
The officer gave him a quick glance from behind the dark glasses. “Who?”
“I don’t know. A woman. Young. She fell off a large yacht.”
“How do you know she fell?”
Marco resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. “I saw her.”
The officer took off his glasses and stared at Marco. He obviously distrusted him. “So? Why did you not save her from this drowning?”
“Sir,” Marco knew politeness was the only way to success with bureaucracy, “I tried. I dived many times but the sea was in turmoil. I could not find her. All I know is she fell from a large yacht, black, and very fast. It took off, she was left in its wake.…”
The officer sat back in the leather chair. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Marco. “What was the name of this yacht?”
Marco said he didn’t know, he had not had time to look.
“And what were you doing out there in the storm? What boat were you on?”
Marco explained he was a vacationer, about his dinghy, that a fishing boat had towed his small boat back to shore. “She was young, though,” he said, then stopped himself. He had spoken in the past tense. “She had on a blue dress, not exactly what you would wear if you meant to go for a swim off a boat.”
The man eyed him coldly, waiting.
“She had— has red hair,” he remembered. “A great cloud of coppery hair, kind of wavy, if you know what I mean.…”
The officer said nothing. He turned away and flicked on his computer. He clicked around silently for a few minutes. “Nobody is reported going overboard. Nobody missing,” he said. “The storm is over. She probably went for a dip.” He shrugged dismissively. “Foreigners on vacation think everything is safe everywhere. On vacation, they become immortal.”
Marco watched him write a message on a yellow Post-it, then walk over to the empty desk next to his own and stick it on the counter. “My assistant will keep an eye on it,” the man said, buttoning his jacket, already heading for the door, which he opened for Marco and the dog.
And that was that, Marco thought, as he squelched toward the café, where Costas greeted him with raised brows and a quick demitasse of boiling hot espresso from his fancy new Gaggia machine, his pride and joy.
Costas did not ask what had happened, that was not his way. Costas listened. He knew everything about everybody and mostly he kept it to himself. And to his wife, of course, the lovely Artemis, ten years younger and second only to the new Gaggia as his pride and joy. So what if Artemis gossiped with her friends, holding back her long dark hair with one hand while the other held her coffee
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