Sunburn Read Free

over.
    Now he spent his time trying to write novels. He was, for the most part, an entertaining and generous host who left us alone when we wanted to be. Occasionally, he’d become intolerable and yell at everyone in the manner of someone who’s grown used to getting his own way, but it would always pass quickly, and it seemed a small price to pay for an otherwise idyllic Spanish vacation.
    I had supposed at the time, since Kyra and novel-writing commenced simultaneously, that there had been some link between the two. From his descriptions, I had imagined her to be interested in art and artists. This was not the case, and though there must have been some connection between this new vocation and his life with Kyra, I couldn’t fathom it.
    She was a well-built woman and knew it, and whatever power she exerted over Sean I suspected lay in his adoration for her body. She exposed herself subtly but often to inflame him with jealousy, and he exploded into rage every two weeks or so. Once, he’d even gone so far as to throw her out of the house, though on that occasion she hadn’t even made it out of the courtyard when he’d called her back, begging forgiveness. As far as I knew, she’d been faithful to him since she’d moved in, which had been about six months before our arrival.
    When we’d left Los Angeles we had no idea of what Spain was like, or who peopled this paradise called Tossa. Lea had wanted to get out of the ad game, and I had thought, what the hell, maybe I’d write a novel. I had given up fiction after three years of poverty had been neither as romantic nor as fulfilling as I’d hoped it would be. The magazine articles I wrote had provided a good living, but I, too, had felt it would be good to have a change. I’d become bored putting words together as if I were macramé-ing something. This I say in retrospect. I hadn’t really noticed that I wasn’t content until Lea had put the bug in my ear. Since we’d arrived, I hadn’t written a word.
     
    Berta was standing by the kitchen door when I came inside. She had looked to me, at first, like every other Spanish woman older than a girl, always dressed in a black dress and black stockings. But as I’d come to know her, I realized that she was not so much unattractive as lacking in glamour. Her features were strong and her smile really wonderful. She probably wasn’t much beyond forty-five, and before too long, we’d become friends in broken English and Spanish.
    Now she leaned with a weary smile against the doorpost. “Muy loco,” she said, motioning outside.
    I laughed. “ Sí. You want the chicken?”
    She took it and walked into the kitchen. Sitting on a stool near the table, she pulled over a can and began plucking, talking quietly to herself all the while.
    After a few moments of watching her, I went upstairs to where Lea was napping. She lay curled in the bed, her back to me, the solitary sheet down around her waist. When I opened the door, she turned over, half-awake, and yawned.
    “What was that awful noise?”
    I sat on the bed. “Puberty rites, I suppose. Sean had to prove his manhood to Kyra.”
    “What? Again?”
    “Again.”
    “What time is it?”
    “About six, I guess. You sleep well?”
    “Must have.” She put her head on my leg, and curled herself around me. She had the slender and, I thought, beautiful body of an underdeveloped girl of twenty, and she was nearly twice that. Still, I felt that lately she’d come into bloom. She’d never been shy about her body with me, but now she exuded a certain pride in its lines. Before we’d left, she’d stood one day in front of the mirror and looked at herself, naked. “I’m so glad I’ve never had big breasts,” she’d said. Then, later, “I’m beginning to feel like a beautiful woman. Should a woman my age feel that way?”
    “Douglas,” she said, “I’m not that way with you, am I? I don’t test you all the time?”
    I leaned over and kissed her. “If you do, I