Previously: The way he said feisty, kind of growled it out, like he was talking to a puppy, made the back Matt’s neck stiffen just a bit, his jaw tighten just a touch, and a small knot form in his stomach.
When Matt woke up the next morning, he was alone in the bed. He found Andrea sitting in a chair on the porch, reading.
Good morning.
Good morning, she said, looking up at him, her eyes squinting against the brightness. Then she went back to her book.
I’m going to get some breakfast. Do you want to come with me?
She shook her head while reading.
Matt put his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t react one way or another.
If this is about that guy? Look I ran into him last night and —
It’s not about that guy. It’s about me wanting to relax. No matter who’s there, that place won’t be relaxing. This is relaxing. That place — she wiped at the air with her palm — Not relaxing. But you can go,
Then she looked up at him and squinted into the sun.
Matt left her on the porch and walked back toward the restaurant, worried that he’d failed some sort of test. Yes, Brian would be there, maybe, but there would also be tables and coffee, and he could sit at a table, and drink a coffee, and look at the ocean. He’d never sat at a table, and drank a coffee, and looked at the ocean.
Brian wasn’t in the restaurant when Matt got there. Matt found a seat at a table with a view of the ocean and ordered a plate of papaya and a cup of coffee. He was trying to enjoy the quiet warmth of the morning, not think about Brian and the word feisty, not think about Andrea and how much she seemed like a stranger, when he heard an Australian-sized laugh rumble down the beach.
Brian was walking among a group of children; a jolly, blonde giant teaching the basics of Australian rules football, using a ball he must have brought from home, a half-dozen black-haired boys looking up at him as he spoke, and chasing after him when he showed them how to run with the ball, bounce it, handball it, and kick it. He (or someone) had tied a rope between a palm tree and the post of a gazebo. He used this as the goalposts. He lined the boys up and had them practice kicking the ball through the goalposts. Maria was nowhere to be seen.
Brilliant, that’s brilliant! Now, you know what signal the official makes when the kick is good? He does this.
Brian stood stiff-backed, head high, and snapped his arms into place at his sides, ninety degrees at each elbow, index and middle fingers pointed forward. The children fell all over themselves with laughter.
Again!
You want me to do it again? You have to score a goal.
So they kicked goals, and Brian signaled, and they laughed, and they kicked goals, and Brian signaled, and they laughed, and then Brian kicked goals, and they took turns signaling, and Brian laughed and they all laughed together.
Brian saw Matt watching and gave him a salute, or the tip of an imaginary hat, and declared, It’s brilliant morning, isn’t it, mate?
Matt asked, Where’s Maria?
If Brian heard, he didn’t acknowledge. He kicked the ball through the goal and he and the boys chased after it.
Andrea’s notes and her laptop sat untouched on the table next to the bed. None of his business, Matt supposed, but wasn’t she going to work on her book? Wasn’t that part of the reason they came to the beach? He wondered about the point. She wasn’t working, she wasn’t talking to him, she spent much of their time at the beach standing at the edge of the water. Matt would join her sometimes, and they would talk about neutral things, like the undeniable beauty of the place. He’d take her hand and squeeze it, and she’d wait a moment and then squeeze it back.
On another afternoon on which Andrea wanted to be alone, Matt Lang sat in the restaurant by a window and filled in postcards to send to his mother, who wanted pictures of the beaches, and his friend Dave, who was certain that Matt Lang was going to get violently ill, kidnapped, or both. As he wrote, he saw a brittle-boned hand reach through the window. He followed the hand up a worn out arm to find the face of an old woman with thin hair, sparse teeth, and a large mole that was impossible to forget. With her other hand, she made a motion toward her mouth, asking for something to eat.
No, he said, and shook his head and looked away. She stood there a few moments longer. Matt Lang tried to focus on his postcards, but she reached out and tapped his forearm.
No, he said again, this time sliding further away from the window, wondering how this woman got to Mindoro. Did she hitchhike to the port? Did she stow away on the ferry? He watched out of the corner of his eye as she made her way down the beach.
She walked up to Brian and made the same motion, hand to mouth, asking for food. Matt couldn’t hear the conversation but he saw Brian, again alone, without Maria, put his hand on the woman’s shoulder and tip his head toward the restaurant. It looked like he said, Come on, then.
Brian and the woman walked into the restaurant. The hostess met them just inside the door.
I’m so sorry ma’am, sir, but the restaurant is for guests staying at the resort only.
The woman looked away. Brian looked at the hostess and said, I know, love, but she’ll stay with me, and it’s just one meal. The hostess nodded her assent and the two sat down.
Brian ordered their drinks and food. When the drinks came, Brian lifted his bottle towards Matt. Matt lifted his eyebrows and asked, Where’s Maria?
Brian took a drink, and made a point of pouring a glass of water for the woman. Matt went back to his postcards, both filled with references to the beauty and hospitality of the country, and the assurances of his safety and well being. He noticed he’d spelled Philippines incorrectly every time, with two l’s and one p. He closed his eyes and folded the cards in half and tore them along the fold.
Matt convinced Andrea to have breakfast at the restaurant on their last morning at the resort. Brian was sitting at the bar by himself, hair combed as always, two days of scruff on his face. He lifted his bottle when they walked in.
Matt asked again, Where’s Maria?
Maria went home, mate. No need to worry about her.
Is she okay?
Brian rapped his knuckles on the bar.
I said she’s fine. Don’t worry.
Brian looked at Andrea.
How’s your book comin’? Matt here told me you were workin’ on a book? ‘Bout the sex trade, is it? I reckon he thought he was gettin’ another chapter for ya.
Brian stood, took a pile of bills from his wallet, dropped them on the bar, and turned to Matt.
She was a co-worker, mate. With me ‘cause she wanted to be. I’m guilty of having an office romance, nothing more. Her family lives near here, so she went to see them. This country has problems, sure, but I ain’t one of ‘em.
Matt played detective one more time, looked Brian over for signs of a struggle, some evidence of wrongdoing, a scratch on his neck or cuts on his hands, some marring of his impeccable nails. He didn’t see any. A little doubt tugged at his mind, for a beat he thought about apologizing, but he had that same knot in his gut, and his jaw was getting tighter. Brian was wrong, Brian was bad, Matt was right, Matt was good. Matt was certain of these facts. He thought of subduing Brian, calling the police, finding Maria — trapped, bound, hungry, somehow cold and shivering — reuniting her with her family, the tears, the gratitude, the celebration dinner and the celebratory news coverage, the boost that would give to Andrea’s book, the book tour and the stories that would lead to more women being found and more reunions, so many wrongs made right.
Andrea grabbed his arm.
Come on. Let’s go.
Thank you for reading. Up next:
Manila is less a city than a head-on collision at a five-way intersection, a compelling clusterfuck, a Gordian knot in which twenty million people try to live.