L'America by Martha McPhee Page A

had slept on thin mattresses with bedbugs and cockroaches, slept in huts on dirt floors, lived without water for a week, contracted giardia and hepatitis. Oh, but the Taj Mahal was stunning, shining in the heat of Uttar Pradesh with all those cute poor children begging for bonbons and school pencils. Through the young eyes of Beth and Sylvia, Chas was simply an adventurer, all bravado and fearlessness, traveling in the footsteps of the great explorers who came before him, from Marco Polo to Vespucci to Kerouac. And the girls loved that about Chas, that stories and ideas spilled from him—exotic expectations, a desire to experience everything and all. The world was his and the girls found that seductive; at night, curled up together in their bed, they would dream of their own adventures, of taking a world tour, of being brave enough to head to Africa.
    But up there on Mount Urgull, determined Chas took Beth's turned back as a chance to sneak up behind Sylvia and kiss her. (Later, Sylvia would tell Beth that she had not been surprised by the kiss, that indeed she had been hoping for it and would have kissed him herself if he hadn't first. "The desire," she said, "had been visible." "Desire?" Beth asked, wanting to laugh. What did they really know about desire?) And just as their lips met, Beth turned toward them. Then, before they could see her seeing them, she turned away.
    The kiss hit her like a slap. A rush of envy and fury pushed against her chest, caught at her throat. She saw Chas stealing Sylvia from her. That was the only picture she could see. Suddenly she hated Chas, understood him (just as suddenly) not as an exotic adventurer but as a fraud, a thief taking Sylvia for his own, seducing her with his guitar because she was an easy sweet girl. He would carry her along until grabbed by some other whim. The picture was there, developed in that quick glimpse of Sylvia's head leaning back, her lips reaching up to his. Beth saw them skipping across the world, from elephants to tall mountains to little Chinese men eager to learn English. His lips so gently on Sylvia's, his hands so lightly on her back, as soft as the light summer breeze, which caused her long auburn hair to dance. Their embrace was gentle, it was loving, it was romantic. Beth could feel it as if Chas had been kissing her. She wished Chas had been kissing her.
    For a long time Beth would think about this moment. She would think about it once she met Cesare in Greece and everything and everyone became easily dispensable, sacrificial even, and nothing mattered but more of Cesare. She was struck by the uncontrollable will of love, the awesome force of it, which created indifference and undeniable selfishness in regard to others, yet exquisite selflessness in regard to the other, the lover. She and Cesare would be together in Greece for just four days, on the Aeolian island of Páros. They would meet on that first morning as Cesare spoke ancient Greek to the landlady of his pension and as the sun lit his black hair, turning it almost blue. Have you ever been watching a movie when the film burned? It starts as a small hole and then grows. As it grows, it devours the image, takes over the entire screen, blotting out the picture with white light until the film snaps. Do you remember how quick it is, how all encompassing, nothing matters but that hole, the increasing size of it, the triumph of it?
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    Beth gave Sylvia the silent treatment as they drifted back to the hotel, Sylvia all but oblivious as she floated along at Chas's side, believing they held a secret from Beth, a secret that made the intensity of their desire all the more powerful. Walking ahead, Beth hated both of them. She was fury itself—irrational fury, she realized—threatened, afraid, as if somewhere she did believe that Sylvia would abandon her, leave her there in Spain by herself.
    "But what's wrong, Beth?" Sylvia asked once they were back in their room and a good ten minutes had