Matala by Craig Holden Page A

Justine, and greeted me, too—“Good morning, Will”—as if nothing had gone on. And later, as I waited for some sign of what had transpired between us, a hint even, a touch, a look, a certain smile, I saw none.
    Now, lying against her again, with Justine pressing into me from behind, sandwiched between these two women, one of whom I’d been with many times and the other whom I had just begun with, I felt that aching again of desire and frustration. I was certain I could never sleep like this, but the pills and the wine and the fatigue that always came with the road won over at last.

    T HE A MERICAN C AFÉ WAS A re-creation of an idealized U.S. diner complete with bottles of French’s mustard and Heinz catsup on every table, Miller High Life in tapered clear-glass bottles, waitresses in short skirts and bobby socks, and a menu heavy with Ham Burgers and Shakes of Milk. I found it laughable that the people who came here were nearly all Americans, an odd mixture of tourists and those who’d been around Venice long enough to recognize one another. What did it mean? Were they homesick? Was this really like any place they ate at home? (It was rather startling, I have to admit, to see those neon yellow bottles of homogenized mustard we grew up with.) Did they come to Italy not wanting to eat the fabulous food, or did they find on arriving that, although its reputation preceded it, they just didn’t like it? Couldn’t they stomach it? Or did they need a break from it? Was it too good for their systems, and they had to pollute themselves to feel whole again? Was it akin to dropping into a McDonald’s in Paris just to compare? And, by extension, did Italian visitors to the United States go out for pizza?
    I didn’t know. I just laughed at the diners around me in their logo-T-shirt-clad bellies and jeans and tennis shoes. Then I thought: Here I was, too. One of them.
    Except not. Justine and I came here when we were in Venice for one reason, and it wasn’t burgers. It was to see the man, Maurice, the one person to whom I had ever seen Justine pay anything resembling homage, though no one else who saw it would call it that. But he clearly held something over her, which I assumed at first was just about chemicals, about his being our supplier—until I found out they’d been married. I realized you could see it still between them, that uncuttable tie, that ghost of fealty, a vestige of which must always be there between former spouses—some remnant of the crazy love or whatever else it was that had drawn them together in that way. She looked up to him, that’s what it was, and it was just plain weird to see, because she was a woman who looked up to no one.
    We sat at a corner table, me and Justine on one side, Darcy across from us, watching the Americans and drinking Miller drafts and smoking what remained of Darcy’s Dunhills. And then, as if he had simply materialized, Maurice pulled out the empty chair and sat.
    â€œHeya,” he said. He was wearing a loose-fitting lime-colored sport coat, black T-shirt and jeans, and high-tops, and he carried a gym bag in his right hand. His left was wrapped in a gauze bandage. He let his gaze rest for a particularly long moment on Darcy but said nothing.
    â€œWhat’d you do?” I asked, nodding at the bandage, but got only a kick from Justine as an answer.
    Maurice was quiet, then said, “So here we are.” He was looking at me when he said this, but I wasn’t the one being spoken to.
    â€œWe are indeed,” Justine said.
    â€œWell, I think things look fine. Just fine.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œAnd you?”
    â€œI’m well,” Justine said.
    â€œBloody fantastic then,” he said. “I knew you would be. I always know.”
    â€œYou think you do,” Justine said, and she seemed to drag rather vehemently at her Dunhill.
    Maurice shook his head at me. “How d’you put