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RAYUELA, DE CAPÍTULO 93.
"Pero el amor, esa palabra… [...] ...temeroso de pasiones sin una razón de aguas hondas, desconcertado y arisco en la ciudad donde el amor se llama con todos los nombres de todas las calles, de todas las casas, de todos los pisos, de todas las habitaciones, de todas las camas, de todos los sueños, de todos los olvidos o los recuerdos. Amor mío, no te quiero por vos ni por mí ni por los dos juntos, no te quiero porque la sangre me llame a quererte, te quiero porque no sos mía, porque estás del otro lado, ahí donde me invitás a saltar y no puedo dar el salto, porque en lo más profundo de la posesión no estás en mí, no te alcanzo, no paso de tu cuerpo, de tu risa, hay horas en que me atormenta que me ames (cómo te gusta usar el verbo amar, con qué cursilería lo vas dejando caer sobre los platos y las sábanas y los autobuses), me atormenta tu amor que no me sirve de puente porque un puente no se sostiene de un solo lado... [...] ...y no me mires con esos ojos de pájaro, para vos la operación del amor es tan sencilla, te curarás antes que yo y eso que me querés como yo no te quiero."
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There was a before, but by the time he remembers it is too late to do anything. If he could do anything then. Joel is a man who learned to hold on to the so called “journalistic neutrality”, even though he did not believe it in his youth, a concept that seemed a bit pretentious to him. He is still young, only in a different way, in which he was given more responsibility and experience. The tugging on the leash, albeit a long leash, served to burnish and hone that endless charm and refined acumen, a sharpness that is peculiar to his eyes. He prides himself on asking the right questions of the subject of his attention (right or wrong, it doesn't matter as long as he can complete his interview and get what he needs), and on having the skill to spin and fray conversations for his own pleasure. Off the record, he thinks, as he throws a crooked smile in search of knowing, genuinely knowing. He confidently uses that resource in search of something nice and warm to wake up between the sheets in the morning. Different circumstances. It's not the first time, it's not going to be the last. He made an unspoken promise to himself to enjoy the chaos that is this afterwards because no one is immune to a stray bullet. He started leaving the windows open, anyway.
Joel recognizes that he is in his thirties. In his late twenties he genuinely thought about what would become of his thirties, head between his knees, whether he was going to follow the same path he kept in his mind, whether it would lead him anywhere. The scoops that kept slipping through his fingers followed into empty alleys. His early days were as a publicist in a small newspaper in his hometown. Now, the civil war that raged in the years that followed gave him a sour taste in his throat, because he never felt he was doing the right thing until within these circumstances, first starting far from what he calls home. The pressure in his lower back never quite faded, a strange vibration caused by the fear and fervor of the need to be present in red-hot danger. It is the same sensation that deepens, like electricity through the arteries of his body, when he is hot under the sheets, with or without company.
At the refugee camp they frequent in Atlanta, it is when the summer is at its most sticky and unbearable that his eyes drift not so subtly when Lee is talking to him. She doesn't seem to mind, but this is important and she needs his attention for at least five minutes. The trip they are planning to New York (and subsequent destinations, but it's redundant and unnecessary to say) needs his attention for at least five minutes. She doesn't ask for much, and yet; she witnesses her companion mute his curiosity to a particular voice, amidst all the hubbub of the open field. Tents, small campfires, deck chairs and blankets under the velvety blanket of night. It doesn't take Joel long to hear and recognize from above a language he heard many years ago, in familiar surroundings. He keeps a certain longing in words he does not remember, in sounds he does not fully understand.
A jugular that jumps irregularly, like the fluttering of a desperate butterfly, as she talks to (possibly) a friend standing behind the old loveseat where she is comfortable, one tanned leg unfolded and the other tucked under her body. Fanning herself with a women's fashion magazine from an old issue, accompanying the subtle breeze, in the absence of fans. Sweat makes tiny pearls on her temples and the delicate skin of her shiny collarbones. He thinks that campfires are rarely useful in summer, except for this moment when he can rest his eyes on such a striking image.
Joel, neither slow nor lazy, gets a cool drink from the cooler in the trunk of the van, non-alcoholic, obviously, because first and foremost, he is a gentleman. Water is a very common decision, so he takes the risk of choosing a peach juice served in a plastic cup. He used that same juice, difficult to get in these contexts, to cut the vodka that he keeps next to the plastic cooler. That white drink does not need cold, only courage.
The syllables slid across her tongue exquisitely, her eyelashes batting as she intoned the end of her sentence. He waited until she was done speaking, how would he interrupt such a thing, and the girl standing behind the two-person couch, where the young woman sat alone, signaled her presence to him with a nod of her head.
Her owlish eyes narrowed on his silhouette, more warmth running down his spine like static on a radio not picking up a signal.
“ -'m sorry to interrupt, ladies. I couldn't help but hear bits and pieces of this pretty language of yours.”
She flashes the edge of her teeth in a domestic rabbit smile, her gaze dropping down to the toe of his sneakers, then back up to the glass he offers her. Translucent plastic reveals a saffron liquid that matches the sunshine that hovered a few hours ago. A little redder and it's the same range as the high blush on her cheeks. She doesn't grab it right away.
“No worries, sir. Better to appreciate it than to pour scorn on it.” She smiles at her friend, something she takes as an implied message of “don't worry, I got this,” and nods, to sit with other possible acquaintances on a nearby blanket to watch her over her shoulder. In her lap are two cameras of varying size and range, but as much as Joel boasts of his dexterity when it comes to his parlance, he's not going to rush the things he enjoys getting to know.
“You from here? A photographer, maybe?”
Another smile in response, this time directed at him. She does so purposefully, holding his gaze; she seems to enjoy holding Joel's attention as if pulling the thread of his interest. In a quick appreciation of his attractiveness and subtle danger, because one never knows, she grabs the glass he offers and spreads her legs out in front of him so he has room to sit next to her. Jean shorts, navy blue contrasting with sun-kissed skin. She's always had a weakness for crooked smiles, eyes that assume kindness.
“Mm-hmm. I bet you're a journalist.”
The accent that rolls off the tip of her tongue is strange, from here but not quite, from everywhere but nowhere really. Joel is momentarily mesmerized. His eyes end on what is between her phalanges, formerly of him. What rare joy a plastic cup brought him.
“Oh, um, it's cold apricot juice. Thought it would help with the heat,” his lips part in a smile. “Thought it would also make a great opening.”
Her eyes close as she lets out the small string of guffaws that make her chest heave. The cameras shake in her lap. Her jugular quivers in her neck. “It was. So you are a journalist, right?” She takes a single sip of the juice, it's refreshing and sweet, more than she'd like to admit.
With a subtle nod of her head, she gives him permission to take the seat next to her, waiting for him to settle in so she can offer him the glass and watch intently as he takes a drink. His Adam's apple twitches under the smooth skin of his throat, and she bites back a smirk when Joel looks back up at her. Whatever he put in the drink, if anything, the two of them now had it in their system. Better safe than sorry.
“Yeah. You've got a sharp eye.”
“Mm-hmm. You've got a sharp hearing. Mind me asking why such curiosity for my mother tongue?”
“So you're not from here,” Joel acknowledges. “I don't understand much Spanish, tried to learn it a while ago. I've got Brazilian folks, still remember the language even if I haven't spoken it in ages. I just think it's nice to hear. It's important to keep whatever roots we have alive.”
She nods, the rim of the glass perched on her lips. Cupid's bow tinged in the color of sunset, polka dots and freckles on her countenance like dusted stars. She looks with his owl eyes under her lashes, assesses quickly like a hyena on the hunt. He smells of sweat perfumed in cologne and nostalgia in cigarette smoke. She doesn't know his name, but age-wise he passes her by more than ten years. His hair, salt and pepper, neatly cut close. As she stores the brief description of this man in her memory, she wonders if he does the same, holding his gaze without blinking. She smiles back at him, offering her name as a confession. She moved the ices in the glass with a long, slightly crooked finger, which rattled like little bells in the heat of the incipient night.
“I'm Joel,” he replies, his hand outstretched to take hers. His voice has certain slips of crunchy gravel under heavy boots, quivering welcome in her eardrums. “Mind telling me about these cameras on your lap?”
“Joel...” slurred the vowels of his name. It sounds different from her mouth, instead of the pronunciation he was used to—Jo-wl— it's clearer yet harsh. Jo-el. “Nice to meet ya, journalist.”
She settles into the couch, and he can see the strap around her neck belonging to the larger camera, while the smaller one wobbles in her lap unprotected. “I don't consider myself good enough to call myself a photographer. I used to shoot weddings, quinces, birthday parties.... Now I'm interested in documenting stuff. Important stuff that happens and that there needs to be a record of, just for the sake of knowledge.”
He hums a sound of approval, eyes fixed on her flushed countenance, because of the heat. He doesn't want to savor the doubt that, perhaps, it is because of the closeness of their bodies.
“Ah, video recordings. Now, that's what I was looking for.”
Her eyes narrow, countenance subtly shifting at that statement. The moment lasts a breath, reluctance bleeding into curiosity. It solidifies in her gaze. “Project in mind?”
He sighed, relaxing into the sweetness of the sensation of her interest, eyes straying to the blouse with embroidered daisies the young woman was wearing. “Let me tell you about it while I invite you to dinner, is that okay?”. There is a nascent redness on, he supposes, her sternum under the blouse, reaching down to the protruding bones of her collarbones. Maybe it's sunburn, from the afternoon already gone.
Her teeth sink into the fleshy part of her lower lip. “Okay.”
She, more than ten years his junior. He sees it in a certain twinkle in her eyes as she blinks, in the stiffness of her spine trying to stand up to this stranger without leaving her neck exposed. Metaphorically, of course, because her necklaces jingle as she settles into the fluffy loveseat, frizzy curls exposing the sensitive skin of her throat, drawing Joel's attention. He sees the straps of her bikini top forming a small bow at the nape of her neck. His eye jumps to her scraped knees, pink and burgundy scabs, in the process of healing. There are several marks on the expanse of her thighs, but he's not going to focus on that now; it's not yet time.
Dinner consists of white bread sandwiches, shredded chicken inside, accompanied by a few slices of tomato and slightly stale lettuce leaves. Joel leaves the tupper at his side, on the couch, while he lays an old sheet on the soft grass. A picnic, a dinner under the stars. He takes off his shoes to sit cross-legged, and she disappears momentarily without a word. She returns a few minutes later, when he has already laid out and presents the contents of the tupper on a checkered tablecloth, with a medium-sized cloth bag between her arms, a large bottle of water sticking out. She sits facing him and the feast, knees tight and calves together, like a mermaid on a rock waiting to drive a sailor mad, back against the almost forgotten loveseat. She takes off her shoes, sneakers with half-worn soles from so much use, and sets them aside.
Joel watches her, dark eyes meeting another pair of dark eyes, which look like blueberries in the dim light of other people's campfires. The embroidered daisy blouse, slightly damp where it came in contact with the water bottle, he thinks he's seen it before, a memory evaporating with a blink. How didn't he recognize the languid spine in that cream-colored blouse, glued to her body by the water of the river parallel to where Lee parked the van. The river, threads of clear water weaving in a movement not quite heavy, but enough to make it glisten covering ankles. Thunderous laughter caught his attention, followed by the splashing of the water, a sun-kissed body standing erect, running a hand through her hair of wet curls. He couldn't see her face, but thought she looked like a nymph playing in impudent freedom. A naiad in a cream blouse and navy blue jean shorts. The smile Joel lets out is stupid, and he finds satisfaction he doesn't quite understand.
Between bites and pauses where a comfortable silence settled, he explained his work as a war journalist, a brief summary of his career, and how he would like his interviews to be backed up for later use and review. To her, as she got bread stuck on the roof of her mouth and tried to push it down with her tongue, he seemed too humble in his proposal, and at the same time, too intense. She had met this man less than two hours ago, and he had already proposed an important project that was going to give her more experience than she would have thought possible. He had shown her his press card, with that little square of a professional image of his, because Joel was a professional and not an amateur with two inherited cameras and a humble resume, which made her reconsider what little she deduced. Joel's flirtatious nature doesn't clarify his intentions, it blurs them until she has to search his friendly and somewhat blushing expression for what it is she's saying yes to. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile in response to her very curious appraisal, revealing the edges of his aligned teeth. The earring in his right lobe glistens in the blink of an eye, eyelashes like those of a cow. His mustache pleases her, she thinks it's funny. She says yes, nodding her head and letting her hair make a halo around her heart-shaped face, because whatever Joel is offering her, she says yes to.
Joel's face lights up, exhaling a nervous laugh. “That's great.”
They finish dinner a few minutes later, in between anecdotes and stories from their respective pasts. The young woman reaches a hand into the bottom of the cloth bag and pulls out two huge oranges.
“They're oranges for juice. Picked them up yesterday from an abandoned orchard.”
They pass the serrated knife to each other to cut the oranges into little boats, sweet, sticky juice dripping through their fingers. They share the segments in comfortable silence, extraneous conversations in the background, licking their lips and gums at the refreshing liquid in their mouths. Two hours, almost three now, and he knows he likes her, for some reason. Perhaps his subconscious drew him closer and closer to her, the distant image of a contemporary nymph with scraped knees; or hearing her speak in a language tied to his childhood and adolescence in Florida. Perhaps it had to happen that way, an approach tied to nostalgia in excessive heat. The owl eyes he meets as he looks up are a subtle wonder that dares him to try something else. He wants to sleep under the velvety night with her, like a cat curled up after hunting.
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Joel wakes up sweating, unconsciously taking off his shirt to relieve the heat in any way he can. It was already dawn and yet he felt that he didn't get any rest. His body remained tense and restless. He can see Lee's blond hair inside the van as he sits up, trying to wake himself up with gentle movements. He chose to sleep outside the car for the simple reason that it would be the gentlemanly thing to let Lee sleep sheltered, but he also wasn't going to deny the appeal of sleeping under the stars. There remained in the tickle of his spine the longing for her, the young woman, to come looking for him in the intimate early morning. He sees the loveseat where he met her a block away, blurred in the morning fog, he doesn't know if from his sleepy eyes or the weather. Her tent must be nearby, and yet, she said she'd come looking for him.
He runs a hand through his hair, deciding to cool off in the river where he is sure he first saw her. The flow creates a quiet melody, focusing on that until he approaches the narrow bank of rocks and gravel. He takes off his sneakers, leaving them on the grass, and rolls up the cuff of his pants. The water makes him open his eyes wide, cold and clean, washing his face as he gasps. Droplets trickle down his spine, a welcome shiver running down his body. The sun hovers over him, and as he hears the splash beside him, over them.
A reflection of light on the water, she dips her features for a few seconds and rises, wet curls clinging to her temples, her face hidden. Her thick lashes fluttering, she shakes off the excess water by running a long-fingered hand over it, looking up at him when she finishes.
“Good morning.”
The buttons of her blouse are loose, shyly revealing the expanse of her soft midriff, the bikini from the day before serving its purpose, drips splashing. His gaze jumps to her half-awakened smile.
“Good morning, doll.”
Her smile widens at that last word; there's a tremor in her chest. She had set her sneakers down next to his, stealthy as a cat.
“Did you eat breakfast already?”
She shakes her head, and Joel takes her by the hand to lead her out of the river, grabbing the slippers. They head toward the van with black capital letters that read PRESS in all its white expanse. Lee is already awake, sitting in the driver's seat with the door open, legs out, the soles of her sneakers brushing the grass. She drinks water with a blank stare.
“Lee!” greets Joel, attracting her attention by waving his hand with the one he's taking his footwear with, so as not to let go of the young woman's hand. She looks up, and can't contain the sigh she lets out. He introduces the girl, who looks at her with curious eyes, and Lee thinks this could go very wrong. She doesn't look a day over twenty. She recognizes green inexperience in the redness of her cheeks, in how she stands with her languid spine trying to fill all the space she occupies. Her hand is entwined with Joel's, and so she also recognizes that freshness of a picked strawberry. Sweet. The scar on her eyebrow and bruises on her scraped knees tell of rebelliousness, impulsive energy hidden behind a nervous smile. Lee wonders in what erratic way it will mark Joel.
“Where are you from?” the older one asks.
She sits down on the floor to put on her footwear, as she looks at her intently. “Oh, not from here, this country. I came here to help in... whatever way I can. Nice to meet ya.”
Lee quirks an eyebrow and looks at her companion, who shrugs with a crooked smile. “Nice to meet you too.”
Green as a nascent stem, petals half-opened.
The young woman murmurs something to Joel before leaving to, presumably, fetch something from her tent. The blonde takes the opportunity to try to put sense into his head without wasting so many words; he knows the sharp edges of her tongue.
“She's fresh. I know, I know, but I already asked for her help. She's a videographer. She's got a good camcorder!”. Lee's eyes go white, and he lets out a laugh that sounds more nervous than he would have liked. “I'll keep her close to me. Everyone's gotta start somewhere.”
She responds with a sarcastic sound of approval, and decides to tolerate — and thus perhaps come to accept— the presence of the young stranger, when she returns with a thermos of hot water in her arms, and a wooden cup-like container with a small silver tube sticking out of it. She sits on the grass, back against the truck, and Joel sits down in front of her before running a hand over the crown of her head, as one would pet a cat. The palo santo wood recipient, with ground yerba mate leaves inside and hot water, is passed between the three of them and always returned to her as if it were an everyday occurrence, and not a new experience for the two north americans. The young woman corrects Joel slightly, sugar dripping from her voice, when he moves the bombilla, that little silver tube they drink from, like a spoon.
“I drink it sweet, but if you want to try it without sugar-”
“No, please,” Joel interrupts as he hands the mate back to her with a smile. “This is the best I've ever drank.”
Lee mutes her curiosity to the body language between the two; her partner falling to a spiderweb spun with eyelashes and frizzy curls, the young stranger showing the edge of her teeth under the flesh of her cupid's bow. She feels her throat burn with the earthy, bitter herbal taste, a welcome warmth coursing through her body. Watch closely as she treats it like a ritual; she pours the water until the ground leaves are steeped, straightens the bulb a bit without over touching it, and passes it to her. She doesn't know where this tan-legged twenty-something comes from, who shares her ways as lightly as she makes his chest quiver as she breathes, and decides she accepts her presence for as short a time as this will last. She sees reflected in the whites of her eyes under her thick lashes, the inexperience she once had.
Joel watches her, time slipping away in comfortable silences, in murmurs between them as if they've known each other for years. He likes her natural way of molding herself, the flow of a river passing over the stones. She shamelessly shares anecdotes in a low voice so as not to disturb Lee, who got into the car and closed the door, thanking her for the sweet mate, with the excuse that the heat was making her head ache. She has a loud laugh. He looks at her to absorb her as she is now, bunny teeth uneven with the rest, moles and youthful acne sifting over her skin that folds as she laughs, knowing this lasts a second.
The car ride begins two days later, or two nights, counting from their first conversation; taking advantage of the occasion that the weather lent itself to escape.
Joel recognizes the craving in the imperceptible tremor of her spine, her putting her travel bag in the trunk while he holds its lid. He takes advantage of the closeness always, the desire and tension becoming more intoxicating when unsatisfied. The breeze carries her perfume mixed with sweat to his nose, he thinks it is more concentrated on her nape, where her hair meets vulnerable skin. Despite having bathed in the river recently, because she spent the afternoon running back and forth, catching comments and declarations before she left from people accepting at the refuge camp, her skin glowed with new perspiration. Even the heat of the night made her shiver. The uncertainty of what awaited her was probably the reason.
“Are you sure about this, kid?”
Owl eyes bore into his. Her phalanges closed and opened over her palm, undecided on what to hold onto now that her purse lay in the trunk of a van she'd never been inside, accompanied by people she'd met two days ago. Her cameras, and small portable microphones, and other accessories of hers accompanied by changes of clothes and non-perishable food. Joel smiles. This girl, so trusting. He was like that several times, necessary to create character, criteria. With his long fingers, which minutes ago held a cigarette, he tucked a curly lock behind her ear, the gesture too tender even for him.
“There's no shame in backing out.”
She licked her lips before replying. “I want to do this.”
And something vibrated in the air, and he believed it wasn't just for him.
Joel starts the ride by offering to drive until he gets tired, and when she says she can't drive, his open hand leaves the steering wheel and reaches for her in the back seat to tap her painlessly on the knee, laughing. Lee, in the passenger seat, also laughs.
He recalls that he learned to drive thanks to a friend from high school, who had an old hand-me-down car, and couldn't believe he didn't know how to drive at the age of seventeen. If you learn to drive with the manual gearbox, the automatic is very easy to learn. Hours in a desolate passage, back and forth in the Renault 12 to acquire the skills he would rely on for the rest of his life. He remembers that springtime where he kicked up dust as he drove by in that old car, sweat beading his brow, his friend patting him on the shoulder as he gave him directions. He smiles in the present as he remembers, trees hovering around the asphalt much like those of his adolescence.
The first stop, hours later, is to stretch his legs, a cramp gripping his calf. Lee gazes at the scene with map in hand, the young outsider naps in the back seat, legs folded uncomfortably and hair like a translucent curtain over her face.
“We should be there at night if we keep up,” Lee tells him, rolling down the window, as he does stretching exercises.
She's right, they arrive at night. Her fingertip follows the line they've crossed on the map. Lee's insight is greater than his, because while Joel refined that gaze to use on people, she uses it on everything else, outside and inside the camera's panorama. Joel parks behind trees and tall grass, close to the paved road but not so close, on a dirt road leading to who knows where. Gunshots are heard, lights like fireworks, in the distance and high in the vegetation around him. A shiver runs down the young woman's spine, weighing on her ribs. She woke fully awake after intermittent dreams, after babbling anecdotes with her previous nomadic group. She opens the car door, hopping out with dull legs, longing to be stretched and elongated. The grass tickles at her ankles.
She finds Joel opening the trunk, setting up his sleeping bag lying next to it. He feels, hears, the presence of his dependent, without turning around.
“I envy your ability to kick back. There's gonna be some nights where it's gonna take particular help to get it.”
“Never thought I would be a war journalist. There's sacrifices to be found and done for the truth, I guess.” Eyes glued to the dance of lights that were bullets, miles away, her lower lip trembles.
Joel clicks his tongue, a guarded sigh making his chest quiver. “Y'know I'll look after you.”
She laughs, less nervous than before. It was an unbearable night, unaccustomed humidity and heat for the time. “Bare minimum, but I'll take it.”
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Everything that is dreadful has a moment when it shines and then it is only sad.
Arriving in New York, they leave their belongings in a hotel that in the past would have been three and a half stars, minimum, Lee pushes them to attend a protest.
Camera around the blonde's neck, the young outsider decides to wear her camera instead of the camcorder, just to test the waters in this new state. She feels the vibes rippling in the breeze are different, more charged. Arriving at the site, surrounded by abandoned cars in disrepair and a crowd of people, Lee goes her own way, typical of her independent experience. Joel, before the young woman escapes, grabs her by the scruff of the neck with a gentle grip, more of a warning than anything else. Her eyes light up and her whole body language changes. He sees the impulsive curiosity characteristic of professional youth, of following footsteps while finding her own. He, with a neon vest already on and his credentials on the strap around his neck, offers her a vest in the name of security. The man next to her, a friend of his, mumbles something she doesn't quite hear, but which makes Joel bite back a smile. Only satisfied to see her wearing the neon, he lets her have the long leash.
Her legs excited by the action, the throng of people, hop lightly down the street until they reach the center of all attention. Military men in their camouflage uniforms, jungle green and mangrove green, olive green and moss, with their automatic rifles measuring longer than the length of her naked torso. She doesn't record even though her camera has the option to do so, she wants to trust in capturing the right moment, when a desperate man pounces on a military man with violence. The place where she arrived minutes ago, eyes roaming over people she would like to take declarations from, becomes a tornado of brutality and savagery. The screams stun her eardrums, and being pushed into the crowd without being able to free herself, she ends up in front of a soldier, who, seeing her grab the camera, gives her a dull blow with the butt of his rifle. White electric pain in her eyebrow, thundering in and out of her head. She feels herself falling backwards, camera bouncing against her chest, but she is held by foreign hands, which grab her arms and shoulders and carry her out of the crowd, to sit her on the hot asphalt.
“You okay?” a woman asks, running her hand through her hair sticking to the flesh of her open eyebrow, but the young woman doesn't listen. She only feels the redness of the blow, dazed. Her hands are preoccupied with the camera and not the blood trickling down her temple. She began to sweat fervently, and in the absence of an answer, the woman began to call for help for an injured photographer.
Strong hands grab her by the shoulders. Stepping away from the crowd, the man in the neon vest assures the woman that she's with me, i'll take care of her and drags her to a sheltered spot, the facade of an abandoned building in the shade.
“Fuck,” is the first thing Joel says, and she nods, dizzy.
His hand finally brings it to the cut of her eyebrow, blood meeting the unconscious tears streaming down her cheeks. “Fuck.”
The man runs his hand over the crown of her head, stroking, as one of his fellow reporters steps to the side with a homemade first aid kit. He dismisses the option of her being healed under his partner's care, chooses to do it himself. She was unhinged, her heart pushing madly against her ribs, meeting brutality for the first time. Her breathing violent, she had to calm down before her spasms disadvantaged her under Joel's pulse, but how to acclimatize to the relentless aggression?
She saw the glue between Joel's fingers, separate strips of gauze in his other hand gripping her chin so gently, and closed her eyes. It burned on contact, but so much pain injected over her brow mingled and bled through her entire system. Knees clenched, whole body as the string of a taut bow. She heard the screams and the background commotion but paid no attention to them, not when the hand that wasn't stitching her eyebrow was extended over her sternum. Holding her in position or whatever, her breasts peeked out, naked and close, beneath the fine woven threads of her blouse. She closed her eyes tightly, summoning all her will to control her breathing. White electricity like lightning between her arteries, behind her eyelids.
When he pressed a trimmed strip of gauze against her brow, there she knew to open her eyes, and as she met the man's lively brown eyes, something vibrated in the air. The sticky blood running down the side of her face made him make the decision.
“Let's get you out of here.”
A hand gripping his elbow, the young woman stops him as he pulls back. She mumbles something, words mixed in languages, but he knew all she wanted was for him not to leave her. Joel took her hand and assured her to come back, he was going to get Lee. With a gesture, he alerted his partner to watch her while he searched through the crowd and the hubbub for Smith. Tumult of desperate people, Lee was surely catching what she was passionate about. He scanned through the crowd, looking for her, but he also didn't want to cut her moment of work short for something that had nothing to do with her. He clicks his tongue, and with a sigh, returns to the side of the young girl and his press acquaintance. He leaves him directions to tell Lee what happened, and to bring her to the hotel where they were staying, a common place for journalists and reporters.
She, in the passenger seat, hand on her temple. She looks at the landscape through the window without really observing. Blood trickled down to her collarbones, wetting the edge of her blouse and down. She kept the camera in her lap, close and guarded. Her chest quivering as she kept her breathing calm, heart thudding against her ribs and ringing dull in her ears. Joel's knuckles graze the femur of his companion, who startles at the seconds-long touch, but then settles back in the seat, calm.
“We're almost there.”
The departure from the car and arrival at the hotel is a blur of memory, ink diluting in water, until she is sitting on the cold floor of Joel's room. Sweat glistened her face, and the rigid line of her jaw. She's sure her blouse is stuck to the expanse of her back from the heat of barbarism, not just the sun. She takes off her sneakers, and, barefoot, leaves the camera on top of the bed. She goes to the bathroom and leaves the door open. Joel hears the water running from the shower. A thud to the face counts as probable trauma, doesn't it? He has little hesitation in standing in the doorway to offer his assistance, watching the cold water fall on the young woman's covered back. A resounding tiredness was creeping into her body, that of when reality settled in and the force of the earth made one's own weight felt again. She didn't even take off her shorts. He sighs.
“C'mere.” His hand grabs the detachable shower head, causing the water to fall into her hair, massaging her scalp, a few drops trickling down her face. He rubs her fingertips over the drying blood on her temple until the skin underneath is clean and slightly red from the friction. She scratched the stained fabric of her blouse, hoping it would disappear. It seemed to him that she was embarrassed. The docility she showed was unexpected, and Joel dared more. Without asking her, but very slowly, he slipped his fingers under the edge of her blouse to remove it. Her languid spine consented, pulling her arms up to make it easier for him. Her head felt spinning in those seconds, but Joel's sure grip anchored her to the immovable present, under the cool water. She was wearing the same bikini as in the refugee camp, in the river. She exhaled, ribs constricted, and interrupted herself to look at him, eyes meeting. Dark, with thick eyebrows and eyelashes, dark circles under his eyes, drawn by fatigue. She imagined him young, her age perhaps, with blacker hair, wavy and slightly grown out, without the lines that crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her. Joel combed her hair back, which was flattened over her forehead by sweat and blood, letting the water run. Her spine shivered, skin losing that high temperature and returning to normal. She consented to the brush of his palm on her back, holding her, and remembered her friend's words as she told her the news, before the road trip began. Her chest heaved with a small laugh, and the pain in her brow seemed to ease momentarily.
ﾟ.｡*･ﾟﾟ.+:｡
It was an unbearable night, of a dampness and heat that was concentrated in the room, since it was upstairs. The young woman carried a fan in her hand, which she waved like the fluttering of a nervous bird, spread out on the single armchair with a book in her lap. Joel had just returned from talking to some of his press buddies, and Lee, who was concerned about the young woman but comforted her with the thought of it's gonna help you build character. He still had a bad taste in his mouth from what had transpired, and reaching into his bag at the foot of the bed, he found the blister pack.
“If you feel like you can't sleep tonight, take one. It's alprazolam. Kinda expired, but works anyways.”
She nodded, nose buried in the book. Electric pain kept pulsing in her brow, to the point that sometimes it blurred her eyes. Still, she didn't want to abuse the hand Joel was offering her. Letting her stay with him in the room since there were no more places available in the hotel. Sharing a bed wasn't the end of the world... but she still felt a warm embarrassment at the thought. The only couch in the room was a single, and it crossed her mind to sleep on the floor, until she thought about the dirtiness of it. Ew. He too had already freshened up in the shower, and the cologne in the air was subtly noticeable. Same with the cigarette smell, the box on his nightstand. He must have smoked downstairs so as not to disturb her with the smoke. She didn't go down to reception or the common room for the simple fact that extraneous voices made her head thrum. “I'll try to manage with my ibuprofen, but thank you.”
He hummed a sound of acceptance, and left the blister pack on the small table next to the couch in case she regretted it, without taking his. He felt the tension spinning in the muscles of his back, but he didn't want to knock himself out completely. As he turns to lie down, all the lights cut out with a click. Complaints rumbled from downstairs and the hallway. Another blackout, forcing the young woman to go to bed, still fanning herself. A thin cotton T-shirt and comfortable shorts are her summer pajamas. Actually, in summers like this, she prefers the naturalness of her body under the cold sheets, but these are special circumstances. She turns her back to Joel, who mumbles a good night and lets out a sigh, his back against the mattress. He, with one hand on his chest, felt his own heartbeat like a strange melody. The breeze came through the window, lulling her to sleep, until she fell asleep with her hand reaching for Joel's hand.
Her body trembles once upon waking. It's still early morning, and Joel's weight is missing from beside her. She woke in an almost fetal position, different from how she had gone to sleep, so sure to put space. Her throat vibrates as she wants to speak, wants to call him, and the sound and movement brings Joel back into the room.
He likes everything she is: the disheveled hair when she wakes, the thick lashes, the huge eyes. Tan skin, and she had the deepest black eyes he'd ever seen. He felt the weight of her gaze, even in the dim light coming through the window. She was shaken again. Eyes he could sink into, that made him feel it had been too long since anyone had really looked at him.
“Can't sleep?”
She shakes her head and pats the sheet beside her as if to call him back to bed. Her shoulders shake, a body wanting to go back to sleep but at the same time, to stay awake until she gets what she needs. Security.
He stood at the threshold of the bathroom door, and in the dark, he looked almost menacing. His eyes glinted at certain angles as he approached her side, the bed creaking under his weight. He moved closer than necessary, until his breath was on the crown of her head, her t-shirt pulled up to her abdomen from all the moving, the shorts showing the elastic of her underwear. He settled down on the mattress, almost on top of her, one of his hands pulling the fabric of her shirt down over her abdomen.
As he looked at her face in the dark, lit by the glow of the moon coming through the window, he thinks of resting his whole body on top of her, as cats do when sleeping, a sign of trust. She, beneath him, heart pushing at his ribs, had trembled with the excitement of not knowing exactly what he would do. His hand was on her hip, and had stayed there, unmoving. An internal heat in her lower stomach and sternum began to bother her, making her breathing change, like deep breaths to calm herself. She prays Joel doesn't notice this rushing process in her body to get what she wants, stifling a sweet moan as he moves to accommodate, his fingertips under her t-shirt, caressing her skin. And he stays there, circling, until their breaths equalize, harmonize, drifting from stupor.