Everything Beautiful Began After Part 9

"Ever? Or just anymore?"

Rebecca frowned.

"Ever," she said.

And then George began to sob.

People looked.

"George," Rebecca said quietly.

But he continued sobbing. It was quite loud. A woman pa.s.sing said something to her in Greek.

"George," she said again. "Please stop crying. It's not that bad."

"I can't," he said. His face was very red. Two of his s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tons had come undone and displayed a few unflattering inches of stomach.

"Just tell me why you're so upset."

George rubbed his eyes and took a swig from his beer. When he seemed to have himself under control, a fresh wave of sobs came. If a train hadn't pulled in, they would have been surrounded by curious locals.

"Just tell me why you're crying, George."

She touched his hand but he pulled away.

"Because I'm slightly upset."

"Why?"

George didn't answer, but fumbled for his cigarettes. Rebecca lit one for him quickly. More than anything, she wanted the scene to end.

He took another swig from his beer.

"I just thought . . ." he said, wiping his eyes, and raising the can to his lips again.

"Oh, George," Rebecca said desperately. "Can you stop drinking for five minutes?"

George set the can on the platform. By the sound it made, they could both tell it was empty.

"Are you crying because you're drunk?"

George began sobbing again, and very loudly. A train pulled in, but hardly anyone got off.

"We should talk about this when you're sober," Rebecca said. Then for the first and only time in her life, Rebecca caught a rare glimpse of George's temper.

In a low growl, he said: "How dare you, how dare you judge me, Rebecca-you just gave up that right, so just you stop talking before you insult both of us."

Rebecca wasn't sure what he meant, and suspected he wasn't either, but she saw it as her cue to exit and stood up.

"Good-bye, George," she said. "I wanted to talk to you about this rationally, but you're too . . . upset."

George let his head fall into his hands. Then without getting up, he kicked the beer can toward the tracks. It rolled in noisily. Someone shouted something from down the platform, and Rebecca walked away. When she was almost to the end staircase, she turned around. George was standing up. "Rebecca! Rebecca! Rebecca!" he shouted.

She went home and cried. Her first attempt to connect in Athens, and she had failed on all counts. It must run in my family, she thought-an inability to maintain any kind of emotional connection. And then she remembered Henry, and longed for him, despite the shame that hung over her.

Chapter Sixteen.

The next morning Rebecca woke to someone knocking forcefully on her front door. She slipped into a floral print dress and padded across the cold floor.

"h.e.l.lo?" she said.

"It's Henry!"

She flung open the door and threw her arms around him.

"I missed you so much," she said, but then fell silent.

They were soon in bed. She could feel his muscles tightening over her, and she opened her thighs to take in as much as possible. Afterward, they lay on their backs.

Henry said he was taking her up to his dig.

"Is that your idea of romantic?"

"Actually, yes."

"Well, I have nothing to wear."

Henry looked around her room. "How about a pair of trousers, a cotton blouse, a pair of sensible shoes, and a silk scarf?"

"There's no such thing as sensible shoes."

"What do you mean?"

"Shoes are either beautiful or sensible, and I have only beautiful."

Henry laughed.

"It's Air France's fault."

The events of the previous night's confrontation were starting to lessen. The feeling would soon break into fragments and cease to affect her.

They kissed again. She reached down and put him inside. They kissed without moving their bodies.

Later on as she was getting ready, Henry said: "I love the way you tie up your hair."

She turned to look at him from the mirror.

"Well, you're lucky, because that's my favorite way to wear it."

"I can see your neck."

"Do you like my neck?"

"It's my second favorite part of your body."

"What's your favorite part?"

"The rest."

She rushed over and kissed him several times on the lips. Then she went back to the mirror. Henry sat on the edge of the bath.

"When did you fall in love for the first time, Henry?"

He thought for a moment.

"I was eleven. I used to take a bus to school. The bus was blue with writing across the side in cream letters. It used to stop in front of a ballet school and pick children up. From my seat on the left side, I could see over a tall fence into a bright studio where girls about my age were warming up in front of a mirror. I remember the beauty of their arms, the slow arches, the ghostlike sweeping away. Sometimes they would all move together, in a sort of elegant dip. There was one girl in particular with light brown hair, not as tall as the others. And I was in love with her." Henry got up and stood behind her.

"Did you ever meet her?"

"No, but she looked at me once, and then it was the end of school term and in the autumn my parents moved and I went to a different school in another town."

"You still think about her."

"She wore her hair like you."

"Like this?" Rebecca said, taking Henry's hand and holding it against the back of her head . "It's how I wore it for Air France-but pulled very neat."

"I would have fallen for you in the sky," he said and then left her to get ready.

After drinking some coffee, they raced down the stairs holding hands and laughing. His hand felt very strong, and as they neared the last few steps, Henry stopped and pulled her to him.

He hadn't shaved that morning and the profile of his warm, slightly perspiring cheek renewed her desire for him.

They mounted his old Vespa and dropped off the curb into a light stream of traffic.

It was already hot. After about an hour, they crossed a bridge that coughed them on to a dusty road that seemed endless but was in fact climbing to a high, hot peak that Henry said had not seen consistent human life for thousands of years. There was a white tent in the distance, and several tables of large stones, and an old car that seemed to have been abandoned. They parked beside one of the tables. A tent flap went up like an eye opening, and a figure stood looking at them, s.h.i.+elding his eyes from the sun.

"Good morning," the man said. "And who is this?"

"Rebecca," Henry said.

"Not her, you," the man said.

Henry laughed.

"I haven't seen you in a week, Henry. Where have you been?"

Before Henry could speak, the man patted him on the back.

"Good to have you home, Henry. Now, who might this be?"

"h.e.l.lo," Rebecca said, extending her hand. "Rebecca Baptiste."

"Baptiste, eh?" the man said, and then turned toward the tent.

"Come on in and have some water-I'm Professor Peterson, by the way."

Henry took Rebecca's helmet and followed her under the flap.

They sat in canvas chairs. It was very cool and smelled faintly of vinegar. Several tables inside the tent were covered with tools and stones. There was also a sink connected to a large bucket, and a plastic was.h.i.+ng-up bowl with some white sticky substance in it.

"What news, Professor?" Henry said.

"What news? Well, take these first-" The professor handed them each a gla.s.s of cold water. Then he lit his pipe and looked at Rebecca from the corner of his eye. He held the match into the stomach of his pipe-it flickered as he puffed, and then the tobacco caught and sizzled with each shallow intake of breath.

"Giuseppe has gone back home for a week at least, his poor old mum is not well again."

"Again?" Henry said. He turned to Rebecca. "When Giuseppe's mother misses him, she becomes so ill that he goes to her immediately."

"How are we going to get the script on that discus a.n.a.lyzed?" Henry said.

"We'll have to wait."

"Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Yes," Professor Peterson said. "If you do go down to the university, don't mention that Giuseppe is not here."

"I won't."

"They're looking for any excuse to get rid of us."

"Are they?"

The professor removed the pipe from his lips. "Well, I always think so."

After a little more conversation, they found themselves outside again in the heat. The professor gazed past Rebecca and Henry at Athens in the distance. An uneven film of smoke hung over the city like tufts of wool. They were many miles from Athens, but the heat, the energy, and the sense of human plight could be felt-even from such an isolated cliff.

"If you want to be useful, my dear-" the professor said to Rebecca, "and I'm old enough to make such requests without the least awkwardness-feel free to sketch a few of the things on the table for the British school newsletter. I can pay you either in rocks or in compliments, or by sorting Henry out when he behaves intolerably."

"Finally, a man who understands women," Rebecca said. "I'll take the rocks."