It took them three hours to walk down to the campgrounds. By the end of the journey, her lips were split, her stomach tightened with hunger. She had brought the worst kind of shoes, a pair of cheap plastic sandals that broke thirty minutes into the hike. She didn’t know camping would leave her feeling this gritty and exposed.
Soon the caravan found a patch of flat, smooth ground where they could easily make camp, next to a fallen log that served as a makeshift bench. A pair of olive trees swooped high above them, their branches like fibrous wings. She thought of willows. It would be the best time for them now, back in Savannah. Heat so thick you could barely move through it. The time of june bugs and peaches, her mother would say, her voice syrupy and full of a false sweetness that clung to her skin. The air took on so much humidity that breathing felt like blowing into an empty balloon. Summer in the South had a way of making her feel ripe. Ready for picking.
Everyone found ways to be helpful as they unpacked. They worked so quickly that the tents seemed to rise on their own. Someone brought out a speaker. There was mention of a guitar that never materialized. She did not know what to do with her hands. Her feet did not move. Rather than causing more chaos and confusion, she slipped away while the group hunted down a missing stake.
As she walked it became apparent to her how unprepared she was for camping. Her body felt tight and too aware of itself. The blue of the sky gave off a sharpness that frightened her. As she walked towards the shore, she saw a few families and many couples with tan, sprightly bodies. What did her body signal to these people? She felt painfully aware of her difference. Of her deep mahogany color grown darker each day. What would her mother say, if she could see her like this? At the end of every summer her mother would comment on how quickly her color had changed in just two months. She herself never seemed to grow darker. The high-yellow in her remained unchanged.
She had been in Greece for twelve days. That meant fifty-five days since she left New York. Fifty-five days since the night of graduation and the awful fight with George. She couldn’t have anticipated how much she would want him here to revel with her at the blueness of the sky and the deep, inky black of the water beneath the ferry.
She had spent her first few days in Athens alone before meeting up with the others, her flight having arrived early. This is an open invitation, the email from her friend had stated in earnest, to all who seek the sun. It had been a long time since she had been in a foreign city on her own. She wore pants with no pockets and kept her passport in a small pouch clipped around her waist. But the hotel she booked was a hostel, plus they had put her in a co-ed room. When she tried to complain to the front desk attendant, a sullen looking French girl, she received little sympathy in response. I’ll see what I can do, the girl said, fanning herself with an enormous fashion magazine. Perhaps another guest would switch beds with her. In the meantime, she was on her own. Her mother would disapprove. She didn’t mention it, and instead sent a cursory message to her mother that she was enjoying all the ruins. Later she would think about the breeziness of that afternoon. The moments she had to herself before the others arrived.
She was at the shore now, amongst a sea of bodies. Bodies supine and transformed by the sun. She had to stop herself from staring at the stark contrast of each woman’s tan lines. Had she ever seen so many bare breasts before? The women flopped around, at ease and free. Their bodies didn’t announce themselves. But hers did. She could not go unnoticed. The men stared at her. Even here, in this remote place that had existed since the dawn of civilization, she could not escape their eyes.
That summer she had learned to swim. It originally had been George’s idea. He was going to teach her. He was going to whisk her away, he said, somewhere exquisite, a place where the water was so clear it looked like air. She began spending all her time in the pool at the local Y, practicing her strokes and perfecting her stride. Breast. Back. Breast again. The rhythm soothed her. The tips of her fingers took on deep creases. Her hair began to release a faint chemical smell. She started to wonder if the chlorine was seeping into her skin. Her aunt, a doctor, once told her a story from her days in medical school. She and other students were instructed to observe a human skull. The cranium had been lined with a strange, green film. The instructor asked the students to guess what the residue was from.
Only her aunt guessed correctly; the skull belonged to a black woman and the green was the result of years of perming. Was something like that happening to her? Would her bones turn odd colors too, only visible when she died?
She turned to the sharp white expanse of sand beneath her, trying to find a place where she could sunbathe freely without interference. Of course no one had said anything to her, not yet, but her body bristled in anticipation.
Relax, she told herself. Why was it so easy for her to ruin the present moment?
She found a place to lie underneath a curved tree, a few meters away from the main stretch of beachgoers. A patch of herbs sprung up next to her beach towel. Oregano. The day before, on their walk back from the village, their host Nikolas had bent down towards the ground and offered a handful to her. Dinner that night, prepared by his grandmother, had been tiny snails swimming in olive oil flecked with herbs. The Greeks dug into them with relish, while she and the other Americans fished them out with all the grace of a baby taking its first steps.
She was warm and then suddenly felt feverish, in a daze, like she would go mad. Savannah was hot but nothing like this. Here there was no humidity to signal the intensity of the heat, to warn that too much time spent outdoors would surely make one miserable. The discomfort came on quickly, drawing her into the ocean—blissfully cool. The afternoon became a dance between sea and shore. She sat until she couldn’t take it anymore, and then swam until she felt like her limbs would give.
◆
Perhaps she was going mad. Her mind twisted around itself. There was nothing but the sun, beating high above her, and the sound of water crashing into the shore, into the twisted rocks that rose up like broken figurines. No use for a phone. No signal. She broke away from camp early in the mornings, trying to find a private place to rinse off, pee. She never knew exactly what time it was when she came back.
At night the land grew strange and unrecognizable. She tried not to trip over the oversized shoes she had borrowed from one of the Greeks. She didn’t know what to say to these people, not even the friend that had invited her. It was as if her departure from Athens had closed a door inside of her. She had been able to speak so freely with Sang-hoon. That first night, he invited her for a drink at the bar underneath the hostel. They took a liking to each other and slipped into conversation, one picking up gently when the other would trail off. She asked him many questions, and he did the same. What did she study? What was her favorite book? Did she care for philosophy? There was a serious sort of curiosity in his tone, a righteousness that made every question seem profound. He wore round, clear glasses that made him look vulnerable and accentuated the slimness of his face, which was pale and lined with delicate features. He often removed his glasses to rub his eyes, twisting his fists round and round in a childlike, cartoonish manner. He smoked far too many cigarettes, he said. He was trying to quit.
◆
On the third day she found a tide pool where she could swim without being bothered, just far away enough to where she couldn’t see or hear anyone else. She floated on her back, letting the water carry her in and out, the sides of her legs occasionally brushing against weathered rock. The rhythm soothed her. With it came the feeling of inevitability. The water felt too clean, too perfect. The current would ebb, and just when the world felt still it began again, shifting her body back and forth.
There she was, she thought to herself, wobbling her hours away. Anyone else would be socializing, flirting with the locals. Instead she couldn’t stop staring at the sun. She couldn’t fathom what another week in the wilderness would do to her. Eventually she lost her shoe, and when she came back to camp—her skin darkened, hair wild—she was certain she looked as though she had gotten lost or attacked by some forest creature.
There she is, someone said, passing her a tin full of beans. Scattered round were the makings of mishmash meals: beans and soup, slices of bread for peanut butter. Someone was rolling a cigarette and pouring raki, preparing for the night ahead.
◆
Sang-hoon was unlike anyone she had ever met, she decided after their long conversation that first night. He had what her mother would call grace, an openness that invited admiration. She felt wizened in his presence, as one would near a priest or monk. After finishing their drinks, they made their way up the creaky, circular stairs. When they got to their suite they found it empty. She was glad for this. She didn’t have the energy for anyone else. He slipped into the bathroom quietly, and when he emerged his hair was wet, slick on his forehead. His hair was cut in a boyish fashion, which made him seem younger than he was. He paused in the middle of the room, the empty space that divided up four sets of bunk beds, peering up at her in the dark. You okay, he said.
Yes, she called out from above him.
Good, he said, and she watched him fall into the lower bunk.
I’m tired, he sighed out. And later, so quietly she wasn’t sure if she misheard—but I’m glad we met.
Before she fell asleep, she wondered what his life had been like back in Busan, what the girl he said he was in love with looked like. A classmate of hers had made a film there one semester, in a course where they shot over the winter break and edited the footage in the spring. She had given up on the project and ended up dropping the class, an elective she had taken on a whim at the suggestion of her more artistic roommate. But now she remembered her classmate’s footage, luminous images of a large outdoor skating rink, buzzing neon lights, and at the end, a long, wide shot of the filmmaker’s mother gazing into a mirror, the mother’s expression like the one she often caught in her own reflection, her eyes frantic, searching.
◆
The next day they were no longer alone and more travelers arrived, all men. A pair of Australians she immediately disliked, who seemed to judge her for being the only woman in the room. They said little to her at first as they unpacked but glanced at her from time to time. One of them cleared his throat. Brave of you to be traveling solo like this, he said.
When she explained that she and Sang-hoon had spent most of their time together, the Australians gave each other sly looks. It was clear they assumed that something had transgressed between them—a sloppy kiss after a night of bar-hopping, a late-night declaration of attraction. They made an unlikely pair, she had to admit. But in reality there had been nothing of the kind, although there were moments when she wasn’t so sure. When he would hold the door open for her, for example, or the one time he paid for both of their meals after she went to the restroom.
Let’s go, he said, standing.
We have to pay, she said, and he shook his head, pulling her quickly out of the bustling restaurant. The suddenness of the act made her laugh and for minutes they stood giggling on the sidewalk, taking up space while tourists weaved around them.
I paid while you were gone, he said, handing her a mint wrapped in cellophane. She tried to give him a handful of coins in return but he refused.
It was easy to tell him everything. Around him her body eased, forgot itself. Despite the language barrier between them he somehow understood; her thoughts seemed to flow directly from her mind to his. Sometimes she would use a certain phrase or idiom, and his brow would furrow. What does this mean? he would ask, even pausing to jot it down in the notebook he carried. Then she would fumble for the simplest translation. But the important ideas he would grasp, especially when it came to her feelings. How she was confused, she said. How she didn’t know what she would do with her life. She had acted in a manner she thought beyond her. But that act had been a clear choice, she said, one that rendered everything else in her life opaque. And now that the professor was gone, it was as if her vision of herself had been obscured. Painted over.
◆
Nikolas was the leader of the group, she decided. The alpha male, a man’s man, with a well-defined chest she considered from the shore.
Wonderful, he said after she introduced herself.
He was the kindest one, who made the most effort. Nikolas would pass her the plate of sliced tomatoes first and translate what the rest of the Greeks were saying for the group, who gently inquired about what she was reading. The others didn’t seem to worry if the Americans understood. They were capable of perfect English but mostly spoke Greek, often breaking into laughter, their voices lilting and growing lighter as they poked fun at each other. Until someone explained, she never knew what the story was, or what trait they were discussing, but she could always identify the butt of the joke, the star of the drama. The Greeks seemed very close, like siblings. Their intimacy felt impenetrable, like a wall she couldn’t cross. But Charlie did right away, easygoing and jocular with his tinny voice.
They liked Charlie. He was interesting, told stories about his time on the road touring with the folk band he started in high school. They had one album and a modest amount of success. Charlie had just finished a short solo tour in Western Europe and was going east when they got back to Athens. Budapest, he said. Prague, after. Maybe she should do the same too, she wondered. Spend all her savings and move further and further away from the place that created her. What would her mother think of that, in the big, empty house with the wraparound porch, alone with a cool glass of ice tea swimming in her hands?
Suddenly she even missed her mother’s misunderstanding. When she told her she needed to leave she hadn’t understood. Why you just got back, she said. Don’t you want to spend time with your mama? There’s nothing like home to cure a broken heart. Each evening she would walk home from the Y, her limbs loose and pliant after laps in the pool, believing for a moment in possibility. And each evening she would find her mother waiting for her on the porch, alone, in the dark, and the feeling would drain away from her and leave her empty.
She wondered where Sang-hoon was now—if his pilgrimage had been successful. She tried to remember the last thing he had said to her. Something about not being sad. They hadn’t had much privacy. They had gone for a walk, and she knew that soon it would be time for her to turn back towards the train station. She resisted the urge to buy a pair of woven bracelets as they passed stalls crammed with olive oil and colorful soaps made from the milk of goats.
What, exactly, was the right way to leave it?
She told him she didn’t know what she would do next, and he just smiled at her—with that funny gap-toothed grin, showing his one crooked and darkened tooth—and said that she would be just fine.
Not even just fine, he said. Great. You’ll be great. He said it with such certainty, the way someone would state their age or name.
Never had she met someone so certain in his faith, someone who seemed to believe in goodness. She would look away in shame when she saw someone begging for money or food, feigning ignorance or using her status as a foreigner to turn the other cheek. But often he would stop to take the sight of the person in, sometimes even turning around to start a conversation or offer a few coins. There was a time when he didn’t have much, he said, and he, his mother, and sister were forced to share a bed in a shelter. They got back up on their feet, but since that time he found it difficult to ignore the poor.
I know I don’t have enough to give and it’s foolish, he said. But still, I try. He said this without any ounce of judgment towards her. He was very sincere.
She hadn’t told him everything about George, the thing that had happened to her, the predicament she had found herself in, which some said she had brought upon herself.
And where was the professor now? What was he doing? She pictured the stately apartment, sprawling and ornate. The first time she visited, she stared as though she were in a museum, flattered that he would bring her into a space filled with so much beauty. There were plush, soft surfaces that made her feel safe, thick velvet curtains whose folds enveloped her. Etruscan gold chandeliers that tinkled softly from above. As a matter of habit, she would take off her shoes before walking around, basking in the smooth feeling of her feet gliding over the wood floors, stained dark cherry.
Every object he showed her had resonance. An ornament made of glass, handblown and shaped like a falling tear. A terracotta amphora. His eye for beauty was part of why she was attracted to him in the first place. It was their shared language, the fact that he could place something in the palm of her hand and know without question that she would find it remarkable.
It became a running joke between her and her friends. Oh, she’s off to see the professor. You know, another weekend tutoring session. They made it seem crass but also didn’t judge, even found it perfectly cosmopolitan and mature.
But it wasn’t like that, she wanted to say. It had nothing to do with her father, or any other ideas people projected onto her. He had seen her and then she had seen him, plain and simple. And it was she who had initiated, who had stopped by his office after a lazy day of drinking in the park, a warm flush running through her body, the last four buttons on her dress undone.
◆
If she had all the options in the world, where would she go? Lisbon. Morocco. Warsaw. Then Kyoto, maybe, before going off to see Sang-hoon’s Korea. She wanted to see all of it, even the flat cot he had slept on. In that final hour they had walked around and around a large square facing an Orthodox church, killing time while also trying to stop it. They entered one last time, the darkness enfolding them gently. She thought about making an offering but didn’t know whom it would be for. The two of them circled the perimeter of the church, stopping to take in each altar, the flowers and candles the devout had left behind.
◆
At first, she didn’t know how to talk to anyone. She didn’t have anything important to say. So she swam and read and ate and listened, responded when she was asked something, but otherwise let her lips fall silent.
On their final evening, before they would hike back up the mountain to take the ferry back to mainland, she turned westward toward the tide pools instead of heading back to the campsite with the others. This time she disrobed completely. If anyone caught sight of her at least she would never have to see them again. She didn’t care if they stared. Let them look.
The sun was dropping slowly, a fat pearl so close she could almost hold it in her hand. She dove in, the water gliding over her skin. Like always when she first dove in, there was a flutter of nervousness in her belly, a hesitation she taught herself to push through. All she had to do was move, flutter her legs, turn her head and breathe in. When she emerged the taste of salt hung heavy in her mouth.
Far in the distance she saw a shimmer in the water. She couldn’t make out much. Hard to say if it was a shadow or something more. She eased her mind and let herself float freely, taking in the cooling air above her, the perfect looking clouds, and the sky that was growing pinker with every passing minute. Soon she grew cold and sat upright, drawing her knees close to her chest.
And there it was again, the shadow far in front of her.
She blinked, rubbing the water from her eyes. It was a person, she thought. Or maybe not. But something with a body. Hard to say if it was human or animal. Real or not.
She swam out a few feet, desperate to get a good look. It was eerily silent. No birds, no rustling wind, nothing. The body came closer to her. It was still hard to make out, and had an opaque quality. What was it, she wondered? Would it do something to her? She was as vulnerable as she had ever been, naked and lost in her mind. She thought of swimming back to the rocks but the reckless part of her wanted to see what would happen, wanted to catch the sunset so she could imprint it in her mind forever.
A moment or two passed, a moment that stretched out from her body and felt like forever. She closed her eyes and breathed. What was this feeling in her? Close to fear, but not quite. Anticipation.
Suddenly she knew that she need not be afraid, that the figure in front of her wanted nothing from her, was biding its time like she was biding hers. She sat like that for some time, half-submerged in the water, the skin on her arms and shoulders raised from the cold. The figure stared blankly back at her, its shape not entirely solid. Its trunk was different from the rest of its body. It didn’t exactly have a face.
Nothing quite like eyes to look at but she could feel it staring at her, contemplating her existence. And quickly, as fast as it had arrived, it disappeared and slunk down beneath the surface with a quiet plop. And then, strangely, the other sounds came back in a rush: the trees cracking in a frenzy, the bright cooing of birds from up above.
Carefully she swam out closer to the center where the mysterious shape had taken form. Floating atop the water was a small crystal, no bigger than a quarter and completely smooth. She watched it, the waves beneath refracting the last rays of the sun and casting a faint glow. She reached for it—surprised by its heft. It was completely transparent, made out of a material she had never seen before. It made her think of the professor and his glass cufflinks. Already she was forgetting—the exact color of his eyes, the feeling of his hands on her body. He had been a complete stranger to her. He was other people once, had another name and another body. A person completely separate from her. But there was no going back.
She tried to remember how his face drew tight like a drawer sealed shut. The wrong way to say goodbye. Her face had arranged itself into the necessary patterns, but all she could think about was the essential mistake they made when they thought the speech that circulated around them could erase the two ends of time they were running from. She clutched the stone tightly in her right hand and didn’t let go, not even as she dressed, and carried it with her back to camp.