Ian R. MacLeod - Nina.pdf

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IAN R. MacLEOD
NINA-WITH-THE-SKY-IN-HER-HAIR
The man who sold the sky came to see Max when he was finishing breakfast at
the
Corienne. It was after nine, before ten; his favorite time of day. The
promenade
below his balcony was still in shade. Everything was fresh and cool. Even Nina
was out of bed after staying on at the casino late last night long after he
had
left. He could hear her singing in the shower.
Max picked up the hotel phone almost as it rang. A gentleman to see him, the
maitre d' said. Business, something to do with the sky. Max saw to it that
business never reached him here at the Corienne, but still his curiosity was
aroused. He told the maitre to send him up and finished his coffee, watching
the
white parasols, listening to the sea.
The visitor was small, dressed in a khaki suit that might once have been
cream,
holding a panama in both hands and turning it around by the brim.
"If you're selling," Max said, mopping up the conserve with the last of his
croissant, "I've probably already got it."
"I understand that you are a connoisseur."
"Of what?"
"Of everything."
Max grunted a smile through the crumbs on his lips. It was true enough; when
you
ran out of specific, individual things, everything was all you had left. He
said, "I warn you, if you want my money, you'll have to see my accountants. If
you want advice you'll need my lawyers. And they'll both charge."
"I've come to sell you the sky."
Max scratched the gray stubble on his chin. He'd met his fair share of
crackpots
over the years. But crackpots were like the rest of the world; good, bad --
and
mostly indifferent.
"That's impossible."
The little man shrugged and made to turn back toward the door.
"Hey!" Max pushed away his breakfast trolley and lifted himself to his feet.
"Don't take it like that. I'm all ears. Really, I'm all ears."
"I have a sample," the little man said, and reached into his pocket.
As usual, Max and Nina took lunch that day at the bistro down in the square.
Max
 
much preferred the dining room at the Corienne, but Nina liked to sit in the
splashes of shade thrown by the olive trees. Sometimes they argued about it,
but
-- as with everything else when it came to Nina -- Max always gave in. It was
a
typical day here on the island. Every day was typical. The sea was shimmering
blue between the white angles of the houses and the pavement was hot enough to
fry, but still the young ones came and went with their jeeps and scooters,
shaking the siesta by its sleepy tail. They always waved at Nina, and Nina
waved
back.
Max squinted at the finance pages, half eaten bits of squid gleaming like wet
paint on the tin table.
Nina, sunglasses stacked on the billows of black hair, the straps of her
halter
white on deep brown skin, asked, "Darling, what are we going to do today?"
Max gazed at Nina. He dreaded that question. Every day, had to think up
something new to keep her entertained, then try to keep up. The alternative
was
that she went off with the other young people, and he couldn't face that.
Peeling off his cotton sunhat to mop the freckled top of his head, Max
suggested
they visit the viewpoint at the top of the island. He said, "Won't that be
great?"
"Since when . . ." Nina lifted her glass and twirled it to make the bubbles
rise
". . . since when have you taken to using silk?"
"Silk?"
She nodded toward his lap. "Blue silk."
It was still crumpled in his big hands, the cloth he'd used to soak up his
sweat. It still felt cool. He let it unfold in his palms like a flower,
wondering what it was, some napkin he'd picked up. Then he remembered the
little
man in khaki that could once have been cream or white, the card he'd been
given,
and had instantly thrown away, the way he did with all business cards.
"Just some guy came this mornings" he said, pushing the cloth back into the
pocket of his baggy shorts. "Trying to sell fabric, I think. He gave me a
sample
and I sent him away." Max didn't add that Nina had been singing in the shower
at
the time, that seeing her coming out gleaming wet, all perfection in the
bright
perfect morning with a towel around her hair, was always enough to make his
heart ache, that it was a sight he wasn't prepared to share with any other
man.
Max watched Nina. He knew there was no way of telling her how much love he
felt
without sounding like a fool.
 
Nina's hazel eyes were drawn away from his and across the square by the barp
of
a scooter horn.
The young man pulled up. He killed the scooter's engine.
"Good morning, Sir." He flashed a smile at Max, his shorts showing the muscles
of his thighs. His name, Max remembered, was Vernon.
Vernon turned to Nina. "You got back all right from the casino last night?"
"Of course. But it's sweet of you to ask."
"You know, Sir," Vernon said to Max, "You're the luckiest man on the island.
You
have the most beautiful wife."
"I know," Max said. He hated it when Vernon called him Sir.
"Sir," Vernon continued, "you should have stayed at the casino last night.
With
your beautiful wife. A great time was had by all."
"Sure," Max said, folding his paper. "But we'll look after our own lives,
thanks."
"Do you have anything exciting fixed for today, Sir?"
"Well, of course," Max said. "We're off to the viewpoint, the top of the
island."
"Not to be missed," Vernon said, smiling widely through his tan. He started up
his scooter. "I'm sure you'll both have fun."
That evening, Max sat on the bed at the Corienne, exhausted. The guide book
for
the island said that there were native lads with donkeys to get you up to the
viewpoint from the carpark, which there had been, but they only took you half
the way. You had to walk -- climb -- the rest. Max sighed, remembering the way
Nina had scampered ahead. How the native lads had ogled her thighs.
Nina wandered out from her shower, her brown body gleaming. She was smiling,
singing to herself, some popular tune with words and a rhythm and that he was
too old to understand. Soon, it would be time to go out to the casino again.
Max
was already two thirds dressed, in his dark suit and trousers, his tie still
loose. Getting ready for anything, he needed a good half hour's head start on
Nina. He stared down at his shoes, wondering whether now was the propitious
moment to bend down and lace them.
Nina opened the windows on the balcony to the cooling air. Max could feel the
draft dragging at his skin, getting down into his bones. The sky outside was
lavender pink, lavender blue, delicately serrated with clouds. Remembering,
Max
took out his handkerchief, the sample. He was surprised to see that that too
had
changed color with the darkening evening. No longer blue. He could feel the
play
of bruised light on his eyes and face. Perhaps there was something in what the
little man had said after all -- he made a mental note to get it analyzed when
 
he got back to the mainland.
"What's that?" Nina leaned over close to him, pushing back wet strands of her
hair, droplets forming at the tips of her breasts, enclosing him in her soapy
scent.
"Just the thing I told you about earlier, sweet," Max said, resisting the
temptation to tuck it back away in the grit of his pocket like some guilty
secret. "The guy that came this morning, he said it was a scrap of the sky."
"That's impossible."
"That's what I told him."
"But it's neat, isn't it? Don't you think it would go well in my hair with the
silver gray dress I got down at Mario's?"
"Sure," Max said, although he hadn't the faintest idea what particular dress
she
meant. But it would look good. Everything looked good on Nina.
"Let me."
He didn't resist as she took it from his hands. She held it up to her
shoulders,
her face. "It smells like . . . like evening. Like alleyways and the seashore,
flowers closing for the night, seagulls up in the air. Sunset, almost."
Max shrugged. "If you say so."
"Oh, I do. I'll definitely wear it this evening. It'll drive all the other
girls
wild."
And what about the other guys? Max thought, watching her as she did a little
twilight dance. Everything with Nina had to be new and fresh --she threw stuff
out when she'd hardly even had time to use it, when the scent of her skin had
hardly settled on the cloth.
Max made an effort. He stooped down to lace his shoes. But he could still see
Nina's perfect brown feet. He loved the curve of her arches, her easy grace,
the
twinkle of her toes. Was she really getting more beautiful as he got older, or
was it just some kind of mist that was settling on his eyes? Twenty, thirty
years ago, no woman had lasted more than a season. But now, he was down to
one,
and that one was -- just had to be -- Nina.
Oh, Nina. Sweet, bittersweet, bitter Nina. The silk chemise settled over her
shoulders and breasts as she dressed. Max calculated the moment to stand up.
Waiting for the aches to settle, he looked himself up and down in the mirror,
the stiff black evening suit that enclosed all the looseness inside. Now that
would never go out of fashion; the suit, something hard and dark that you
could
put on and tie around your neck like a shell. Pity that all the clinics still
couldn't get the rest right.
Max watched Nina put on her stockings, effortlessly smoothing them up her
smooth, effortless legs. What he wouldn't have given for one imperfection,
something he could have in common with her. What he wouldn't give, at the end
 
of
the day, for her love. Her love. Yes, that was it, straightening his tie in
the
mirror as though anything would make a difference, would stop him looking as
old
as the moon. Her love. And, yes, he knew that inside that sultry casing she
was
grabbing, vain, stupid, uncaring. But he was like all the old men. For some
extraordinary reason, now that the years screamed back at him from the mirror,
he wanted love.
They drove to the clifftop casino where there was already music and the
promise
of another unforgettable night. Nina wore the scrap of sky tied back in her
hair. Walking across the carpark with the salt breeze lifting from the faintly
glowing waves far below, Max saw that it was now deep purple, playing off the
soft gleam of her lips, the rosy cast of the skin. The first thing you came to
through the high porticos inside was a wall of mirrors. Max tried to look away
from himself as Nina turned.
"Darling." She surprised him with her arms and a warm kiss.
Max hugged her back, feeling a lifting and tightening inside his whole body
that
was more than anything the surgeons had ever managed.
"This thing you gave me." Nina's hand reached to the back of her head. "It's
quite marvelous."
Max nodded. She was right. The cloth had the texture of velvet, dark and
endlessly deep. The tips of his fingers disappeared as he touched it, were
swallowed by the prescience of night.
"Let's dance," she said.
In a happy daze, he followed. The music was the same music they played here
every night. The band was the same band. But tonight it was all new. Max was
only used to watching from the bar, the ridiculous effect it had on the trim
bodies, the graceless contortions. Now he was part of it. Nina twirled. Her
dress fanned out and her body drew him into the beat. The sky in her hair grew
darker as she twirled. It began to glitter with stars.
What, Max wondered, had ever been the problem with this music? The beat was
straight, hard, inevitable. As he danced, he turned in a breeze that carried
the
scent of Nina's shoulders, her breasts and her hair, the dark open spaces
between the stars. And when Vernon came up, his muscles sliding inside his
suit
as he called Max Sir and asked Nina for a dance, Max didn't have to say a
word,
Nina simply smiled and waved him away. That was the best moment of all.
Driving back, his hands and his thoughts easy on the wheel, just enough drink
to
make the tires slide smooth and easy along the white road through the dark
plantations, Nina's hands were smooth and easy too. Around his shoulders, on
his
lap. She pressed close to him and the scrap of sky brushed his face. She
whispered in his ear about all the things she would do to and with and for him
when they got back to the Corienne. A thousand promises. And every one of them
 

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