The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Volume 3

A Cool Dry Place by R Gay

Yves and I are walking because even if his Citroen were working, petrol is almost seven dollars a litre. He is wearing shorts, faded and thin, and I can see the muscles of his thighs trembling with exhaustion. He worries about my safety, so every evening at six he picks me up at work and walks me home, all in all a journey of twenty kilometres amid the heat, the dust and the air redolent with exhaust fumes and the sweet stench of sugarcane. We try and avoid the crazy drivers with no real destination who try to run us off the road for sport. We walk slowly, my pulse quickening as he takes my hand. Yves’s hands are what I love best about him; they are calloused and wrinkled, the hands of a man much older than he is. At times, when he is touching me, I am certain that there is wisdom in Yves’s hands. We have the same conversation almost every day – what a disaster the country has become, but we cannot even muster the strength to say the word “disaster” because such a word does not aptly describe what it is like to live in Haiti. There is sadness in Yves’s face that also cannot be aptly described. It is an expression of ultimate sorrow, the reality of witnessing the country, the home you love, disintegrating around you. I often wonder if he sees such sorrow in my face, but I am afraid to look in a mirror and find out.

We stop at the market in downtown Port-au-Prince. Posters for Aristide and the Family Lavalas are all over the place, even though the elections, an exercise in futility, have come and gone. A vendor with one leg and swollen arms offers me a box of Tampax for twelve dollars, thrusting the crumpled blue and white box toward me. I ignore him as a red-faced American tourist begins shouting at us. He wants directions to the Hotel Montana, he is lost, his map of the city is wrinkled and torn and splotched with cola. “We are Haitian, not deaf,” I tell him calmly and he relaxes visibly as he realizes that we indeed speak English.

Yves rolls his eyes and pretends to be fascinated with an art vendor’s wares. He has very little tolerance for “fat Americans”. Just looking at them makes him feel hungry and feeling hungry reminds him of the many things he tries to ignore. Yves learned English in school, but I learned from television: I Love Lucy, The Brady Bunch, and my favourite show, The Jeffersons, with the little black man who walks like a chicken. When I was a child, I would sit and watch these shows and mimic the actors words until I spoke them perfectly. Now, as I tell the red-faced man the wrong directions, because he has vexed me by his mere presence in my country, I mouth my words slowly, with what I hope is a flawless American accent. The man shakes my hand too hard and thrusts five gourdes into my sweaty hand. Yves sucks his teeth as the man walks away and tells me to throw the money away, but I stuff the faded bills inside my bra and we continue to walk around, pretending we can afford to buy something sweet or something nice.

When we get home the heat threatens to suffocate us. The air conditioning is not working because of the daily power outages, so the air inside is thick and refuses to move. I look at the rivulets of sweat streaming down Yves’s dark face and I want to run away to some place cool and dry, but I am not sure that such a place exists any more. My mother has prepared dinner, boiled plantains and griot, grilled cubes of pork. She is weary, sweating, slouched in a chair. She doesnt even speak to us as we enter, nor do we speak to her because there is nothing any of us can say to each other that hasnt already been said. She stares and stares at the black-and-white photo of my father, a man I have little recollection of because he was murdered by the Ton Ton Macoute, the secret military police force, when I was only five years old. Late at night, I am plagued by memories of my father being dragged from our home and beaten as he was thrown into the back of a large green military truck. And then I feel guilty because, regardless of what he suffered, I think that he was the lucky one. Sometimes, my mother stares at the picture so hard, her eyes glaze over and she starts rocking back and forth and it is as if he is dancing her across the small space of our kitchen the way he used to. In those moments, I look at Yves. I know that should anything happen to him, it will be me holding his picture, remembering what was and will never be, and I have a clear understanding of a woman’s capacity to love.

We eat quickly and afterward, Yves washes the dishes outside. My stomach still feels empty. I rest my hand over the slight swell of my belly. I want to cry out that I am still hungry, but I don’t because I cannot add to their misery with my petty complaints. I catch Yves staring at me through the dirty window as he dries his hands. He always looks at me in such a way that lets me know that his capacity to love equals mine: eyes wide, lips parted slightly as if the words “I love you” are forever resting on the tip of his tongue. He smiles, but looks away quickly, as if there is an unspoken rule forbidding such minor demonstrations of joy. Sighing, I rise and kiss my mother on the forehead, gently rubbing her shoulders. She pats my hand and I retire to the bedroom Yves and I share, waiting. It seems like he is taking for ever and I close my eyes, imagining his thick lips against my collarbone and the weight of his body pressing me into our mattress. Sex is one of the few pleasures we have left, so I savour every moment we share before, during and after. It is dark when Yves finally comes to bed. As he crawls under the sheets, I can smell rum on his breath. I want to chastise him for sneaking away to drink but I know that a watery rum and coke is one of the few pleasures he has for the savouring. I lie perfectly still until he nibbles my earlobe.

Yves chuckles softly. “I know you are awake, Gabi.”

I smile in the darkness and turn toward him. “I always wait for you.”

He gently rolls me onto my stomach and kneels behind me, removing my panties as he kisses the small of my back. His hands crawl along my spine, and again I feel their wisdom as he takes an excruciating amount of time to explore my body. I arch toward him as I feel his lips against the backs of my thighs and one of his knees parting my legs. I try and look back at him but he nudges my head forward and enters me in one swift motion. I inhale sharply, shuddering, a moan trapped in my throat. Yves begins moving against me, moving deeper and deeper inside me and before I give myself over, I realize that the sheets are torn between my fingers and I am crying.

Later, Yves is wrapped around me, his sweaty chest clinging to my sweaty back. He holds my belly in his hands and I can feel the heat of his breath against the back of my neck.

“We should leave,” he murmurs. “So that one day, I can hold you like this and feel our child living inside you.”

I sigh. We have promised each other that we will not bring a child into this world, and it is but one more sorrow heaped onto a mountain of sorrows we share. “How many times will we have this conversation? We’ll never have enough money for plane tickets.”

“We’ll never have enough money to live here, either.”

“Perhaps we should just throw ourselves in the ocean.” Yves stiffens and I squeeze his hand. “I wasn’t being serious.”

“Some friends of mine are taking a boat to Miami week after next.”

I laugh rudely because this is another conversation we have had too often. Many of our friends have tried to leave on boats. Some have made it, some have not, and too many have turned back when they realized that the many miles between Haiti and Miami are not so small as the space on the map. “They are taking a boat to the middle of the ocean, where they will surely die.”

“This boat will make it,” Yves says confidently. “A priest is travelling with them.”

I close my eyes and try to breathe, yearning for just one breath of fresh air. “Because his kind has done so much to help us here on land?”

“Don’t talk like that.” He is silent for a moment. “I told them we would be going too.”

I turn around and try to make out his features beneath the moon’s shadows. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses?”

Yves grips my shoulders to the point of pain. Only when I wince does he loosen his hold. “This is the only thing that does make sense. Agwe will see to it that we make it to Miami, and then we can go to South Beach and Little Havana and watch cable TV.”

My upper lip curls in disgust. “You will put your faith in the same god that traps us on this godforsaken island? Surely you have better reasons.”

“If we go we might know, once in our lives, what it is like to breathe.”

My heart stops and the room suddenly feels like a big echo. I can hear Yves’s heart beating where mine is not. I can imagine what Yves’s face might look like beneath the Miami sun. And I know that I will follow him wherever he goes.

When I wake, I blink, covering my eyes as cruel shafts of sunlight cover our bodies. My mother is standing at the foot of the bed, clutching the black-and-white photo of my father.

“Mama?”

“The walls are thin,” she whispers.

I stare at my hands. They appear to have aged overnight. “Is something wrong?”

“Gabrielle, you must go with Yves,” she says, handing me the picture of my father.

I stare at the picture, trying to recognize the curve of my eyebrow or the slant of my nose in his features. When I look up, my mother is gone. For the next two weeks I work and Yves spends his days doing odd jobs and scouring the city for supplies he anticipates us needing. I feel like there are two of me; I go through the motions, straightening my desk, taking correspondence for my boss, gossiping with my co-workers while at the same time I am daydreaming of Miami and places where Yves and I are never hungry or tired or scared or any of the other things we have become. I tell no one of our plans to leave, but the part of me going through the motions wants to tell everyone I see in the hopes that perhaps someone will try and stop me, remind me of all the unknowns between here and there.

At night, we exhaust ourselves making frantic love. We no longer bother to stifle our moans and cries and I find myself doing things I would never have considered doing before; things I have always wanted to do. There is a certain freedom in impending escape. Three nights before we are to leave, Yves and I are in bed, making love. We are neither loud nor quiet as, holding my breasts in my hands, I trace his muscled calves and dark thighs with my nipples, shivering because it feels better than I could ever have imagined. Gently, Yves places one of his hands against the back of my head, urging me toward his cock. I resist at first, but he is insistent in his desire, his hand pressing harder, fingers tangling in my hair and taking firm hold. In the dim moonlight, I stare at his cock for a few moments, breathing softly. It looks different to me, in this moment, rigid and veined, curving ever so slightly to the right. I part my lips, licking them before I kiss the strangely smooth tip of his cock. His entire body tenses, Yves’s knees cracking from the effort. I pretend that I am tasting an exotic new candy, slowly tracing every inch of him with my tongue. I drag my teeth along the thick vein that runs along the dark underside of his cock. My tongue slips into the small slit at the head. He tastes salty, yet clean, and my nervousness quickly subsides. I take Yves’s throbbing length into my mouth. It becomes difficult to breathe, but it also excites me, makes me wet as he carefully guides me, his hands gripping harder and harder, his breathing faster.

Suddenly, he stops, roughly rolling me onto my chest, digging his fingers into my hips, pulling my ass into the air. I press my forehead against my arms, gritting my teeth, and I allow Yves to enter my darkest passage, whispering nasty words into the night as he rocks in and out of my ass. At once I feel so much pleasure and so much pain and the only thing I know is that I want more – more of the dull ache and the sharp tingling just beneath my clit, more of feeling like I will shatter into pieces if he inches any further. More. At the height of passion, Yves says my name, his voice so tremulous it makes my heart ache. It is nice to know that he craves me in the same way I crave him, that my body clinging to his is a balm.

Afterward, we lie side by side, our limbs heavy, and Yves talks to me about South Beach with the assurance of a man who has spent his entire life in such a place; a place where rich people and beautiful people and famous people dance salsa at night and eat in fancy restaurants overlooking the water. He tells me of expensive cars that never break down and jobs for everyone; good jobs where he can use his engineering degree and I can do whatever I want. And he tells me about Little Haiti, a neighbourhood just like our country, only better because the air conditioning always works and we can watch cable TV. Cable TV always comes up in our conversations. We are fascinated by its excess. He tells me all of this and I can feel his body next to mine, tense, almost twitching with excitement. Yves has smiled more in the past two weeks than in the three years we have been married and the 24 years we have known each other, and I smile with him because I need to believe that this idyllic place exists. I listen even though I have doubts, and I listen because I don’t know quite what to say.

The boat will embark under the cover of night. On the evening of flight, I leave work as I always do, turning off all the lights and computers, smiling at the security guard, telling everyone I will see them tomorrow. It is always when I am leaving work that I realize what an odd country Haiti is, with the Internet, computers, fax machines and photocopiers in offices, and the people who use them living in shacks with the barest of amenities. We are truly a people living in two different times. Yves is waiting for me as he always is, but today he wears a nice pair of slacks and a button-down shirt and the black shoes he wears to church. This is his best outfit, only slightly faded and frayed. The tie his father gave him hangs from his left pocket. We don’t talk on the way home. We only hold hands and he grips my fingers so tightly that my elbow starts tingling. I say nothing, however, because I know that right now, Yves needs something to hold on to.

I want to steal away into the sugarcane fields we pass, ignoring the old men, dark, dirty and sweaty as they wield their machetes. I want to find a hidden spot and beg Yves to take me, right there. I want to feel the soil beneath my back and the stalks of cane cutting my skin. I want to leave my blood on the land and my cries in the air before we continue our walk home, Yves’s seed staining my thighs, my clothes and demeanour hiding an intimate knowledge. But such a thing is entirely inappropriate, or at least it was before all this madness began. My face burns as I realize what I am thinking and I start walking faster. I have changed so much in so short a time.

My mother has changed as well. I would not say that she is happy, but the grief that normally clouds her features is missing, as if she slid out of her shadow and hid it someplace secret and dark. We have talked more in two weeks than in the past two years and, while this makes me happy, it also makes me sad, because we can never make up for the conversations we did not have and soon cannot have. We will write, and someday Yves and I will save enough money to bring my mother to us in Miami, but nothing will ever make up for the wide expanse between now and then.

By the time we reach our home, Yves and I are drenched in sweat. It is hot, yes, but this is a different kind of sweat. It reeks of fear and unspeakable tension. We stare at each other as we cross the threshold, each mindful of the fact that everything we are doing, we are doing for the last time. My mother is moving about the kitchen, muttering to herself. Our suitcases rest next to the kitchen table, and it all seems rather innocent, as if we are simply going to the country for a few days, and not across an entire ocean. I cannot wrap my mind around the concept of crossing an ocean. All I know is this small island and the few feet of water I wade in when I am at the beach. Haiti is not a perfect home, but it is a home nonetheless. I am surprised that I feel such overwhelming melancholy at a time when I should be feeling nothing but hope.

Last night, Yves told me that he never wants to return, that he will never look back. Lying in bed, my legs wrapped around his, my lips against the sharpness of his collarbone, I burst into tears.

“Chère, whats wrong? he asked, gently wiping my tears away with the soft pads of his thumbs.

“I don’t like it when you talk like that.”

Yves stiffened. “I love my country and I love my people, but I cannot bear the thought of returning to this place where I cannot work or feel like a man or even breathe. I mean you no insult when I say this, but you cannot possibly understand.”

I wanted to protest, but as I lay there, my head pounding, I realized that I probably couldn’t understand what it was like for a man in this country, where men have so many expectations placed upon them that they can never hope to meet. There are expectations of women here, but in some strange way it is easier for us, because it is in our nature, for better or worse, to do what is expected of us. And yet there are times when it is not easier, times like that moment when I wanted to tell Yves that we should stay and fight to make things better, stay with our loved ones, just stay.

I have saved a little money for my mother. It started with the five gourdes from the red-faced American, and then most of my paycheck and anything else I could come up with. This money will not make up for the loss of a daughter and a son-in-law, but it is all I have to offer. After we leave, she is going to stay with her sister in Petit Goave. I am glad for this, because I could not bear the thought of her alone in this stifling little house, day after day. I am afraid she would just shrivel up and die like that. I am afraid she will shrivel up and die, regardless.

I walk around the house slowly, memorizing each detail, running my hands along the walls, tracing each crack in the floor with my toes. Yves is businesslike and distant as he remakes our bed, fetches a few groceries for my mother, hides our passports in the lining of his suitcase. My mother watches us but we are all silent. I don’t think any of us can bear to hear the sound of one another’s voices and I don’t think we know why. Finally, a few minutes past midnight, it is time. My mother clasps Yves’s hands between her smaller, more brittle ones. She urges him to take care of me, take care of himself. His voice cracks as he assures her that he will, that the three of us won’t be apart long. She embraces me tightly, so tightly that again my arms tingle, but I say nothing. I hold her, kissing the top of her head, promising to write as soon as we arrive in Miami, promising to write every single day, promising to send for her as soon as possible. I make so many promises I cannot promise to keep.

And then, we are gone. My mother does not stand in the doorway, waving, as she might were this a movie. We do not look back and we do not cry. Yves carries our suitcases and quickly we make our way to a deserted beach where there are perhaps thirty others, looking as scared as Yves and I. There is a boat – large, and far sturdier than I had imagined, for which I am thankful. I have been plagued by nightmares of a boat made from weak and rotting wood, leaking and sinking into the sea, the hollow echo of screams the only thing left behind. Yves greets a few of his friends, but stays by my side. “We’re moving on up,” I quip, and Yves laughs, loudly. I see the priest Yves promised would bless this journey. He is only a few years older than us, so to me, he appears painfully young. He has only a small knapsack and a Bible so worn it looks like the pages might fall apart at the lightest touch. His voice is quiet and calm as he ushers us onto the boat. Below deck there are several small cabins, and Yves seems to know instinctively which one is ours. At this moment, I realize that Yves has spent a great deal of money to arrange this passage for us. I know he has his secret, but I am momentarily irritated that he has kept something this important from me. He stands near the small bed, his arms shyly crossed over his chest, and I see an expression on his face I don’t think I have ever seen before. He is proud, his eyes watery, chin jutting forward. And I know that I will never regret this decision, no matter what happens to us, because I have waited my entire life to see my husband like this. In many ways, I am seeing him for the first time.

Little more than two hours after the boat sets sail, I am above deck leaning over the railing, heaving what little food is in my stomach into the ocean. Even on the water, the air is hot and stifling. We are still close to Haiti, but I had hoped that the moment we set upon the ocean, I would be granted one sweet breath of cool air. Yves is cradling me against him between my bouts of nausea, promising that this sickness will pass, promising this is but a small price to pay. I am tired of promises, but they are all we have to offer each other. I tell him to leave me alone, and as his body slackens against me, I can tell he is hurt, but I have too many things happening in my mind to comfort him when I need to comfort myself more. I brush my lips across his knuckles and tell him I’ll meet him in our cabin soon. He leaves, reluctantly, and when I am alone, I close my eyes, inhaling the salt of the sea deep into my lungs, hoping that smelling this thick salty air is another one of those things I am doing for the last time.

I think of my mother and father and I think that being here on this boat may well be the closest I will ever come to knowing my father, knowing what he wanted for his family. My head is splitting because my thoughts are thrown in so many directions. All I want is a little peace, and I never feel more peaceful than when I am with Yves. Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, ignoring the strong taste of bile lingering in the back of my throat, I return below deck to find Yves sitting on the end of the bed, rubbing his forehead.

I place the palm of my hand against the back of his neck. It is warm and slick with sweat. “What’s wrong?”

He looks up, but not at me. “I’m worried about you.”

I push him further onto the bed and straddle his lap. He closes his eyes and I caress his eyelids with my fingers, enjoying the curl of his eyelashes and the way it tickles my skin. He is such a beautiful man, but I do not tell him this. He would most likely take it the wrong way. At the very least, it would make him uncomfortable. It is a strange thing in some men, this fear of their own beauty. I lift his chin with one finger and trace his lips with my tongue. They are cracked but soft. His hands tremble but he grips my shoulders firmly. I am amazed at how little is spoken between us, yet how much is said. We quickly slip out of our clothes and his thighs flex between mine. The sensation of his muscle against my flesh is a powerful one that makes my entire body tremble.

I slip my tongue between his lips and the taste of him is so familiar and necessary that I am suddenly weak. I fall into Yves, kissing him so hard that I know my lips will be bruised in the morning. I want them to be. Yves pulls away first, drawing his lips roughly across my chin down to my neck, the hollow of my throat, practically gnawing at my skin with his teeth. I moan hoarsely, tossing my head backwards, a gesture of acquiescence and desire. My neck throbs and I know that here, too, there will be bruises. He sinks his teeth deeper into me and I can no longer perceive the fine line between pain and pleasure. But just as soon as I consider asking him to stop, he does, lathering the fresh wounds with the softness of his tongue, murmuring sweet and tender words. Such gentleness in the wake of such roughness leaves me shivering.

The weight of my breasts rests in Yves’s hands, and he lowers his lips to my nipples, suckling them. He looks up at me as he suckles, and it is unclear whether this is a moment of passion or a moment of comfort for him… for me. And then I cannot look at him so I rest my chin against the top of his head, my arms wrapped around him, my hips slowly rocking back and forth. My cunt brushes along the length of his cock, hard beneath me. I am wet already, and I want him inside me, but I wait. This moment, whatever it is, demands patience. He turns our bodies so that I am lying on my back and slowly, almost too slowly, he draws his tongue along my torso, inside my navel, the round of my belly. He is reverent in his touch and I can feel the tension in my body easing away as I surrender my trust and fear and hope to this one man.

His hands massaging my thighs, Yves places a cheek against the soft, wiry patch of hair covering my mound. And then he is tracing the lips between my thighs with only one finger. His touch is tentative at first, and then it is possessive and insistent as he covers the most sensitive part of me with his mouth, tasting and teasing me with his tongue, that one finger sliding inside me so subtly that I gasp, and clench around him and hear a distant voice begging him for more. It is agonizing that at a time like this, Yves is making love to me in such a manner when all I want is him fucking me so hard that I feel everything and nothing at all. His tongue is moving faster, so fast that it feels like a constant, and then I cannot take it any more.

“Fuck me,” I say harshly, and he blinks, looking at me as if he, too, is seeing me for the first time.

“Oui, ma chère, he whispers, crawling up my body, kissing me as he slowly slides his cock, inch by inch, into the wet heat of my cunt.

Yves takes hold of my knees, spreading my legs wide and pushing them upward until they practically touch my face. I rest my ankles against his shoulders and shudder as he pulls his cock to the edge of my cunt and then buries himself to the hilt over and over again. I am intimately aware of his pulsing length; his sweat falling onto my body, into my eyes, mingling with mine; the tension in his body as I claw at the wide stretch of black skin across his back with my fingernails. Tomorrow, he, too, will have bruises. My cunt loosens around his cock and Yves groans, hiding his face in my armpit, trying to stay in control.

“Let go,” I urge him.

Then, he is fucking me faster and harder, so much so that I cannot recognize him, and my chest heaves because I am thankful. A cry that has been trapped deep in my throat is finally released and the sound of it is peculiar. It is a sound that only a woman who has known what I have known can make. I can feel wetness trailing down the inside of my arm. It is Yves’s tears. My thigh muscles are screaming, so I wrap my legs tightly around his waist. I am tender inside but I don’t want Yves to ever stop, because with each stroke of his cock he takes me further away from the geography of our grief and closer to a cool dry place.