This Is Not America by Jordi Punti

Author:Jordi Punti
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

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I don’t think it’ll be a spoiler if I reveal at this point in the story that my wife and I are back together again. Not long ago we celebrated our eighth anniversary—in Paris—two weeks after the actual date, because we decided not to count on our calendar the fortnight we were separated. I guess it’s not a spoiler, as I say, because at the heart of this story I’m not talking about her but about Sam Cortina. My wife still doesn’t know who he is. I’ve never mentioned him, but at some level she senses he’s there. Sometimes, when we’re arguing again, she’ll drop a hint, saying I was different when I came back home, but she never goes further than that because she knows this territory’s out of bounds. In our tacit reconciliation agreements, I gave in to some things she thought were important and she had to accept my silence, which sometimes—I admit it—can be as mysterious as a dolphin’s smile.

After that first conversation with Sam Cortina, I spent the next three days stuck in what we might call the routine of disappointment. Day in day out, the Wonderful Sirena docked in some port in the morning, people disembarked to have some fun, and we set sail again at dusk. In the afternoons she was semideserted and, taking Sam’s advice, I tried my luck with the female crew members. No go. I learned to forget about the Filipinas who worked in the laundry doing the washing and ironing and, in general, all the Asian women, because they only giggled and avoided me, pretending they didn’t understand anything. The Italian cooks and waitresses played along for a while but never let it go any further. A twenty-two-year-old Frenchwoman gave me a manicure and pedicure. Her soft, warm hands tidied up cuticles and filed my nails with promising intimacy, but she avoided my gaze the whole time. And Sam, who knew her from having his nails done, had assured me that she’s not shy. Since I didn’t want to get a bad name on the ship, after day four, I was much more selective in my attempts at seduction and sought chance encounters in the narrow passageways. And that only gave me the sensation of being an outcast. Sometimes I found a quiet corner with cell phone coverage and listened to my voicemail. Bet was phoning every day, and every day her voice sounded more concerned and understanding. It was mainly this detail that spurred me on in my mission.

When darkness fell, routine led me to the Rimini. I only had to walk in for the barman to start making my whisky sour and Sam to greet me from the piano, just raising his eyebrows and not looking at me. The British couple soldiered on with their project of getting through the whole cocktail list. If I spotted one of my day’s endeavors clasped in other arms, my pride took a blow. I bet with the guys at the bar on how long it would take before they headed off to one of the cabins.

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