go online at school, I feel as though the world was just waiting for me to break it open.”
They sat silently for a while. Finally, Ron asked about his godson, and from there the conversation drifted aimlessly until they got up, handed the waitress a five-franc piece each, and went in their respective directions.
Ron boarded the number 12 bus and headed toward home. His apartment was near the embassy and only two blocks from the pool where he did his morning workouts. He got out and walked slowly toward the Wellenbad, enjoying the stillness that fell as soon as the electric bus had disappeared around the corner.
Huge, old, elm trees shaded the quiet street. All windows were curtained; the ground floor windows were shut tight. There was no one visible. The gardens were immaculate, and, if a weed ever dared to show its face, it would probably shrivel of shame immediately. On the whole street, not a leaf was out of place, not an ill-advised color to be seen. There was not even a rustle of leaves, as if even the wind wouldn’t dare make noise.
He came around the corner into the next street. Now he could hear the distant sound of laughter and water splashing. Although it was a public pool, the place was too expensive to attract much in the way of riffraff. The local teenagers just used the river; it was free. The Wellenbad boasted a wave machine against which, every morning from seven to eight and evenings from five to six, one could battle one’s way against the current through the water. Ron used to imagine he was crossing the Atlantic Ocean—most likely off the African coast rather than farther north; the French coast would be too cold for him. Today, though, he would simply swim laps.
He went in, showed his pass, and changed. In his bathing suit, dressing gown, and rubber slippers, he moved into the pool area. He stored his possessions in one of a row of cubbies built into the wall, showered, and stepped down the stairs into the pool.
He always used the stairs, sliding his hand along the railing provided for the safety of moving in or out of the water. Others would dive in headfirst or at least slide into the water from the side of the pool. He had noticed that men, especially, didn’t walk down the steps the way he did. Women did that, and only old women put their hands on the railing to lead themselves down into the water this way, but he was long past feeling embarrassed about it. He was a cautious man; he was an invisible man; and people told him things precisely for that reason.
Besides, he liked the feel of the metal tube under his hand. It was slick, warmed from the water, and felt clean and smooth. He liked smooth things under his hand, like silk and some fleece—not all fleece, just some kinds. Some made his teeth ache, and his hair stand up with a static charge.
He swam his accustomed twenty laps and returned to the stairs where he, again, worked his way up while sliding his hand along the metal railing. Then he stamped his feet to shake off the excess water and slipped into the rubber slippers. He never walked barefoot around the pool like other people did. The thought of all those germs lurking in the small puddles, just waiting for an unsuspecting bare foot, made his skin crawl.
Ron pushed open the door to the men’s dressing room. It was empty as it usually was at this time of day, which was one of the main reasons he used the pool in the middle of the morning. He did not wish to be scrutinized. He did not want to leash his eyes. He did not want to be careful of how his body moved. Just for a time, he simply wanted to be. He felt free being alone.
He opened his locker, grabbed a towel and wash bag, and relocked it. In the shower, he made sure to close the curtain all the way, so he could remove his bathing suit and wash all over without having to worry about a stray visitor coming in while his ears were plugged with water.
He carefully shampooed his thinning hair once, rinsed it twice, and applied a blob of conditioner. An ad on TV said this made hair virile and was proven to encourage regrowth. Though Ron checked the progress daily, he had failed to notice any improvement to date.
Thoroughly rinsed, he turned the shower off, grabbed his towel, and rubbed himself dry. This was another ritual. The towel, made of rough, natural cotton, was fresh every day, and he made himself rub it hard enough to raise color to his skin. Only then did he wrap the towel around his waist and exit the shower.
An old man with skinny, veined legs and liver spots all over his bald pate was standing in front of the lockers looking as if he’d forgotten why he was there. Ron walked past him, and the man turned and said, “Can you believe this? I forgot my lock.”
“Where do you keep it?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be in the bag but I must’ve …”
“Did you take it out? It might still be in there, if you turn everything upside down. This happens to me once a week, and it’s always right down there, somewhere. After all, where could it go?”
The man looked at Ron with such hope that Ron almost wished it had been the truth. The fact was, he never lost his lock, but he hoped the lie would help. His lock had its own place in his bag in the outside pocket. Not only that, he greased it once a month so it would work easily because you never knew … the damp in those bathing places …
He continued on past the old man and turned the corner to his row of lockers. Behind him he could hear the clatter of an upturned gym bag, and then the old man shouted, “Hey, you were right! Thanks. It was here all along.”
Ron did not bother to answer.
His locker was open now, and his used towel lay folded on the bench while he smoothed body lotion over his arms and legs. When the dressing room was busy, he regretfully omitted this part of the ritual. He did not want to draw attention to himself by using lotion; he’d noticed that men got suspicious of of other men who did. Aftershave lotion, yes. Deodorant, yes, although there was always the suggestion of having an assignation when men applied smelling potions. But skin lotion? Not in public.
Having let the lotion soak into his skin, he pulled on his silk jockeys and silk undershirt. The feel of them against his skin, freshly scrubbed and lotioned, made him feel warm inside. He was reminded of the school photo. Never again would he wear scratchy, woolen trousers or rough underpants with stretched-out elastic that always bunched up behind and begged to be used for wedgies. No, never again.
3
After Ron got on his bus, Emma walked toward the river. It was a still, gray day and, despite her best attempts, she could not get the feeling of California back into her body. She looked up at the sky: The light was thin and anemic, and, even when the sun shone, it didn’t look blue. The air, on the other hand, was thick, cramped, used over and over. Everywhere she looked there were houses that had been there for centuries. They cut holes into the air, that same air that had been breathed and re-breathed for thousands of years. Her gaze slid down along the street. The houses were all built of light-yellow sandstone. They were magnificent, solid, and stately, built to last. There were many trees in the city, but they still didn’t manage to create enough breathable air.
Maybe walking by the river would make her feel better. She crossed the street using the crosswalk along with a mass of other pedestrians, none of whom jaywalked. When she reached the police station, she headed down the stairs alongside the four-story building. Housing the city police now, it had formerly been an orphanage. Emma usually enjoyed contemplating that irony: from the unwanted to the embodiment of law and order, from the outsiders to the ultimate insiders. On bad days, she tried to make a case for a haunted house, a space that attracted society’s dregs throughout centuries.
The river path was empty of people. There was no wind, and all she could hear was a tiny murmur of water against the bank. Her shoes crunched loudly on the gravel. There were no birds or even squirrels; she might have been alone in the world. In summer, when the water was warm, the air reverberated with the shouts of people floating in the current, letting themselves be carried past the hikers on the path. Dogs barked and music played. But now, in early March, all was quiet. The water was gray; the sky was gray; the trees were mostly bare or a grayish green; and the ground cover seemed dusty, as if there hadn’t been any rain for a long time.
Emma heard the rhythmic thump of feet approaching from behind. “Joggers,”