The Knock at the Door
I was hungry and in need of a drink. I washed down some bread and cheese with a gin and tonic while sitting on Christina’s little sofa, half-watching a dubbed version of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I have always liked Harrison Ford’s face. It was comforting, like an old slipper. That is the thing with movie stars: the good ones are so familiar you kind of wear them whenever you see them. They cover some lonely part of us, making us warmer.
Daniel had loved the film before this one, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, especially the banquet scene where there is an eyeball in the soup. That and Return of the Jedi were his favorites. This added a bittersweet note to watching the film. Films from the eighties may be four decades old, but also – for me – too modern.
At home, I’d often stick an old movie on. Something black and white, from another world: Roman Holiday, It Happened One Night, His Girl Friday. Or, if I was feeling more Technicolor, An American in Paris. Proper classics that you are still too young to have come across, I imagine. I liked watching things from before I ever met Karl, from before I’d become a mother, sometimes even from before I was born. It was like not existing for a while, escaping to a world before my pain began.
As I watched the movie, something happened that made me jump in my seat. There was a knock on the door. It must have been pretty late, as it was dark outside, and this was June, remember. Long days. But I suppose this was Ibiza, and Ibiza didn’t really understand the concept of “late.”
I opened the door to find a man. A large man, broad in the shoulders. Arms all muscle. Stare of a buffalo. Bleached hair and a tattoo of a crucifix or a dagger by his left eye. He had a dangerous, twitching energy to him. His skin was a tapestry of scars. He could have been seven foot for all I knew. It was as though a boulder had been given sentience via a tub of creatine. He looked like he had taken considerable effort to look this intimidating. He had one hand behind his back. I wondered if it was holding a weapon.
“You’re not Christina,” he said. He was British—Cockney or Essex.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “No. I’m not.”
“Where is she?”
“Not here.” I didn’t want to tell him she had died. I didn’t want to tell him anything.
The man smiled—a shy smile. “Tell her it’s Frankie. Tell her she was right. She was right about everything. Tell her thank you. And this is for her.”
He took the hand from behind his back and held it out for me. My stomach dropped, like it was going over a humpback bridge. But when I saw what was in his hand, I laughed with relief. It was a giant pouch of Haribo gummy bears.
“She said sweets are her guilty pleasure,” he said, a giant smile on his face. “Pineapple Goldbears are her favorite. There’s some in there. Just a thank-you.”
“Right,” I said, and I was about to tell him the truth about Christina, but he had already turned away.
“Thank you,” I said, and I felt guilty for judging him as the metal gate clanked shut behind him. I heard a car door shut, followed by electronic music sounding like a very loud heart palpitation.
