Free Rocks, The by Peter Nichols Page A

the sea, smoking a cigarette. A dark slender shape with hair diffusing the lights of the port.
    “Hola,”
she said.
    A great electric charge passed through Luc. “Montserrat,” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “It’s me, Luc. We spoke—”
    “Of course. I know it’s you.”
    He walked toward her. He could see her face now, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and she had turned so that her strong features caught the light from across the road. He couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen it immediately: it was the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.
    He said, “I liked talking with you earlier.”
    “Yes, me too. It was nice, finally, after all these years.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well”—she laughed—“I was in love with you for years.”
    Luc’s Spanish was fluent, so he knew he hadn’t misunderstood her. He’d imagined it, then. So clearly too. “What?” he said.
    She laughed, her teeth bluish in the dim light like the wavecrests appearing out of the dark running toward the rocks around them. “Yes, for many years I was in love with you.”
    Tripping over a rock but catching himself, Luc sat down beside her.
    “When did we meet?” he said.
    She was amused by his utter confusion. “We have never met. But I’ve known you for many years.”
    “How? We have friends in common?”
    “No. Years ago—fifteen years ago maybe—you had a motorcycle. For many summers. Right? I used to see you everywhere on that motorcycle. You looked incredible. Like
Easy Rider
, you know? So American—you are American or English?”
    “American.”
    “I thought so. Or I wanted to think so. You were my dream guy. Sometimes you had girls on the back of your bike, and oh, my God, I wanted to be on the back of your motorcycle with you. You have no idea.”
    “I don’t remember seeing you—”
    “No, of course not. I was ten years old, twelve, thirteen. And ugly—aie! I was just an ugly little girl, and you were this cool American guy on a motorcycle.” Incredibly, she reached up and touched his hair at the side of his head, pulling it gently. “Your hair was long then. Oh, I was so in love with you!” She laughed again, looking at him with such dumbfounding pleasure.
    He stopped himself from kissing her—he wanted to feel those teeth with his lips and tongue so badly—but he’d wait, he’d prolong this sublime moment just a little longer. He grinned back at her. “If you were ever ugly, that’s not the case now.”
    “Well, now it’s not so bad as it was. And you’re older, but still the cool-looking guy. More European I think now, no? It’s interesting, after all this time, to talk with you.”
    “I could talk with you for . . .” He looked at her wide, beautiful mouth, the dark gums, the white teeth, her amused eyes. So beautiful, and now so ready—
    Headlights from the road lit them both, not directly, but Luc saw her eyes going to the car. She stood up.
    A black BMW 318i, stopped. Montserrat smiled at the car, then turned to Luc, leaned forward, and kissed both his cheeks with amused affection. “See you later, Easy Rider,” she said. She got into the car. Luc caught a glimpse of a young man, Spanish, masses of black hair, white teeth, lean planes of face. He and Montserrat threw their heads together for a more than perfunctory kiss, and she slammed the door and the car drove off. A cloud of dirt rose and swirled behind it, smearing the lights of the port.
    •   •   •
    H
e had no idea
how long he sat there. After a while he heard the sea breaking on the rocks below, withdrawing in long heartfelt sighs, breaking again.
    He stood up and walked back across the road. The music was quieter. Several couples were still dancing. The whole album of
Revolver
was playing. Some woman was making John Lennon feel like he’d never been born. Luc knew how he felt.
    He went into the garage and stamped on the kick-starter of his old Rieju motorcycle. “Thank you, Vicente, hombre,” he said when it