Bahia
Kerry does not take her seat. “I—I should leave now. This isn’t right.”
Jarius sighs dramatically. “Ms. Hackett, is it possible that you would deny me, one of your most familiar co-workers, the innocent pleasure of your afterhours company? Have you never previously enjoyed a drink with, say, Ms. Presser, at the end of a long hard day? Surely you’ll grant me the same friendly privilege.”
“I just don’t know….”
Stagily, Jarius presses a fingertip to the hinge of his jaw, as if pondering a possibility. “Is Mr. Santangelo perhaps waiting loyally for your return, with your homecooked supper steaming upon the table?”
Kerry frowns, and hesitates before answering. “I haven’t been able to reach him all day.”
Jarius claps his hands together triumphantly. “It’s settled then. Please, rest your weary limbs upon this admirably cushioned chair, and let our solicitously hovering sommelier describe the wonders of his cellar. He appears ready to burst with pride.”
Within minutes, Kerry is sipping a wine more redolent and flavorful than any she has ever before tasted, berry-tart, oak-sharp. Jarius is regaling her with witty anecdotes about the high and mighty, people known to her only from headlines. The invisible net of stress held visibly in her shoulders begins to unknot, the worry lines marring her birth-blotched pretty face dissolve into looser configurations. By her third glass she is laughing frequently at Jarius’s mordant observations. The arrival of an appetizer of oysters brings a precarious halt to their conversation. Kerry casts a wary gaze on the shell-cradled lozenges of opalescent marine flesh, but upon hearty urging from Jarius, she samples the first one tentatively, then proceeds to enjoy her share heartily.
“Bravo, my dear! Always go forward bravely to encounter that which frightens you.”
“I wish I could, Mr. Jarius.”
“Please, Kerry—Peter.”
“Peter, then.”
As large, decoratively sauce-drizzled plates incommensurate with their scanty cargoes arrive, Jarius dabs at his lips with his crimson linen napkin, pinning Kerry with a keen scrutiny. Finally he inquires, “Tell me, my dear. What do you wish for during this short life we all share? What are your dreams?”
Kerry sits back from the table, plainly considering the question seriously. She crosses her legs, dandling one foot outside the tablecloth’s curtain. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. A lot of the same things everyone wishes for. Enough money, a classier place to live, a better job—”
Jarius clutches his chest. “Aha! I’m a wicked troll, then, and Diaverde is a dank, dark, brutal mine!”
Kerry laughed. “No, not at all. But you have to admit my job is not the most creative one imaginable.”
“Nor is mine. But without our hard work, chaos! However, those are all material things, more or less, even your imaginary perfect job. What are your spiritual dreams, your emotional desires? What secret ambitions dwell in the chambers of your heart? I’m truly interested.”
“Well, I’d like to live in a less complicated, peaceful world—”
Jarius holds up one palm, his expression miming further hurt. “Don’t tell me next that you want to help old people. Even though you’re undeniably as glamorous as any Miss World candidate, I’m afraid I’ll have to take offense.”
“Oh, you’re not old, Peter, so don’t pretend you are just to get my sympathy.”
“Caught dead to rights. I do desire your sympathy, Kerry. As well as other fond indulgences. That’s why I granted you admittance to Project Benthos. As a token of my esteem. But please, continue.”
“Oh, I don’t know how to really explain what I sometimes feel. I long for a world that’s—that’s almost primitive. Someplace half-wild, green and tropical, where feelings and issues, needs and solutions are clear and uncomplicated. A place of real freedom, where I can feel things deeply and richly.”
“Feel such things as love, perhaps?”
“Yes.”
“And lust?”
Kerry picks up her fork and toys with the remnants of her food for a moment before answering more or less into her plate, “Of course.”
A dessert trolley rolls up under the impulse of a parrot-woman. The half-familiar oscillations of a quivering molded pudding catch Kerry’s eye, and she pulls back involuntarily but undeniably from the cart of offerings. Composing herself, she chooses an earth-dark slice of chocolate cake. Jarius, meanwhile, has ordered liqueur-spiked coffees for them both.
When they rise to leave, Kerry performs an impromptu awkward fandango with her chair before regaining control of her feet. Instantly, Jarius is by her side, steadying her with an arm around her waist.
“Allow me, Kerry sweetling. Alcohol runs colder in these old veins than in your youthful arteries. My heart learned satiation long ago, while yours still imbibes too wildly.”
