I was struck by the warmth of his body. This was no stuffed beast or a figment of my imagination but a living creature. Its hot mass pulsed under my palm.
“It’s magnificent,” I whispered.
“Magnificent indeed,” the man said as he continued to caress the beast. Its black and yellow fur shone in the light filtering down through the trees. The beautiful stripes, the enormous size—everything about the animal was perfect. Even lying prostrate, it seemed to be coiled and ready to attack; the paws looked heavy. The jaw was powerful, and sharp fangs peeked out from its mouth. Every bit of the tiger seemed to have a purpose, to be ideally suited to the hunt.
“It is yours?” I asked.
“It is.” The old man nodded. A shudder ran through the animal’s belly and it groaned.
“Poor thing,” I said. I tried to concentrate my energy in the hand stroking the tiger’s back. The fur was very thick and soft and pleasant to the touch. The more I stroked it, the more the scent of ferns filled the air.
“There now,” the man murmured. Then he turned toward me for the first time and smiled.
The tiger’s ears drooped and its tongue rolled from its mouth. It began to drool. With its last remaining strength, it pushed closer to the old man.
“There now,” the man repeated, wrapping his arms around the tiger’s neck and rubbing his cheek against its face.
The roses swayed in the hot breeze. Tiny insects danced above the lawn. Spray from the fountain misted down on us.
“I’m afraid I’m disturbing you,” I said, realizing that I was intruding on their last moments together.
“Why would you say that?” the old man said, a hint of reproach in his tone. “You must stay with us. We need you here.” Then he looked back at the tiger, his eyes full of pity.
The tiger’s breath grew fitful. Its throat rattled; its fangs clattered together. The tongue looked rough and dry. I continued to rub its back; it was all I could do.
The old man held his cheek against the animal’s head. The tiger’s eyes opened and sought his face. When it was satisfied that he was still nearby, the eyes shut again in relief.
Their bodies had become one. Cheek and jaw, torso and neck, paw and leg, bow tie and stripes—everything melted together into a single being. The tiger let out a roar, and as the echo died away so did the beating under my hand. The clicking of fangs stopped, and a final breath seeped from its lungs. Silence descended on us.
The old man continued to hold the animal in his arms. I rose as quietly as I could and left the garden.
I put the key in the ignition and looked down for a moment at my palms. I wanted to remember what they had just done. Then I turned the key. On the way back, the tomatoes were nowhere to be seen.
TOMATOES AND THE FULL MOON
I checked in at the front desk and picked up my key, but when I opened the door, I found a strange woman and her dog in my room. The woman was sitting up very straight on the sofa, her hands resting on her knees.
“I beg your pardon,” I said and hastily checked the number on the door and my key again. There was no doubt about it: room 101. “I’m sorry, but I wonder if you haven’t made a mistake,” I said, as politely as I could.
The woman seemed completely unabashed and not even particularly surprised. She simply stroked the head of the dog—a black Labrador lying quietly at her feet.
“Where did you come from?” the woman said at last. Her voice was much like a young girl’s, so ill matched to her age and appearance that I found myself momentarily at a loss for words.
“I just checked into this room,” I managed at last.
“So did I.”
“Then the hotel must have made a mistake. We should probably call the front desk. Would you mind showing me your key?”
“Key?” she said, tilting her head and staring at me as though I had used some obscure medical term.
“Your key,” I repeated, beginning to get annoyed. I had not slept the night before due to a deadline, and I had been caught in traffic on my way to the hotel. I was exhausted and just wanted to take a shower and go to bed as soon as possible. “Yes, the key to this room,” I added.
“Oh, of course. I was just looking for it. I’m sure I left it over there, but I can’t seem to find it…” She pointed toward the dresser but made no move to get up. The dog yawned and wagged its tail.
The woman fell silent again and sat as still as a doll. In fact, everything about her was doll-like: her tiny figure, her porcelain skin, her bobbed hair. Her wrists and fingers and ankles were so delicate they seemed as though they would break if you touched them.
“How did you get in here?” I asked.
“From the patio,” she said, pointing in the direction of the French doors.
The sky was clear outside, the sun blinding. The lawn, damp from the sprinklers, glimmered in the light. Children could be heard shouting from the pool across the way; and beyond the pool, the glasslike sea was visible in the distance. A small bird perched for a moment on the back of a patio chair and then flew away.
“The door was open and it seemed like too much trouble to go around through the lobby—so much easier to come in this way, don’t you think?” She was smiling now.
“I suppose so,” I said. “But I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. This is my room.” As I said this, I threw my bag on the bed for emphasis.
“Oh dear! I’m terribly sorry. I’ll be going right away.” She clasped a bundle wrapped in a silk scarf under her arm, took the dog’s leash in her hand, and stood up. Now that she was finally on her feet, she seemed even smaller. The dog shook itself and fell in at her side.
I held the door as they made their way outside and quickly vanished in the dazzling light. They left behind nothing but a few black hairs on the carpet next to the couch.
I rose early the next morning to drive to the tip of the cape and take pictures of the sunrise. Then I went to the fish market to gather material for my article. As I was entering the hotel parking lot, I spotted the woman again.
She was standing by the kitchen entrance, her bundle under her arm. In the other hand, she held a basket brimming with something red. The dog was still at her side.
I pulled into a space and stopped. After folding up my map and returning it to the glove compartment, I got out and made my way across the lot, pretending I hadn’t seen her. I didn’t really know the woman—barely enough to nod politely should I encounter her again. She was the one who had mixed up the rooms, so there was no need for me to go out of my way to be polite. Or so I told myself.
But I soon realized I couldn’t take my eyes off her, that I was in fact spying on her between the parked cars. Somehow she seemed out of place here, not like the usual guest at a resort hotel; something about her set my reporter’s instincts on edge. Or perhaps the sad look in the dog’s eyes simply made me want to find out if there was something I could do to help.
“No, please,” the woman was saying to the man at the door, who appeared to be a cook. “Take them.” She was trying to hand him the basket. “We grow them organically on our farm, but we have so many we don’t know what to do with them. We’d be delighted if you could use them.”
I realized at last that they were tomatoes. The cook raised his hands awkwardly and looked embarrassed, as though unsure whether to take them or not. The woman continued to hold the basket out to him. Finally, the cook accepted some tomatoes, though he seemed to take them just to be rid of her.
“Please, as many as you want. It’s nothing, really. Don’t think a thing of it.” She smiled with apparent satisfaction. Then, dog in tow, she turned and made her way through the cars in the parking lot and disappeared toward the sea—without ever so much as glancing at me.
The dining room was crowded, filled with children’s voices and clattering dishes. The hotel seemed to be
