We made our way inside and checked to see if there was a flight to Rome. That was where John was from, at least according to his file. Indeed, there was and it was leaving within the hour. We ran toward the gate, but were stopped by security. No ticket, no entry. Two men in combat fatigues stood near the metal detectors, both carrying large machine guns.
“Quick,” Denis said, “we’ll buy tickets.”
Rushing to the counter, we stood in a long line that moved agonizingly slowly. By the time we got to the front, the departure time for the flight to Rome had come and gone.
“What do you think?” Denis asked. “Should we buy tickets just to get to the gate area? Maybe he’s going somewhere else?”
“Why not?” I said. “Let’s do it.”
Unfortunately, without our passports, they wouldn’t sell us tickets.
Looking out the window as we made our way back in the taxi, my eyes welled. Is this it? Is this the end of the story? How could I have trusted John? Am I that bad a judge of character? It felt like Alessandro’s betrayal all over again. I burst into tears.
Denis took my hand. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “John stole the trunk. He’s the bad guy.”
“Yes, but if I hadn’t taken the dresses in the first place,” I started. “I’m responsible.”
“When we get back to the ship, we’ll call Interpol,” Denis said.
“Sure,” I said, wiping my wet cheeks.
“At least we got the picture of John with the stolen trunk,” Denis added.
“True,” I said, “but there’s no proof the costumes are in it. For all anyone knows, I could have sold the dresses on the black market. I didn’t, but the police could think I did. I don’t want to go to jail,” I said, blubbering all over again.
“Look,” Denis said gently. “I’ll come with you to talk to the authorities. You won’t be alone.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled. Checking my watch, I realized we had four hours before we had to board.
“Do you mind if we don’t go right back to the ship?” I asked. I was in no hurry to return, knowing that Interpol would be waiting to interrogate me, Tanya would be waiting to skewer me, and Sammie would be waiting to taunt me. “How ’bout we go to the beach for lunch or a swim?” I suggested. “Carleen said it was beautiful.”
The cabdriver took us to Koloumbos, a volcanic black-sand beach with a smattering of restaurants and shops across the road. He explained that buses left from the general store every hour and that the one to Fira would take us back to the tram. I was listening carefully to his instructions as Denis handed him one hundred euros and asked him to wait. It must be nice to be rich, I thought. You never have to take public transportation.
We bought Greek salad wraps and beer at an outdoor snack bar, and then wandered into a small surf shop, where we picked up towels and a few bottles of water. By the time we found our way to the sand (which was so hot you could hardly walk on it), I had cheered up a bit. Being at this beautiful beach, I could forget my troubles, at least for a few hours.
Then it dawned on me that everyone on the beach was nude—it was a veritable sea of exposed breasts, mushy tushies, jiggly stomachs, and bare derrières. There were mothers, fathers, and children of every shape, size, and shade of scrotum—I mean, brown. It was disconcerting, mainly because they were all naked. On the other hand, I secretly wouldn’t have minded seeing Denis au natural.
“What do you think?” I said, wondering if he would suggest we go native.
He blushed and then flashed his dimples. “I can swim in my boxers.”
Rats, I thought, making my way to the ladies’ room, which was nothing but a primitively constructed hut up by the road. I undressed, and then pulled the elastic waistband of my satin granny panties up over my boobs and (voilà!) instant strapless bathing suit. It wasn’t very shape-flattering. Why was I such a wispy little thing? I wondered. I wished my breasts were bigger. How could I ever hope to attract a good man with peanut-size boobs (my boobs, not his)? In the bedroom with Alessandro, my body never bothered me. That’s because we always did it in the dark and I could squeeze my arms against my body to make my breasts appear bigger when I was on top. But out in the hot sunlight, I couldn’t think of a logical reason to squeeze.
“Come on,” I said, motioning toward the water. “Let’s cool off.” Denis was putting our towels down in the sand, so I ran ahead, wondering what my butt looked like to him, wishing I had been more diligent at the gym. I tried running in a sensual gait to make a good impression from the back, but ended up jumping up and down all the way to the shore saying, “Ooh, ooh,” because the sand was like a sizzling pancake griddle.
By the time I made it into the cool water and dodged a few light waves, Denis (in blue plaid boxers) was goose-stepping across the blistering sand in my direction.
The water was chilly and refreshing. We swam away from the shore until our feet didn’t touch the bottom and splashed each other like children. The elastic waist of my underwear kept slipping down under my breasts because they weren’t large enough to create a natural rack. “Over there,” Denis said, pointing to an area behind an improbably empty formation of corrugated lava jutting out of
