"Victor," Lorrie cries out. "Over here."
I bring a hand to my forehead to block out the nonexistent light that's blinding me. "Yes? Hello?"
"Victor," they both cry out in unison, just yards away. "Over here!"
I start limping as if in pain. "Jovially," I hold out a hand, but then I gasp, grimacing and reaching down to massage my ankle.
"Victor, we wondered where you were for dinner," Lorrie says. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, you were sorely missed," Stephen adds. "Is something wrong with your leg?"
"Well, I fell asleep," I start. "I was also, um, expecting a... phone call, but I... fell asleep."
Pause. "Did you get your call?" Lorrie asks semi-worriedly.
"Oh yes," I say. "So now everything's fine."
"But what happened to your leg?"
"Well, when I was reaching over for the phone... it, well, I accidentally fell off the chair I'd been sitting, er, sleeping in and then, well, while reaching for the phone... it actually fell and struck my"-a really long pause-"knee."
Another really long pause. No one says anything.
"So then I tried to stand up-all this while speaking into the phone -and then I actually tripped over the chair... by the TV..." I stop to let them interrupt.
Finally Stephen says, "That must have been quite a scene."
Picturing how ridiculous this scenario seems, I delicately reexplain: "Actually I handled it all quite suavely."
Lorrie and Stephen both nod, assuring me they're certain that I did. The following is just basic exposition-these lines fall easily and rapidly into place-because I can see, in the distance, Marina, her back to me, standing at the railing, gazing out over the black ocean.
"Tomorrow night, Victor?" Lorrie suggests, shivering.
"Please, Victor," Stephen demands. "I insist you have dinner with us tomorrow night."
"Jeez, you guys are persistent. Okay, okay, tomorrow night," I say, staring at Marina. "Oh wait-I'm having dinner with someone else tomorrow night. How about next week?"
"But we'll be off the boat next week."
"We will? Thank god."
"Please, bring your guest," Lorrie says.
"It's okay if I bring someone?" I ask.
"Oh good-a quartet," Stephen says, rubbing his paws together.
"Actually she's an American."
"Pardon?" Stephen leans in, smiling.
"She's an American."
"Why... yes, of course she is," Stephen says, confused. Lorrie tries not to stare incredulously at me and falls.
"And please," Stephen adds, "when you're in London you must stop by as well."
"But I'm definitely going to Paris," I murmur, staring off at the girl by the railing. "I'm definitely not going to England."
The Wallaces take this in stride, seem finally to accept this info, and exit by saying "Tomorrow night, then," like it's some kind of big deal they conjured up. But they seem sated and don't linger and I'm not even bothering to limp away from them. Instead I glide slowly over the deck to where Marina's standing, wearing white slacks and a white cashmere sweater, and because of how these clothes fit on her she's semi-virginal, semi-naughty, and my steps become more timid and I almost slink back, stunned by how beautiful she looks right now and she's eating an ice cream cone and it's pink and white and the decks are generally well-lit but Marina's standing in a darkened spot, a place where it seems vaguely windier. Tapping her shoulder, I offer an inquiring look.
"Where did you get that?" I ask, pointing at the ice cream cone.
"Oh, hi," she says, glancing casually at me. "A nice elderly man-I believe his name was Mr. Yoshomoto-made it for me, though I don't think I asked him to."
"Ah." I nod and then gesture. "What are you looking at out there?"
"Oh, I know," she says. "It's all black."
"And it's cold," I say, mock-shivering.
"It's not so bad," she says. "I've been colder."
"I tried to find you earlier but I forgot your last name."
"Really?" she asks. "Why did you want to find me?"
"There was a jig-dancing contest I wanted us to enter," I say. "Hornpipes, the works."
"It's Gibson," she says, smiling.
"Let's reintroduce ourselves," I suggest, backing away. "Hi-I'm Victor Ward."