“Be careful with those tourists!”
“I will.” I strapped on my helmet and sat on my Vespa, driving it out of the neighborhood and waving at some neighbors as I went.
I thought about my mother, who I should have gone to see this morning. What if she died before I got a chance to say goodbye? The thought made my chest squeeze. That wouldn’t happen. She’d survive. She’d survive and we’d forgive and repair our damaged relationship. That was what would happen. I rode off toward Dolos Island with that thought in mind.
Wela wasn’t kidding about the tourists. There were rented Vespas everywhere and most of the people on them didn’t seem to know how to maneuver them. I held my breath as the light turned green and hoped to God no one crashed into me. The streets were filled with so many people that I was forced to stay at a whopping ten miles per hour out of fear that I might hit someone. The celebrations clearly started early, with people spilling out of bars, laughing, and telling their renditions of all of the horror stories Pan Island had survived. The bits and pieces I’d overheard at stop signs and red lights were enough to convince me not to partake in this “celebration.” Carnival was something I found to be fun when I was a kid, since I got to paint my face and dress up. It was a local celebration. The minute the politicians opened up the ports and allowed for tourism, it became something else. That was also when my parents forbade me from going because they thought it was too dangerous. We didn’t know the outsiders or what their intentions were. I didn’t get to experience it as a teenager or adult, which was the only reason a small part of me was curious about it.
As I neared the iron gates, I slowed even more so. The number of tourists on this side of the island was almost unimaginable. It had always been an attraction, even when I was a child, but back then there were maybe a handful of people with cameras trying to get evidence of the supposed vanishing house. No one could get past the iron gates though, and even if they did, they’d only walk a few steps before they hit water. The house was said to be six miles beyond the gates. One mile was covered in dark sand, the rest was the ocean, and then, finally, the Manor. I’d never seen the water nor taken a boat over. It was strange, really, I had a photograph of the house that I didn’t remember taking, but that day there was no water, there was no fog. It was as if the darkness lifted in the precise moment I snapped the shot and then fell upon me all over again. I parked my Vespa and looked around as I took my helmet off and put it away. Everyone was talking about the Caliban Manor and the water that surrounded it. Some were trying to figure out how they’d make it over there, if they dared. Others were talking about global warming and what that could mean for the house. I almost felt bad for the Calibans for not having privacy.
Almost.
The high tide usually served as a barrier between the Devil’s Chair and the house. Even if someone wanted to walk across it, they couldn’t. They’d have to boat, like some were saying, and those who boated often were never seen again. I thought of Esteban being in that dark water and shivered. A few nights a year, like tonight and tomorrow, the tide would be so low that it was almost nonexistent. On nights like these, you’d never know there was an ocean between us and them at all. The closer I walked to the black iron gates, the clearer it became that today wouldn’t be a good day for photos either. The fog was clear, but still there, and even though I knew that might add to the beauty of the shots, I wasn’t sure how in the world they’d let me in and keep everyone else at bay.
I took some pictures of the gate, of the street view, figuring I’d have to photoshop everyone out of the picture, and then looked to my left and swallowed at the sight of the Devil’s Chair. There was a line of people waiting to be pictured with it. A line of idiots. As I examined the pictures on the small screen of my camera, I heard the unmistakable sound of wet sand being walked on. I turned and saw a man walking over to me. A man dressed in dark pants and a dark lightweight jacket. At first glance, my heart did a little dip. He had a chiseled jaw and a head full of hair parted to the side, like an old Hollywood film star, and then he looked at me, setting the weight of his attention on me, and I thought I might stop breathing altogether. He was beautiful, gorgeous, unreal. He stopped on the other side of the gate and brought a key to undo the lock.