The hours slipped by easily on their slice of beach. Chiboon lured impressively large seagulls closer and closer with crumbs from their lunch, then, once he grew bored of that, sprawled out with Yukying and provided her with a running commentary of fashion faux paus as they people-watched. Laurence kept to his book.
“Technically, you could do this at home,” Tinseng pointed out during one of his breaks eating cold food and applying more sunscreen.
“Then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of your company,” Laurence replied dryly, not even looking up from the page. They heard a snort from the other corner of the cabana, but by the time they were looking at him, Shan Dao had schooled his features back to neutral.
“Betrayal!” Tinseng cried. “This tent is full of traitors! I’m leaving!” He looked around for someone to plead with him to stay.
“Bye,” Chiboon said, still bitter about the croquettes.
“Tell Cheuk-Kwan to come reapply his Glacier Cream soon,” Yukying told him sweetly, battling a grin at Tinseng’s growing pout.
“I see how it is,” he said, sticking out his tongue at them, then immediately dropping the performance for a genuine grin. He swooped in to kiss Yukying on the cheek. “See you in an hour or two!” With a wave, he was gone again.
A few minutes later, Shan Dao rose and announced he was going for a walk. No one paid him much mind, and Yukying kept her eyes on her magazine until Shan Dao was a few steps away. She watched him walk down the beach toward the east where an old fort was open to tourists. She flipped through the rest of her magazine for show, the words swimming in front of her eyes. When she reached the end, she conspicuously put it down and sighed.
“What is it?” Laurence asked, immediately attentive to that particular sound of dissatisfaction.
“That was my last magazine.”
“I’ll ask the boy if the hotel has any.”
“Oh, no, that’s too much. I’ll walk into town. I need to stretch my legs anyway.”
“How far away is that?”
“Not very far, just across the tracks, but I might walk for a while. It’ll be nice to see more of the area.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Laurence asked. She looked at him: book in hand, drink by his side, his usual pinched expression completely smoothed over by a look of relaxation she hadn’t seen since their honeymoon. Even if she didn’t have ulterior motives, she’d be loath to interrupt such comfort.
“No, you stay here, keep everyone out of trouble.”
“Good luck with that,” Chiboon muttered, picking up Yukying’s magazine. “Jiejie, can I—?”
“Of course. I’ll be back in an hour or so,” she said, kissing Laurence briefly. “Would you like anything from the pharmacy?”
Neither needed anything, so she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked away from the cabana toward town. After looking over her shoulder to make sure no one in her group could see her, she changed direction and headed east.
She’d noticed the fort when they’d arrived, of course. It sat on a hill, sternly disapproving of the revelry on the beach beneath it. The fort was miniscule compared to the ones they’d toured in England, but that didn’t stop tourists from cramming themselves through the narrow stone hallways. At least she didn’t have to worry about losing Shan Dao. As she followed him through the main entrance, she read Forte da Cruz, and wondered if Cruz was a who or a where.
She followed behind a large family as Shan Dao took a sharp turn to walk up a narrow spiral staircase. There wasn’t much room in this cramped fort built for safety, not comfort. She’d toured some walls and forts as part of school trips and remembered those places now as she climbed. Strange, the things that were universal: the coolness of stone safe from sunlight, the reverential quiet of a place seeped in history, the echoing presence of soldiers hurrying up and down. She stepped where hundreds of men had stepped before and wondered if they ever hurried for something happy—a nice meal, perhaps, or a mail call expecting a letter from home. She hoped so; she hoped it wasn’t all terror hastening their steps.
The ghosts of the past dissolved as she stepped through them into the blinding afternoon sunlight. She’d only been in the staircase a few moments, but her eyes had already adjusted; she blinked hurriedly and scanned the crowd quickly for Shan Dao.
He stood by the wall looking out at the ocean. Trying to find a spot where no one could see her, she ducked into a shallow room with an open doorway. According to the plaque, the room had been used as storage. She moved to the narrow open window to the side of the doorway where there was another plaque and pretended to read it as she watched Shan Dao through the window.
She felt a bump against her and turned on instinct to bow an apology before remembering she was in Europe. It was a little girl, looking at her with wide eyes. When she registered Yukying’s attention, she turned to her mother and said something in a language Yukying couldn’t begin to recognize. It sounded soft like the French Tinseng spoke, but with unexpected flourishes, a roll of the tongue that reminded her of the downward sweep of a brush. In the midst of unknown words, she suddenly heard a burst of English:
“Ji rengiasi kaip Audrey Hepburn.”
“Audrey Hepburn?” Yukying repeated. The girl nodded and pointed at Yukying’s dress. It was a white dress, softly bloused above the waist with a pale-purple silk ribbon. Cross-stitched bands of turquoise bordered the bateau neckline and hemline. She’d knitted it herself from Vogue Knitting’s summer pattern, and now all that effort had paid off from the girl’s adoring gaze.
“Ahh.” Yukying smiled and nodded, then swooshed the skirt with her hands so it fanned out. The girl’s eyes lit up, and she clapped.
“Vėl! Vėl!” the girl demanded, but before Yukying understood what she was asking for, her mother clucked her tongue to chastise her.
“Sorry,” the woman said in hesitant English.
“No, no,” Yukying said, waving the apology away. Out of the corner of her eye, she checked on Shan Dao; he still hadn’t moved. She turned back to the girl. “Audrey Hepburn? Good, yes?”
“Yes,” the girl nodded furiously. “‘Funny Face. That’s for me,’” the little girl sang. Yukying joined in, and they sang together, “‘Bonjour Paris!’”
They grinned at each other—two strangers who’d found a single thread of connection strong enough to transcend language. A cloud drifted and the shifting sunlight caught the little girl’s gap-toothed smile. As Yukying smiled in kind, she saw movement over the girl’s head. Shan Dao had started moving toward the exit.
“Goodbye!” She said, the only word mother and daughter were likely to understand, though she would have liked to say so much more. The little girl waved as Yukying hurried away.
Shan Dao moved more quickly now. It must be because Mr. Grodescu hasn’t shown up, Yukying thought. An external set of stairs down one of the fort’s walls led to the street; she descended only after Shan Dao was far down the sidewalk, trying to keep lots of people between them. Shan Dao crossed the street turning north and walked past Casino Estoril into the city. Where was he going? Maybe he’s just sightseeing, she thought; it would be nice to be wrong about all this, a misunderstanding she’d blush to remember later. She would take embarrassment if it meant Tinseng was safe. The pedestrian traffic turned more local, making her presence more obvious than ever, but she wasn’t about to start ducking behind newspaper stands. She had just as much right to be here as anyone.
Finally, Shan Dao stopped at a café and sat at one of the outside tables. He spoke with a server then pulled out a newspaper. Yukying felt another flicker of doubt; this was all normal behavior. She scouted the opposite side of the street and found an angled alley where she could keep herself mostly concealed. Unseen, she watched the back of Shan Dao’s head and tried not to feel immensely foolish.
Just as she’d convinced herself to give up and go, Shan Dao looked up from his paper. Yukying saw him then: the man who must be Mr. Grodescu. She had seen him at dinner, but she’d never had reason to look closely before now. He was, to Yukying’s eye, the perfect specimen of a French gentleman. Willowy height, gold-framed glasses perched on a patrician nose, a healthy tan that spoke leisure. Some men tried to deny their age by dressing too fashionably or putting too much product in their hair, but Mr. Grodescu wore his middle age comfortably; he gave the air of a quietly assured man—or perhaps arrogant, she corrected as he sat down with a bored countenance.
She watched a pantomime play out. Shan Dao set down his paper. Grodescu gestured. Shan Dao leaned forward to talk, and Grodescu stared at him, lips unmoving, nodding occasionally. The server came again, and both men leaned back in their chairs, calling a draw. Grodescu looked up at the young woman and smiled as he ordered. Yukying didn’t like the smile. She didn’t like any of this.
As she watched, her surroundings slipped away from her. The noise of pedestrians passing by, the rumbling of engines, all faded to the background as she stared, intent on absorbing every detail. She was so focused that she didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.
