Beyond Carthage by Louise Kennedy
It had begun at dawn as they got off the plane, sparse plashes on the runway. By the time the coach deposited them at the Marhaba Aparthotel it was a slanted, dancing deluge. For three days they had been lying on their narrow beds, eating crisps and reading the guidebooks they should have read before the holiday was booked. From time to time they went to the balcony to examine the sky for a break in the clouds. Therese did not feel entitled to complain. Noreen had wanted to go to the Canary Islands, which according to Sky News were enjoying lows of 21 degrees Celsius. The same forecast assured them that the band of low pressure hanging over the northern tip of Africa would move off late on Tuesday. Their last night.
Therese had wanted to go somewhere exotic. To wander through a bazaar crammed with pyramids of heady spices, to drink amber‑hued mint tea from a gold‑painted glass. She had wanted to eat rich meats with her fingers while belly dancers and snake charmers whirled around her. She had wanted to go to Morocco or Egypt, but in her haste to get away had got mixed up. They were in Tunisia, not in a Berber village or by a Phoenician ruin, but in a purpose‑built concrete resort arranged around a new marina, as neat and airless as an architect’s model. Government‑controlled souvenir shops and blocky, modern cafés lined a promenade edged with palm trees still so tender they coiled in on themselves in the gales. To be fair, the Mediterranean was just a few yards away. They had seen it once, when a wave broke across the seawall and sent turbid water frothing over their shoes.
The waiter brought their cappuccinos. Noreen took out her phone and began scrolling through her messages. Therese left hers in her bag, so she wouldn’t be tempted to check again whether Donal had replied. She recognized the couple beside them from the flight. They were sitting in silence, their chairs turned to face the sea, shuffling coins around on their table. They flagged down the waiter and paid him. As he counted the money, the woman said, Every time you turn there’s one with a hand out. Young local men sat in clusters, smoking cigarettes and drinking shots of coffee. Some were with Dutch or German women who spoke English with heavy accents and traced smiley faces in the condensation on their beer glasses. There was clearly a want in them. What were they like, flirting with nineteen‑year‑olds they were old enough to have reared? And what could a boy like that see in a menopausal woman with bad highlights and a parched cleavage?
Noreen put her phone down and took a sip of her coffee.
Jesus, she said.
What’s wrong?
Mammy’s giving out about the Meals on Wheels. Says she won’t see a proper dinner till I’m back. The bowels will be trína chéile for the next fortnight. How are your lot?
Grand, said Therese. A stream of messages had come from Donal the previous evening. Enjoy, you deserve it. We miss you so much. He’d sent a video of a labradoodle playing the Moonlight Sonata on a baby grand, which was most unlike him. He’d even used emojis. Maybe he really was sorry. Therese sent him a curt inquiry about the school run, to which he still hadn’t replied. She kept her emojis to herself.
We need to find something to do later, said Noreen.
Will we have a look through the brochures?
I’ve looked already. All those places are outside, she said. It’s bucketing. And I’m choosing today. If there’s nothing else shaking I’m going on the piss.
The previous day, Therese had suggested they go to the market in the next town. They took a taxi to the medina and wandered through a network of gloomy alleyways.
They passed crates of small round turnips and radishes the size of tennis balls, bunches of mint and dill and savory. Butchers were selling merguez and chunks of sinewy goat from kiosks that didn’t have refrigeration. They saw no ceramics or leather goods or carpets, just tables laden with enamel saucepans and plastic utensils. When they emerged half an hour later, empty‑handed, their taxi driver was still there.
He’d better not charge us for waiting, said Noreen.
The man let out a sigh and started the meter. The resort is very new, very nice. Why do you go to old dirty places?
We want to go where the locals go, said Therese.
Local people do not have a choice.
Well? Noreen was saying. Do I get to choose or what?
Yeah, said Therese. You can choose.
They paid the bill and zipped themselves back into their damp fleeces. On the way out of the café, Noreen picked up a flyer and pushed it into her bag. They bent into the rain and ran back to the hotel.
In the room, they draped their wet things over a radiator. Noreen sat on her bed and took out the flyer. She read it front and back and handed it to Therese.
This might be nice, she said. On one side there was a photograph of a young woman draped from neck to knee in the whitest towel, slim legs slanted stiffly to one side, skin glistening. Her kohled eyes were looking up at the camera.
She was in a steamy room decorated with tiles in shades of turquoise and azure and gold. The price list for the Milk and Honey Hammam was on the other side. It’s not cheap, but there’s nothing to spend money on here, said Noreen. All I’ve bought is duty‑free.
It’s not the money. We should go on a trip. Maybe over toward Tunis.
I, said Noreen, wouldn’t be into that.
Can you not go to the spa by yourself?
I don’t want to go by myself! And you said I could choose.
It was Therese who had booked the wrong resort in the wrong country in the wrong season, after all. Oh, for God’s sake, she said. I’ll go if you come on a trip with me in the morning.
You’re on. She went down to the desk to book the total luxe package.
Therese took out her phone. Nothing. She didn’t want to talk to Donal, yet was annoyed by his silence. What was he at? Sending her cute videos and blushing emojis, then ignoring her.
Noreen came back and clapped her hands. They would be collected from the lobby at a quarter to three. She got two glasses from the bathroom and shook a bottle of rum at Therese, who prepared to explain again that drinking was a bad combination with the meds, that alcohol was a strong indicator for her strain of cancer. But she was tired of explaining, of denying herself. Feck it, she said. It’s not much fun being good all the time.
Noreen let out a whoop that was too big for the room. She poured two drinks, putting so little Coke in her own it looked like ginger ale. She shook salted almonds into a bowl and they brought their glasses out to the covered balcony. The storm billowed across the street below. Taxis, their lights blurred, deposited and collected holidaymakers, pulling off slowly and turning left in the direction of the promenade. Therese looked at Noreen. Grim, she said.
It’s not too bad.
You’re just being nice.
It’s great to get away.
Up to a point.
Noreen took their glasses inside to refill them. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Better than looking at Donal for the week.
If we’re going to Tunis we might as well go the whole way. Beyond Carthage, said Therese.
I don’t even know where I am now. I thought we were going to Lanzarote.
It was an ancient city. The ruins are well preserved, and they’re a few miles after Tunis. Beyond them there’s a lovely village.
Therese got the guidebook and showed her a double‑page photograph. Whitewashed houses were built into a hillside so steep they seemed to overhang each other. Doors and windows and ironwork had been painted in shades of blue, and carpets of bougainvillea crept over walls and terraces. Blond tourists sat on sun‑bleached patios and looked out over the shimmering Bay of Tunis. Sidi Bou Said, she said.
It’s hard to believe it’s the same country, said Noreen.
A sudden gust caught some rain and threw it across the balcony. They went indoors.
Reception called to say their car had arrived. They weren’t ready. Therese didn’t have time to brush her teeth and her mouth was waxy from eating nuts. On the way down, Noreen answered everything Therese said with a loose laugh. When the lift doors opened, the few people who were sitting around the foyer were looking in their direction, Noreen’s guffaws clearly audible from a couple of floors away. A tall, slim man in jeans and a suit jacket was waiting by the desk. He said his name was Giuseppe. He brought them outside to his car, a model of Fiat Therese had never seen before. Noreen sat in the front beside him.
Loving the motor, she said.
Giuseppe put a plastic card in a slot and the dashboard lit up.
Buongiorno, said a deep electronic male voice.
Buongiorno yourself, said Noreen and slapped her thigh. Her movements had become expansive and inaccurate, and she knocked her elbow against the back of Giuseppe’s hand. The gold Rolex watch on his wrist was loose and made a tinny jangle.
Are you French, Giuseppe?
Italiano.
Very nice, said Noreen. Therese bit the inside of her cheeks to keep a laugh in. Noreen looked at her in the rearview mirror and stuck her tongue out.
Giuseppe braked hard when he needed to slow and took corners in third gear. When they got out, Therese put her hands on the roof of the car to steady herself. The flyer had shown a traditional bathhouse; they were outside the annex to an office block, a flat‑roofed concrete building with a row of high windows. Inside, they were greeted by a young woman wearing a white tunic and trousers, like a nurse’s uniform. She was heavily made up, her hair covered by a scarf. She led them into a changing room, gave them baskets for their belongings. She handed each of them a towel and a piece of turquoise tissue paper. Noreen unfolded hers. It was a pair of disposable knickers. She held them up in front of Therese’s face and tugged the elastic on the waistband in and out.
Ah here, said Therese.
They undressed with care, folding each garment as it was removed, placing it in the basket. The paper rustled beneath their towels as they wriggled into the surgical pants. Just as they were ready, Giuseppe came into the room. Therese looked around the walls and ceiling; he had come in so promptly she wondered had he been watching them on a monitor. She and Noreen stood side by side, their feet in white cotton slippers. Giuseppe stepped forward and tugged their towels away. It reminded Therese of a trick she had seen on TV when she was a child, involving a tablecloth and stacks of clattery china. Giuseppe looked at Therese’s body for a second longer than was polite. His removal of the towel was so flamboyant he would lose face by giving it back to her. Noreen crossed her arms over her breasts. They squashed out above and below, blue veined and creamy like Stilton.
Giuseppe looked at Therese’s body for a second longer than was polite.
He brought them into a steam‑filled room with wooden benches around the walls. Rain dashed the windows. Condensation ran down beige tiles. It was like the changing rooms in the public pool at home.
Relax, said Giuseppe, an instruction that filled Therese with anxiety. He left the room.
At first they sat facing each other, Noreen giving the floor a stellar smile. At least you’re thin, she said, without looking up. Then she stood. I’ll come over beside you, she said.
Therese’s moisturizer was trickling down her face and into her mouth. She could taste chemicals and salt. Noreen’s face was deeply flushed, her eyes pink streaked. It’s a bit mad, she said.
Just a bit.
Probably normal for here, though.
Therese didn’t think it was normal at all. Most of the local women covered their hair, wore long sleeves with loose trousers or ankle‑length skirts. She doubted many of them came to the Milk and Honey to be stripped nearly naked by Giuseppe. Noreen leaned back and closed her eyes, lids flickering like a child feigning sleep. Therese looked down at herself. Her right aureole was beginning to dimple, the nipple hardening. Sweat was coursing steadily now, over her throat, down along her sternum, collecting under her breasts. After months spent trying to keep them dry, they felt slimy and dank.
Giuseppe came back with fresh towels. Therese wound hers around herself. Noreen pushed her chin forward and puffed out a jet of rummy breath. She draped her towel over her arm and winked at Therese as they followed him into the next room. He took their towels again and ushered them under the showerheads that ran along one wall. The tepid water was bracing after the hot steam. A man came in, shorter and older than Giuseppe. He was barefoot and holding a tin bucket. He went at whatever was in it with a brush, eyes lowered. Giuseppe said something to him in Arabic. The man knelt beside Noreen. He flicked a clot of mud at her thigh and spread it outward, up and down, back and forth, until her haunch was covered.
Therese had an urge to flee but could only watch and wait. The man finished with Noreen and began to work on her. The mud was cold at first, then tight, the skin on her thighs and hips constricting as it dried. Her arms then, the brush skimming along the length of them and back. He twirled two fingers and she turned to face the wall. Long strokes now, the cloy of wet earth at the nape of her neck, in the elastic of the ludicrous turquoise knickers. Therese didn’t feel drunk anymore, just full of dread. She wanted to take the brush, smear herself in mud, cover her scars. Another twirl of his fingers and she could bear it no more.
No, she said. Thank you.
At first, when the tubes and drains had been removed, after the ragged blackened whorls had been shaved away, Therese had thought it looked pretty good. Clothed, her breasts looked better than ever; the left one had always been slightly bigger than the right and now they were the same size. She had refused a silicone implant. Even tooth whitening seemed unnatural to her, and she couldn’t bear the idea of a pouch of chemicals under her skin. The flesh to make a new breast had been taken from her abdomen, leaving a flat stomach and a pink groove that smiled from hip to hip. The reconstruction was a patchwork of flesh in different shades and textures, some run through with silvery stretch marks, some tanned, all tacked on to the milky shreds of what the surgeons left behind.
Noreen’s mud had dried to the dun‑gray of a wallowing mammal. It cracked when she bent an arm to scratch herself. The man ran the shower and hunched under the water with her, scrubbing at her with a loofah, limb by limb, torso back then front, brown droplets flaying his white clothes. When he was done, Noreen stood freshly pink and smiling.
It was Therese’s turn. Her scars grew bleary in the steam and splashing mud. Since the surgery she had thought about her skin differently, as though it was a fine veneer that mustn’t be scraped or tarnished. Now it felt raw, new. The man’s work was done. He bowed and backed away.
In the next room, an attempt had been made to temper the spartan buffness with candles and a diffuser that was panting sandalwood. Oud music was playing low in the background. Noreen claimed a massage table.
That sounds like sean-nós, she said. It’s shite.
Therese lay down. In private, she could face her body, her scars. Exposed like this she had to take on the reactions of other people, had to absorb their discomfort, their revulsion. She had only managed to attend counseling twice, as the weekly trip to Dublin wasn’t feasible. There was a support group in town, but she couldn’t bear the thought of sharing her feelings with friends of friends, women she knew to see. The breast nurse in the hospital had given her a booklet that she read until she had learned it by heart, ticking off the phases as they passed. Her cancer became old news. She hadn’t needed further treatment. She was still here.
Noreen shifted onto her side.
Are you all right, hun?
Fabulous.
Giuseppe came back in his shirtsleeves. He took off his cuff links; they were showy like his watch. Therese wondered at a boy his age in such a get‑ up, the impression he was crafting. He raised his arm and poured oil from a height as if he was partaking in a sacrament. Therese looked at the ceiling. She tried not to think about the slaps his hands made as he pummeled at the mounds and troughs of Noreen Foley’s body. She tried not to look but turned her head in time to see him clamp his palms over Noreen’s breasts and move them in a circular motion, more erotic than therapeutic.
It was a glorified brothel, with a clientele of desperate women. Giuseppe dressed as he did to appeal to golf widows from northern Europe, to women who found themselves single at an age when being alone made them feel ridiculous. He probably wasn’t even Italian. She and Noreen fitted right in.
Therese lay on her front with her face in the hole, her real breast flattened out and tingling at the graze of the towel, the new one a sturdy knot of flesh that felt nothing. He began at her tailbone and kneaded his way up to her shoulders. He hesitated then rolled her onto her back. The corner of her mouth was twitching.
Donal couldn’t stand to touch it. Once she had taken his finger and pressed it to the skin between the seams. He had forced a smile but pulled away when she placed it where the nipple used to be. Afterward he treated her to the full gamut of his foreplay repertoire, including a foray down below, which she didn’t even like. She doubted Donal much liked it either; he had stayed at the clean end when she was giving birth to the children.
A hard kaa sound then a slow inhalation came from the next table. Noreen had fallen asleep. Giuseppe held the almond‑scented oil above Therese’s scars, red lines like Biro marks, above the scraps of skin that held her heart in, some ribbed with silver, some tanned, all cut from her. She nodded.
Back in the hotel, Therese decided against a full shower, wanting to leave the oil on her body. She washed her hair over the bathroom basin. When she came out, Noreen was waiting with a drink. Therese took a sip. Her stomach heaved. Since the surgery, she had only been drunk once, on the night of the pink champagne. Noreen held her glass up.
Here’s to getting away. And to Geppetto and his wandering hands.
Giuseppe. And I can’t believe you just put me through that.
You loved it.
Feck off.
Thanks for coming with me. I go on holiday by myself no bother, but it’s nice not having to.
In the past Therese had pitied Noreen, the diet she started every Monday, the framed inspirational quotes she hung on her walls. Now she saw she had no right. Being alone wasn’t the worst thing. It’s great Donal doesn’t mind you going off by yourself, said Noreen.
Makes no odds to him. It’s during term time.
Dishy Donal.
He hadn’t put “dishy” in his profile. Cultured. Sensitive. Discreet. The three words her husband used to describe himself. To make other women want to fuck him.
They changed clothes and put on makeup. They took a taxi around the corner to a restaurant. It was quiet with warm lighting. Therese took the wine list from the waiter. She chose the most expensive white; she was in the habit now of wasting money, flaunting the silliness at Donal. He could hardly object.
She had discovered his purchase by accident. She rarely looked at their bank account. They didn’t have a big mortgage, and their salaries, after a slashing at the start of the downturn, had stabilized. There was even a little to spare, so neatly had they been living. Donal persuaded Therese to buy a new car. She wondered now if guilt had made him want to spoil her. Or perhaps it was a diversionary tactic, that she might not notice his five‑hundred‑euro transaction if other new payments were going out. But he had entered one extra digit on the car payment plan and the first installment had bounced. Therese saw the other payment and contacted Visa to report an error. The boy at the end of the phone asked her to hold while he checked. When he came back on he was tactful. Later, when she clicked on the site and found Donal’s profile, she replayed the conversation in her head and heard amusement in the boy’s voice. How stupid she must have sounded. There must be some mistake. No one from this house would be on a site like that.
Plates of food were carried past them to a table of local men, plump globe artichokes with a little pot of something on the side that smelled lemony, astringent. It wasn’t on the menu. The waiter recommended some traditional dishes. They both ordered a briq, a pouch of papery pastry filled with crab and egg. Noreen babbled ceaselessly, managing to finish her starter before Therese began hers, and drink most of the wine. Their couscous royale arrived. It was served in green and yellow pottery bowls, with a darkly spicy red paste on the side and a jug of broth. Noreen shook the empty bottle at the waiter. They were the only people in the room who were drinking alcohol. He brought two fresh glasses with the wine and asked who would like to taste.
Lob it in there, boss. We’ll soon tell you if there’s something wrong with it, said Noreen.
He was trying to be professional, but Noreen was pushing the clean glasses back at him. He poured wine from the new bottle into their greasy glasses and left it in the cooler. Noreen took a long drink. Jesus! she said so loudly the waiter rushed across the room.
Madame?
Mademoiselle. It’s rank.
I am so sorry. This is why I like to make the proper service.
Serv‑eece? she said. It has nothing to do with the serveece that you’re selling gone‑off wine.
I will bring another bottle.
Don’t bother, said Noreen. I’m sickened now.
The other diners had stopped talking. There was no need to speak to him like that, Therese hissed across the table at her. It was like dealing with a child. Not that Therese’s daughters would ever be so rude. Not in front of her, at any rate. Maybe they behaved badly when she wasn’t looking, like their father.
They paid the bill and hailed a taxi on the street. Noreen said they were going clubbing. End of. Therese could not even imagine what that might mean in Tunisia on a wet Tuesday in March. In the hotel foyer, they followed signs for Pepe’s Nite Club along a corridor. The place was huge and empty. The barman clapped his hands together.
What would the beautiful ladies like to drink tonight?
Therese asked for a Coke.
You’d be better off with something clean. Like vodka, said Noreen.
He gave them the cocktail list. It was full of misspelled sexual innuendo. Therese began to panic that Noreen would order her a drink with a pornographic name and leave her to claim it from the barman, so she went to a table and sat down. Noreen danced across the floor to her.
Therese began to panic that Noreen would order her a drink with a pornographic name and leave her to claim it from the barman.
This is a gas, isn’t it? she said.
The DJ left his box. He walked toward them, one hip swinging wide as he moved, as though one leg was shorter than the other.
Do you mind if I join you? he said.
Therese minded very much.
Feel free, said Noreen. She took off her cardigan, revealing a floral maxi dress. A necklace with her name on it was partly buried in her clothes, a gold NO flashing in the disco lights. Everything else about her said yes.
The barman brought a tray of drinks. Sex on the Beach for two, he said. His name was Kamal.
Noreen prattled away gamely. The weather was a nightmare, but you’d see worse at home. The local food was delicious, but the wine! The hammam was so relaxing. The men looked at each other.
We’re going on a trip tomorrow, said Noreen.
Oh? said Kamal.
To Carthage. And Sidi Bou Said.
The DJ said his name was Joe. The barman called him Youssef. He was twenty‑two. The lighting made him look older, defining his nose, shading his temple and jawline. He told Therese he had green eyes. She didn’t know where to look.
The cocktail was so sweet her teeth were tingling. Joe offered her a cigarette. She put one in her mouth and Noreen screaked. You shouldn’t be smoking.
No one should be smoking.
You really shouldn’t, said Noreen. Therese had cancer last year. She did great with the surgery. She had one of them off. No chemo, though. Very lucky.
Stop, said Therese. Joe sparked a lighter under the cigarette. The smoke tasted revolting.
Me and Therese used to work together, said Noreen. I had to take leave of absence to look after my mother. Daddy died last year. We had an annus horribilis. She pronounced it anus.
You fucking eejit, Therese said softly. Noreen began to laugh.
Joe went back to the DJ box. He put on a slow song. Noreen roared “unbreak my heart” when the chorus started. Kamal went back to the bar and sloshed the contents of the ice bucket into the sink.
I’d say that pair are looking for the bonk, said Noreen as the song faded out.
They couldn’t wait to get away from us.
Fuck them. C’mere, are you glad we did that today?
Not really. I wasn’t expecting to have to show the world my mutilation.
It was only me. And the wee man with the bucket. And I’m sure Geppetto has seen worse.
Thanks.
Seen it all, I mean.
Noreen lifted her glass to her lips. Some of the drink didn’t make it and dripped from her chin. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, leaving her cheek and knuckles glistering with lip gloss. I was so looking forward to this holiday, she said.
Me too, said Therese. It wasn’t true. She had come to annoy Donal. She had begun withholding from him, denying him, in the hope it would make him feel as wretched as she did. Pathetic, really. There wasn’t much point in withholding yourself from someone who didn’t want you. The afternoon had been bizarre. A scrawny youth dressed like an eighties Roger Moore had touched her new breast, groped it and rubbed it because she had paid him to. He had scarcely drizzled oil over her when she became tearful. The skin was numb and monstrous beneath his fingers. I’m afraid of hurting you, Donal had said to her. She hadn’t been able to tell him that there was no sensation. It was dead, like a hide. In the months that followed they grew shy with each other. She thought it would pass. Then the car payment bounced.
When he came home from work that night, she was waiting at the kitchen table. She had drunk the best part of a bottle of pink champagne, a get‑well present. Later she regretted her choice of drink. Whiskey or brandy would have given the proceedings some gravitas. The confrontation was exhilarating. She had found herself online too, she told him. Oh yes. She had gone online to find out why. Cosmopolitan told her it was meaningless, that loads of middle‑aged men watched porn and preferred sex with strangers. As she was reading, ads for sex toys and vibrators had flashed at her. And you know what? She might buy some, because it wasn’t up to much, in fairness, that side of it, when she had to squash him in because he was a bit wishy‑washy in that department. It was intoxicating, getting to say anything and everything she had ever wanted to say. And there was so much, wasn’t there, that you could say to someone who had given up their right to fight back? Someone who stood in front of you full of a shame you could hardly bear to behold, because you were full of shame yourself.
She had tried to calm down. In fairness, she said, she didn’t blame him. It must be so dreary being married to her at the best of times. And now, with her Frankenstein boob and sensible clothes. To be honest, she wouldn’t mind being ridden sideways by someone new, a young fella with a langer you could hang a coat on. But in fairness, in fucking fairness, she would be actually embarrassed to put herself out there. As for the words he used to describe himself. Ha! Cultured. Sensitive! Discreet? Such a laugh, she said. Only she didn’t feel like laughing because she didn’t think anything would ever be the same again, and even though he had only set up the account, and there was no activity on it, and she could see he had tried to close it, it was too late. He had wanted to go elsewhere and now he could fuck away off elsewhere and into the spare room, where he still slept.
Noreen finished her drink and crossed the empty dance floor in the direction of the toilets. Therese followed her. She was in a cubicle, the door jammed open by her backside. Therese held her hair out of her face until she had finished retching.
I’m fucking twisted.
Therese leaned over her and pressed the flusher. Come on. We haven’t far to go.
When they came out Joe was gone. Kamal jiggled a bunch of keys until they were through the door. Noreen reeled between the walls on the way to the room. At the sight of her bed, she hurtled onto it in her clothes. Therese covered her with a bedspread and left a glass of water on the locker beside her.
There was a rap at the door. Joe was in the corridor, wearing a leather jacket.
I didn’t say good night, he said. His eyes were green, all right.
After he left Therese went out on the balcony. It had stopped raining. The flooding on the asphalt had begun to drop and the wind was down. She sat for a long time and watched the deserted street, night fading to dawn. There was a text from Donal. The kids had got hold of his phone and sent those daft messages. Her poor girls. They had taken to coming into her bed in the mornings, asking why their father was in the other room. If there was anything more shameful than getting a knee ‑trembler off a young fella in a hotel corridor, it was the idea of her daughters trying to make things right.
She was showered and ready by eight. She read the train timetable once more, memorizing where to change for the other line that would bring them along the coast.
She shook Noreen’s shoulder. Shift yourself, she said. Our train’s at eight forty.
Noreen heaved onto her side. I’m in rag order. And I’ve enough of looking at ruins living with the mother.
Therese threw a sachet of Alka‑Seltzer at her. What’ll you do for the day?
I might go back to the hammam. See what the story is with that Geppetto fella.
Therese walked to the station. It was dull, but there was warmth in the sky that seemed to promise sunshine. She sat by a window, relieved to be in transit, rattling away from the resort. She changed at Tunis, taking a path through a dilapidated part of town and boarding a train at another station. Noreen would have hated it. After a few stops, apartment blocks and auto‑repair stores thinned to show glimpses of scrub‑covered dirt, flashes of sea. The carriage was full, a party of French students taking up the rest of the seats. When the train arrived at Carthage she let them get off ahead of her. She waited until they had joined the queues and walked to where she had a clear view of the pale green sea. The seam of cloud had begun to break up. Weak sunlight slanted across the stone. The ruins were laid out in front of her, pooled with rainwater that glittered like crystals of salt.
The post Vacation Is No Escape From Her Sorry Husband appeared first on Electric Literature.
