365 Days

by Blanka Lipinska

“Laura! You want cocoa or tea with milk?”

  “Martin, please! It’s the middle of the night!” I rolled over on the bed and covered my head with a pillow.

  Bright August light illuminated the bedroom. Martin never liked darkness, so even our bedroom windows lacked any kind of blinds. He used to say that darkness caused depression. Well, for him to fall into depression was easier than getting a coffee at Starbucks. The windows were all on the eastern wall, so each morning the sun made it pretty much impossible for me to sleep late.

  “I made both cocoa and tea.” With a smug expression, Martin remained standing in the doorway, holding a cup in each hand. “It’s scorching hot outside. I bet you want the cold one,” he said, and passed me the cocoa. Then he began pulling the sheets from the bed.

  By that time I was getting pissed at him, but I crawled out of my cave. I knew he wouldn’t relent. Martin flashed his teeth in a wide grin. That was so much like him—every morning he had too much energy. He was a heavily built, bull-like man with a bald head perched on top of a wide neck. People called him a muscle head. Aside from the purely physical aspect, he had nothing in common with that kind of man. He was the best human being I’d ever met. He had his own company, and each time he scored a big hit, he’d transfer a large sum to a children’s hospice. He liked to say: “I need to share God’s blessing with others.”

  Martin had blue eyes. They were gentle and full of kindness. His nose was large and crooked—it had been broken in the past. Nobody’s perfect, and Martin hadn’t always been this wise and well mannered. What I loved about him the most were his full lips and his spectacular smile that always disarmed me each time I was mad at him.

  His enormous arms were covered with tattoos. His entire body was, in fact, aside from his legs. He was a strong man, weighing a good deal more than two hundred pounds. I always felt safe with him, though I have to admit that at five feet five and 110 pounds, I might have looked a bit mismatched with him. My mom had always told me that sports are good, so I trained in whatever took my fancy at any given time, from Nordic walking to karate. I never stuck to any discipline for long, though. What it ultimately boiled down to was that my body was extremely fit, my tummy was hard as rock and perfectly flat, my legs were slim and muscled, and my buttocks toned and curvy. I must have done more than a million squats to achieve that effect.

  “All right, I’m getting up,” I mumbled, then drank the delicious now-cold cocoa in one great gulp.

  I put the cup down and went into the bathroom. As I stopped by the mirror I realized just how much I needed this vacation. My dark eyes were sad and resigned, and the lack of anything to do had made me apathetic. My chestnut hair flowed around my lean face and fell to my shoulders. That it reached this length was a success—usually I wore my hair a lot shorter. In normal circumstances, I would have thought myself pretty hot, but I didn’t right then. I was overwhelmed with the burden of my own failings and my aversion to work. I had no idea what to do with myself. My professional life had always determined my self-esteem. Without a calling card and a work phone in my purse, I didn’t feel too confident.

  I brushed my teeth, put some pins in my hair, applied some mascara, and… that was about it. I didn’t have it in me to do much else. Besides, it would be enough. A while ago I had splurged on permanent brow, eye, and lip makeup out of sheer laziness. It allowed me to have more sleep and limit the morning bathroom routine to the bare minimum.

  I went to the closet to get the clothes I had prepared for today. One thing always remained the same for me, irrespective of my moods and all the things I had no power to change—I had to be dressed as perfectly as possible. Wearing the right clothing made me feel better. Obviously, it made me look better, too.

  My mother always said that a woman should always be beautiful even if she is hurting. And if my face couldn’t be as attractive as it was on a good day, I had to take everyone’s attention off it. So for the trip I selected light denim shorts, a loose white shirt, and despite the scorching heat outside, a light, gray mélange cotton cardigan. Planes were too cold for me, and even if it meant I’d boil outside first, at least I’d feel comfortable on board. Well, as far as I could, anyway—I was terrified of flying. I slipped my feet into my Isabel Marant wedge-heel gray-white sneakers and I was ready.

  I went to the living room, which was connected to the kitchen annex. The apartment had modern decor—cold and minimalist. The walls were covered with black glass, the bar was illuminated with LEDs, and instead of a table like you’d have in a normal home there was a small counter with two leather-covered stools. An enormous gray corner sofa sitting in the middle of the room was a testament to its owner’s size. The bedroom was divided from the living room by a great aquarium. It was clear that a woman hadn’t designed this apartment. It was the perfect fit for a committed single, which the lord and commander of this particular apartment had been until recently.

  Martin was sitting with his nose in his laptop as usual. It didn’t matter what he was doing at any given time—working, on a call, or watching a movie—he always kept his laptop close by. It was his best friend and an integral part of who the man was. I hated it with a passion, but it had always been like that, so I really had no right to change it. Even though I had appeared in his life more than a year ago only owing to that little device, it would be hypocrisy if I suddenly wanted it out of his life.

  I remember it had been February, and I hadn’t been in a relationship with anyone for more than six months. I was growing bored, or maybe lonely, so I decided to set up a profile on a dating site. It turned out to be fun, not to mention that it ended up boosting my already high self-esteem. During one of those sleepless nights, browsing through hundreds of men, I finally stumbled on Martin. He was looking for a loyal woman to fill his world all at once. Anyway, we clicked and thus a petite girl tamed the tattooed monster. Our relationship wasn’t your run-of-the-mill affair. We were both the strong, dominant types and were prone to explosive outbursts. We were also both intelligent and had significant knowledge of our respective professions. It pulled us both to each other, intriguing and impressing us. The only thing our relationship was lacking was the animal magnetism, the unbridled attraction and passion that had simply never been there. As Martin had once said, he’d already had his share of fucking. I, on the other hand, was a volcano of sexual energy threatening to explode at any time. I had to search for release by masturbating on a daily basis. But still, I felt good at Martin’s side. Safe and calm. It was more important than sex. Or at least that’s what I thought.

  “I’m ready, honey. I just have to zip up my travel bag, which is not going to be easy, and we can go.”

  With a laugh, Martin pushed himself up, stuffed the laptop into its bag, and headed toward my luggage.

  “I think I’ll manage, baby doll,” he said, squeezing my gigantic suitcase. “It’s the same thing all over again, eh? Excess baggage, thirty pairs of shoes and half the closet flying with us while you’re not going to wear more than, like, ten percent of all that.”

  I frowned and crossed my arms.

  “At least I’ll have choices!” I retorted, putting on my sunglasses.

  I always felt apprehensive and anxious in airports, afraid even. I had claustrophobia and hated flying. Besides, I had inherited my mother’s pessimism. It was always doom and gloom for me, so I tended to overthink things that at least theoretically might end up in some kind of trauma. So a flying can with a pair of engines strapped to the sides wasn’t something I’d likely trust without a shadow of a doubt.

  We were traveling with Martin’s friends, who were already waiting for us in the brightly lit departures hall. Karolina and Michał had been together for years and had chosen our destination. They were thinking of getting married, but at least for now, thinking about it was enough. He was your typical womanizer. With short blond hair, a deep tan, and blue eyes he was also pretty good-looking. All he was ever interested in was boobs, though. He didn’t even try denying
that. She, on the other hand, was a tall, long-legged blonde with a delicate, girlish face. Nothing special at first glance, but when you came to know her, she became remarkably interesting. Karolina all but ignored Michał’s bothersome inclinations. I wasn’t sure how she managed it. With my possessiveness, I wouldn’t be able to stay with a man whose head turned every time he glimpsed another woman. I swallowed two antianxiety pills to be sure I wouldn’t have a full-blown panic attack on the plane.

  We were supposed to have a stopover in Rome. An hour’s break and then another hour flying straight to Sicily. Last time I had been to Italy I was sixteen, and since then I didn’t have a high opinion of Italians. They were noisy, intrusive, and didn’t know a word of English. And English was like a native tongue to me. After all those years spent in various hotels, there were times I even thought in English.

  When we finally landed in Catania, the sun was already setting. The guy at the car rental office took his bloody time handling customers. We got stuck in the queue for an hour. Martin was hungry and edgy, and his foul mood was rubbing off on me, so I decided to take a look around the place. There wasn’t much to see, truth be told. I exited the air-conditioned building and felt the overwhelming heat. In the distance, I saw the smoking summit of Mount Etna. It was a bit disturbing, really, though I had known the volcano was still active. Walking with my head in the clouds, I didn’t notice the end of the pavement, and before I gathered my wits, an enormous Italian popped out of nowhere and I nearly walked into him. I stopped, dumbfounded, a couple of inches from the man’s back, but he didn’t even flinch, failing to notice I nearly slammed into him. A group of men wearing dark suits were walking out of the airport terminal. The man in front of me looked like he was escorting them. I didn’t wait for them to pass, instead turning on my heel and walking back to the car rental office, praying for the car finally to be ready. When I was close, three black SUVs drove by. The middle one seemed to slow down a bit for an instant, but I couldn’t see anything inside through the darkened windows.

  “Laura!” I heard Martin call out, the keys to our car clasped in his hand. “Where the hell are you going? We’re off!”

  * * *

  Hilton Giardini Naxos welcomed us with an enormous vase in the shape of a head, holding a bundle of tall white and pink lilies. The scent of the flowers filled the impressive entrance hall decorated with golden motifs.

  “Real ritzy, darling,” I said, turning to Martin with a smile. “A bit Louis XVI. I wonder if there’s a bathtub with lion paws upstairs.”

  Everyone burst out laughing. We all had all been thinking the same thing, it seemed. The hotel wasn’t as luxurious as a Hilton should have been. There were a lot of shortcomings I could discern with my professional eye.

  “The only things that matter are a good bed, a freezer filled with vodka, and some sunny weather,” Michał said. “I don’t care about anything else.”

  “Right, well, I forgot this is going to be just another trip of binge drinking. Now I feel bad for not being an alcoholic like the rest of you,” I replied with a grimace of mock irritation. “I’m hungry. I had my last meal back in Warsaw. Can we get a move on and eat out today? I can already taste that pizza and wine…”

  “Spoken like the absolutely-not-alcoholic afficionado of large quantities of wine and champagne,” Martin said with a smirk, wrapping his great arm around my shoulders.

  All similarly hungry, we unpacked our things quickly, and after fifteen minutes met in the corridor between our rooms.

  With what little time I had, unfortunately I didn’t have the opportunity to adequately prepare myself for going out, but on my way to the room earlier I’d been mentally combing through the contents of my baggage. I wanted something that would end up the least crumpled after the long trip. Finally, I’d picked a long black dress with a metal cross on the back, a pair of black flip-flops, a black leather fringe bag, a gold watch, and large round earrings. I’d hastily applied some eyeliner and mascara, touching up my earlier work, which was already fading after the flight, and then powdered my face lightly. I’d grabbed a tube of golden-speckled lip gloss and drew a line along my lips without looking in the mirror.

  Karolina and Michał shot me surprised glances as I left the room. They were still in the same clothes they had had on during the flight.

  “How did you manage to change clothes already? You look like you had hours to prepare!” Karolina muttered as we were walking to the elevator.

  “Well…” I shrugged. “You’ve got your talent for excessive drinking, but I have a trick or two up my sleeve, too. I prepare in my head, so then I can ready myself in a couple minutes.”

  “All right, quit it with the chitchat. Let’s go have a drink!” Martin boomed.

  All four of us crossed the hotel lobby to the exit.

  Giardini Naxos at night was a beautiful, picturesque place. The narrow, winding streets pulsated with life and music. There were all kinds of people everywhere, from young partygoers to mothers with children. Sicily only woke up after sundown, it seemed. The scorching heat of the day was too much for everyone to go out earlier. We reached the densely populated port district. There were dozens of restaurants, bars, and cafés along the seafront.

  “I’m about to die of hunger here,” Karolina said.

  “And my blood alcohol content is definitely too low,” added Michał. “Look at this place. It’ll be perfect.”

  He pointed to a restaurant by the beach called Tortuga. It was a classy place with glass tables, white chairs and sofas, and candles everywhere. Overhead, enormous sheets of white sailcloth waved and rippled in the wind, making it seem like it was floating. The restaurant was divided into cozy nooks enclosed by heavy wooden beams supporting the cloth roofing. The effect was magical—bright and breezy and simply perfect. The prices were a bit steep, but it was filled with people. Martin waved at a waiter, and with a quick incentive of a few euros, we were sitting comfortably and reading the menu in no time. My dress did nothing to make me blend in with my surroundings. I felt everyone’s eyes on me. With all that white, my black outfit made me stand out like a black beacon.

  “I’m feeling watched, but who could have known we’d end up in a big milk jug,” I whispered to Martin with a stupid, apologetic smile.

  He took a quizzical look around, leaned in to my ear, and whispered, “You’re paranoid, babe. Besides, you look astonishing. Let them look.”

  I scanned the place again. At first glance, nobody was looking my way, but I had this strange feeling of being watched nonetheless. I pushed away the nagging thought of having inherited some kind of mental disease from my mother and focused on the menu. I quickly found my favorite, grilled octopus, and chose a rose Prosecco. The waiter, despite being a Sicilian, was also an Italian, which meant we couldn’t expect anything done fast. We’d have to wait a good long while before he came back to take our order.

  “I have to go to the restroom,” I said, my eyes darting around.

  There was a small door by the beautiful wooden bar in the corner of the restaurant. I headed that way. I passed through, but it was just the dishwashing room. I turned back, only to hit the stone-hard chest of a tall man. Frowning and rubbing my forehead, I raised my eyes. The man in front of me was handsome. An Italian. Haven’t I seen him somewhere before? His icy stare transfixed me. I couldn’t move as he gazed at me with his black eyes. There was something in him that terrified me. I froze.

  “You seem to be lost,” he said in perfect, fluid English with an immaculate British accent. “I can help you if you tell me what you’re looking for.”

  He smiled, presenting a set of perfectly straight, white teeth, and placed a hand on my back, between my shoulder blades, touching naked skin. He pushed me gently in the right direction and led me to the door. Feeling his touch made shivers run down my spine. It made walking no easier. I was light-headed, bewildered. I couldn’t speak. The only thing I could do was smile, or rather grimace. I headed back to Martin. With all the
se emotions running through me, I completely forgot why I had left our table in the first place. As I returned, my friends were already having their drinks—they had managed to down one round already and were just ordering another. I collapsed on the sofa, grabbed my glass of Prosecco, and finished it in one gulp. At the same time, the glass still at my lips, I gestured to the waiter that I needed another one.

  Martin shot me an amused glance.

  “You boozer!” He laughed. “And you tell me I have a problem with alcohol.”

  “I just needed a drink,” I replied, a bit dizzy with the wine I had drunk too quickly.

  “That restroom has to be a magical place if that’s the way it worked on you.” Hearing that, I glanced around nervously in search of the tall Italian who had made my legs shake like they had on the day I had first ridden a motorbike after getting my driver’s license.

  And he’d be pretty easy to spot in the white interior—just like me, he wore black. Loose black linen trousers, a black shirt with a wooden rosary sticking out from underneath the collar, and black loafers. I might have only glimpsed the man, but I remembered him well.

  “Laura!” Michał’s voice pulled me out of my reverie. “Stop staring at people and have a drink!”

  I didn’t even notice the second glass of Prosecco arriving at our table. I decided to take my time with it, though I felt the urge to pour it all into my mouth just like the first one. My legs were still shaky. Dinner was served and we devoured it. The octopus was perfect—accompanied only by small, sweet tomatoes. Martin got a gigantic squid, cut into pieces and scattered over his plate with garlic and coriander.

  “Holy shit!” Martin exclaimed suddenly, jumping to his feet. “Do you know what time it is? It’s past midnight, so, Laura… ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…’ ” he sang. Michał and Karolina stood, too, and joined in the merry, loud, and raucous rendition of the birthday song. The other guests were looking at us, intrigued, and then joined as well, singing in Italian. The restaurant reverberated with loud applause, and all I wanted to do was vanish. I hated that stupid tune. I don’t think anybody really like it. Nobody really knows how to behave as everyone is singing it—sing along, clap their hands, smile like an idiot? All options seemed bad, and you are just left the center of attention, looking out of place. With a fake smile plastered to my face, I rose and waved at everyone, bowing and thanking them for their wishes.