No, I typed in, and when I pushed send, I started sobbing.
Finn reached into his jacket, looking for a tissue, but he didn’t have one. I scrabbled inside my own coat pocket and came up with the rectangular printout of the painting I had gone to pack up just that morning, a thousand years ago. I looked at the red circles and arrows meant to signify the marks and chips on the frame, the nick on the canvas, as if they meant anything.
As if we don’t all have scars that can’t be seen.
Dear Finn,
Well, it’s still beautiful here, and I’m still the only tourist on this island. In the mornings, I go out for runs or hikes, but in the afternoon the whole place is locked down. Which feels redundant, when you’re this isolated.
Sometimes I find myself eye to eye with a sea lion or sharing a bench with an iguana and I’m just blown away by the fact that I’m that close, and there’s no wall or fence between us, and that I don’t feel threatened. The fauna was here first, and in a way they still lord it over the humans who now share the space. I wonder what it would be like if I wasn’t the only one marveling over them. I mean, the locals are all used to it. I’m a one-woman audience.
The great-granddaughter of the woman who is renting me a room speaks English. She’s a teenager. Talking to her makes me feel less lonely. I hope I do the same for her.
Every now and then I get a hiccup of cell service and one of your emails arrives in my inbox. It feels like Christmas.
Are you getting any of these postcards?
Love, Diana
The next morning, when Beatriz rounds the corner with her trash bag—a one-girl recycling crew—I am sitting at the shoreline, making a drip castle.
From the corner of my eye, I see her, but I don’t turn. I can feel her watching me as I scoop up a handful of wet sand, and let it sift through my fingers, creating a craggy turret.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I say.
“It doesn’t even look like a castle,” she scoffs.
I lean back. “You’re right.” I hold out my hand for her plastic bag. “Do you mind?”
She hands it to me. Mixed in with the same plastic water bottles from the Chinese fishing fleets are twist ties, burlap curled with seaweed, scraps of foil. There’s a broken flip-flop, green plastic soda bottles, red Solo cups. There’s electric-blue netting from a bag of oranges, and a tongue of rubber tire. I pull all of these out and use them to fashion flags on my castle turret, a moat, a drawbridge.
“That’s trash,” Beatriz says, but she sinks down cross-legged beside me.
I shrug. “One person’s trash is another person’s art. There’s a Korean artist—Choi Jeong Hwa—who uses recycled waste for his installations. He made a massive fish puppet out of plastic bags … ?and a whole building out of discarded doors. And there’s a German guy, HA Schult, who makes life-size people entirely out of garbage.”
“I’ve never heard of either of them,” Beatriz says.
I take the thong off the flip-flop and create an archway. “How about Joan Miró?” I offer. “He spent the end of his life on Mallorca, and he’d walk the beach every morning like you, but he’d turn the trash he collected into sculptures.”
“How do you even know this?” she asks.
“It’s my job,” I tell her. “Art.”
“You mean, like, you paint?”
“Not anymore,” I admit. “I work for an auction house. I help people sell their art collections.”
Her face lights up. “You’re the person who says I have one dollar, one dollar, do I hear two …”
I grin; she does a credible job of imitating an auctioneer. “I’m more behind the scenes. The auctioneers are kind of the rock stars of the industry.” I watch Beatriz take a handful of tiny shells and line the moat with them. “There was this one British auctioneer we all had a crush on—Niles Barclay. During auctions, I was usually assigned to be on the phone with a collector who wasn’t physically present and make bids on his or her behalf. But once, I was pulled to be Niles Barclay’s assistant. I had to stand on the podium with him and mark down the sales price of the item on the information sheet when the bidding closed, and hand him the next information sheet to read out loud. Once, our hands touched when I was passing him the paper.” I laugh. “He said, Thank you, Donna, in his amazing British accent, and even though he got my name wrong I thought: Oh my God, close enough.”
“You said you had a boyfriend,” Beatriz says.
“I did. I do,” I correct. “We gave each other one free pass. Mine was Niles Barclay; his was Jessica Alba. Neither one of us has cashed in on our pass.” I look at her. “How about you?”
“How about me what?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
She flushes and shakes her head, patting the sand. “I mailed your postcard,” she tells me.
“Thanks.”