THERE’S SOMETHING TO BE SAID for public pools, especially ones like these that are way out in the open, drawing up the rays of the sun. Even the faint smell of chlorinated water is pleasant, as are the bath-warm waters that spread around you. How had we arrived here, and who were these people? There were several tour buses that picked us up at the road stop. I stood in one of them, clinging to a greasy metal pole. The others were newer vehicles; this one was a vintage double-decker, the kind Michael Caine rode in Alfie. What’s it all about, Alfie?
It was standing room only. I held on tight. And then here we were, at this retreat in the countryside. I was lying on my back in a pool. From the surface of the water, I could see a house at the top of a green hill. Just a plain country house. Was this Shrublands from Thunderball? She arrived next, dressed in her brown jacket. “There you are!” she said. She unzipped it and came into the pool in a polka-dot one-piece swimsuit. She was grinning at me the whole time, as if she had at last discovered El Dorado. I was terrified. Remember that night? Remember how you had to think of other women to get through that night? And here she was.
She was coming.
She began to swim my way; on impulse I went to the other side of the pool. I hoisted myself out. She kept swimming my way, with that half-maniacal, half-happy look on her face. “It’s you!” Swimming, swimming. Why wouldn’t she just let me swim in peace, alone? Remember that night? Headache, nausea. Somewhere, The Who were playing “I’m Free.” I’m waiting for you to follow me. No! The rough sound of Pete Townshend’s guitar. Where was it cutting in from? A poolside stereo? The silver eagle moon? And freedom tastes of reality. Run, run, run!
