Second Honeymoon

(Some people might find this story politically sensitive)

Second Honeymoon (2040)

‘Not that we really had a first,’ Matt observed, when Celia first mooted the idea.

‘Exactly. So no time like the present.’

‘I guess.’

That was as enthusiastic as he got. But he’d be glad to go, once she organised it. And she knew very well where to go for help with travel admin. HotDawg had been her go-to bot for some time when it came to arranging things, and sometimes even when it came to arranging – or re-arranging – herself. He was resourceful, and if not wise in the old-fashioned sense of the word, the way her grandparents might have used it, those long-departed folks who had referred with some confusion to what they called “AI” – still, Hot Dawg had a fund of common sense at his disposal and, more to the point, the ability to spread calm over problems and dilemmas, whether practical or psychological.

But no one could help much with the wedding. Both families were engaged in a war of words, and it would take more than a Justice of the Peace to bring about a verbal ceasefire. Their cultures were different; allowable to acknowledge the fact and even analyze it, to soothe parental anxieties. What was not allowable or acceptable were the interpretations that followed, swiftly, as to the meaning of the differences. And the meaning was always the same. You can do better than him. Or, meant to be more emollient: There’s nothing wrong with him except who he is.

That made her laugh , especially when Matt’s dad said the same thing, word for word. But it went downhill from there, and they both stop laughing. Look at how they eat, it’s barbaric. Are you going to cook like that? How can you think of being with a man who…and then the list. Matt’s list was a mirror-image of hers. They suffered huge disillusionment with people who had taught them tolerance, outlawed prejudice – and who were turning into bigots, shrinking down into little shrill people mouthing intolerant, prejudiced, deeply held, irrational, quasi-superstitious beliefs, before their very eyes and ears.

They made comparing notes into a comedy routine complete with funny voices, hilariously mimicking the accents of these beloved, shrunken figures, shrinking them further as they strategized towards the wedding day when the two clans would meet and mix – and clash.,

They considered everything for their solo dance, from the polka to the Irish jig, Native American dances – what would make the point? In the end they settled for the tango. Hopefully it would be dramatic enough to hold the room and break the tension. Besides. it was fun, and Celia got to change her simple white satin dress for a red number trimmed in black lace. It was very clear what the tango was saying, and secretly she hoped mutual shock might draw the two sets of parents together.

Of course it didn’t. They were all there in their ultra-best outfits, trying to outdo each other, and they were all sulking, competing in that as well. The atmosphere was worse than hostile, it was sullen. When the Spanish guitars began, she found herself, not stiff with tension, which might have helped, but limp with exhaustion. She could barely manage the steps, let alone find the primal spirit of the dance, the wild, erotic glee of head-tossing and stamping. She was glad when it was over. Matt’s parents clapped politely, like the rest. They stayed for a few dances and then the Matt party left, en masse. Soon afterwards the party more or less collapsed, and not long afterwards, they did too.

So much for that. At least the tango lessons were fun. But the honeymoon was a week-long post-mortem on the wedding, which meant it wasn’t really about them. They even found themselves drifting into debates about which side had behaved worst.

‘Your brother got drunk and made faces,’ Celia heard herself saying at one point.

‘Your sister got sick during the ceremony,’ he pointed out.

‘At least she went out.’

‘It was very distracting. And she was making those noises.’

They’d catch themselves at it, shakes their heads and laugh. Next time they’d have the same discussion using reverse psychology.

‘I think your poor sister was upset by all the passive aggression.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ she said gratefully, adding, ‘I think your brother was too.’

‘Glad we won’t have to do that again.’

She could only agree, without asking whether he meant do it again ever, or just with each other. Would he pick an “insider” next time, if there were a next time? Unaskable questions. They began to make a point of not discussing the wedding, and a certain silence fell between them.

Six months down the line, the questions had melted away. The silence was cluttered if not filled with problems of ordinary life, and they were desperate for a holiday. HotDawg was right there with suggestions, and one shone out at her : The Platinum Coast lives up to its name and beyond, with glorious shimmering platinum beaches, the cleanest sand on earth. There are no random hurricanes here, never fear. No rainy season and no climate surprises! But back to that platinum sand: you could eat off the beaches. But you may prefer to bring one of our special blankets from your hotel, spread it out and enjoy one of our hampers, specially designed for beach picnics. Inside you’ll find delicious and nutritious snacks and sandwiches, fruit, quiche, local boxed specialities chosen by you, with of course your choice of beverage from champagne to wine to beer to fruit juice, never forgetting an essential supply of water, sparkling or still. Beach towels are supplied of course, as well as masks, snorkels, flippers, water wings, and other accessories for fully exploiting the wonders of the amazing Platinum Coast. Our restaurants will offer you a choice of the day’s catch from the unpolluted seas, alongside more special local dishes prepared by local chefs who stand ready to answer any questions you might have about their ingredients. We cater for all diets - simply let us know your particular do’s and don’ts and we will follow them to the letter while serving you the most delicious meals you have ever tasted, imaginative and versatile. If anything we offer should fall short of your expectations or fail to meet with your approval and delight, we will substitute it immediately for something of your choice. We are at your service at all times, and our only purpose is to make you welcome and watch you enjoy every moment of your stay. There was more rhapsodizing, and at the end he added his own advice to: Explore a part of the world you have dreamt about but never seen, experience another culture up close and personal. That had a kind of altruistic sound to it that she liked, though Matt laughed when she said so.

‘They’re just thinking up every way they can to take your money,’ he said, which was probably true? Or partly true.

‘It’s HotDawg,’ she said defensively, feeling a bit stupid. He didn’t bother answering. But as they time grew close, they were both excited and impatient to be off. The flight was long, but she needed it to be long. Too short an exchange of worlds just wouldn’t work.

‘I need time to take my head off,’ she told Matt.

‘Excuse me?’ But he nodded. He got it. Life had become a headache, vague but nagging. She opened her Letterbox – such a quaint name, from a time when people had such things – and re-read Hot Dawg’s most persuasive lines The Platinum Beach at sunset is not to be missed and will never be forgotten, as you watch the saffron sun sink into the Mediterranean Sea, holding a glass of champagne or whatever you prefer to sip as you toast the beauty that surrounds you.

Toasting beauty sounded like what should have happened at the wedding. Her beauty, Matt’s beauty, their beauty brought together and multiplied, more than doubled. She checked them in online and on arrival they barely had time to admire the flourishing palm trees before they were whisked to their rooms by an understanding receptionist, who totally understood the urgency of their first sunset on the beach. When they came down in their beach clothes, a basket with chilled champagne and crystal glasses, still and sparkling water – they had forgotten to specify – locally sourced spiced almonds and walnut halves, locally grown pomegranates with special little knives, and real linen napkins alongside paper ones, plus some thoughtfully included sunblock – You cannot be too careful with the sun, any hour of light, HotDawg had warned - was waiting for them. A lovely felt beach blanket and two fluffy beach towels padded the sides of the basket.

The beach was a short walk, breathing in air that was warm but not oppressive, feeling a breeze that wrapped their bodies lightly and seemed to massage away their stress with the same light touch. After a swim in the warm turquoise sea – how did they manage that colour, when all the other seas were like dark ink, or grey sludge? – Matt lay on the hotel blanket in his hotel towel and announced he needed a pre-champagne nap. Celia felt restless and decided to take a walk down the beach towards the desert, first placing Matt’s hat strategically on his head to shade his face.

‘Champagne in a bit,’ she promised as she stood up, and he grunted a dozy assent.

She walked along loving the air and the breeze. It was stronger here near the water which was taking on the coral of the slowly descending sun. She vaguely remembered HotDawg saying something about A Few desert people kicking around who might be touched by the sun, which can affect people in strange ways. Best to nod and smile and walk on, not making eye contact. She saw no one until she was approaching the hem of the desert, almost ready to turn back, and a woman appeared in front of her out of nowhere, wrapped in a faded turquoise cloth. She was so startled she forgot HotDawg’s warning and spoke as she would speak to anyone.

‘That’s my favourite colour you’re wearing. It’s lovely.’

The woman stopped. She didn’t nod or smile, but she did make eye contact. She was so wrinkled her face looked layered by time, like the bark of a tree. The sun must do that, after decades.

‘How long have you lived here?’ The question just came out. It was really asking how old she was. Luckily, she probably didn’t speak English.

She shrugged, lifting the blue cloth with very thin shoulders, the bones visible beneath it. ‘Always.’ Then she sighed. ‘I do not die,’ she said in heavily accented but perfectly clear English, as though to herself. ‘Those of us who are left, it seems we cannot die.’

Now she remembered the warning and wished she had walked on. But the woman’s pale eyes -were they bleached by the sun? – held her there.

‘Many went into the sea here,’ she waved a bony arm towards the water. ‘They drowned their children to stop their suffering, and they drowned with them.’ She paused. ‘They were very silent, even the children. They were too hungry to cry. This is a very silent place, yes? Listen!’

Celia listened. The silence seemed to deepen, drawing her into it, a bottomless silence she had not experienced before. The wind stirred and she looked at the woman, at the turquoise cloth, anything to stop herself from drowning in that silence.

‘The rest died on the beach, except for us,’ the woman turned her gaze from the water and looked into Celia’s face. ‘But you know this. For you it was a movie. Many movies, many documentaries,’ she pronounced the word carefully. ‘It was 2025.’

‘I didn’t see it – I was seven.’

‘No. No one saw it, even if they watched. I was also seven.’

You’re the same age as me. ‘But how are you here?’ An unaskable question.

‘Some of us escaped,’ another slight shrug of the small shoulders. ‘Also I was mixed, you know? It was a problem for them, some of them.’ She shaded her eyes to look closely at Celia’s face. ‘But you are also mixed.’

‘No, actually, I’m – .’ she stopped. For the rest of her life she would be ashamed of starting that sentence and grateful that she hadn’t finished it.

For the first time the woman smiled, showing broken yellow teeth. Celia thought of her own whitened teeth, the years of orthodontics, the fortune it had cost and still cost, as she smiled back.

‘I’m sorry, I have no money with me, but,’ she could easily get some from the hotel? They had not, thanks to HotDawg’s injunction, taken any money with them to the beach.

‘It is too late for money,’ the woman replied. ‘I only want you to know what you do not want to know. The name you do not want to remember.’ Somehow her you seemed to include not only Matt but everyone in the vicinity, at the resort, on the planet. ‘It is Gaza,’ she said, then repeated it, almost shouting it hoarsely into the wind. ‘Gaza!’ She let the silence fall around them again, then nodded at Celia as she turned and walked away, into the desert.

She carried that hoarse cry with her all evening, unable to unhear it or describe it. Matt made a special effort, over a wonderful dinner she could barely swallow. She’d heard of Gaza, of course, people whispered the name or at least lowered their voices when they pronounced it, as they did with certain other, older names like Rwanda or Auschwitz. Celia started looking it up on her Letterbox but stopped. It was worse than she could imagine, but it made her imagine. She was not so much haunted as possessed by the woman on the beach, and the silence.

Matt was listening to HotDawg describe the wonders of the hotel tour when she snapped at him. ‘I don’t want any more of him, Matt.’

‘What? Fallen out of love with HotDawg?’He had teased her a lot about her attachment to the bot.

‘I’m just tired of being told what to do.’ Or what to think.

‘That’s my girl,’ he held out his arms for a cuddle and she went into them, thinking she would have to find the words to tell him what he didn’t want to know. She could hold off only so long, on the grounds that it would overshadow their precious holiday. But it wasn’t about that, or about Matt thinking she’d been touched by the sun – HotDawg would no doubt reinforce that view, if consulted. But it wasn’t really about Matt. She could see through that, just as she had seen through herself on the beach. If she told Matt what he didn’t want to know, just as the woman had told her, she would really, finally know. Telling would make the story real. That was how stories worked. She moved away from him, sat up, and pronounced, in a voice like the one her grandmother had taught her as a child, saying her prayers, ‘Gaza. That’s where we are. Gaza.’