Just One Year

I nod.



“What are you doing?”



I shrug, open my hands, as if to suggest so many, many options.



“There’s this great party on the beach at Puerto Morelos. Las Olas de Molas, this wild reggae band are playing. It’s usually the best thing going in all of the Playa. A lot of us dance all night, and sometimes catch a ferry to the Isla for hangover brunch.”



“Maybe I’ll see you there.”



She grins. “I’ll cross my fingers. Here’s everything you need for your tours,” she says, handing me some paperwork, as well as a card with her personal cell phone number on it. “I’m Kayla. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”



The same sweating, sweater-vested security guards are manning the gate to Maya del Sol, but they don’t recognize us. Or they don’t care. In the backseat of a taxi, with official paperwork in triplicate in hand, I am transformed.



We are deposited in the front lobby, an enormous atrium full of bamboo, flowers, and tropical birds tied to perches. We sit down on a wicker loveseat while a burnished Mexican woman takes our IDs and makes copies of my credit card. Then we are delivered to an older Mexican man with a flip of golden hair held back by a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans.



“Welcome!” he says. “My name is Johnny Maximo, and I’m here to tell you that at Maya del Sol, fantasy becomes reality.”



“That’s just what he’s hoping for,” Broodje says.



Johnny grins. He glances at the piece of paper in hand. “So, William, Robert. Is it Robert or Bob?”



“Robert-Jan, actually,” Broodje says.



“Robert then. Have you ever owned a vacation property?”



“I can’t say that I have.”



“What about you, William?”



“I’m more of a see-the-world kind of guy.”



Johnny laughs. “Me, too. See all the ladies of the world. So I take it you two bachelors have never to been to a vacation club before.”



“Can’t say that I have, Johnny,” Broodje says.



“I am telling you: this is the life. Why rent your vacation when you can own it? Why live half a life when you can live a whole one?”



“Or two lives, even,” Broodje says.



“Here is one of our pools. We have six of them,” Johnny brags. It’s surrounded by chaise longues and flowering shrubs. Beyond, the Caribbean glitters as if its sole purpose is to be a backdrop. “The view is nice, no?” Johnny laughs, pointing to a row of sunbathing women.



“Very,” I say, scanning them, one by one.



“So, what do you do, William?”



“Real estate,” I say.



“Ahh, so you already know how lucrative it is. You know . . .” He motions me closer. “I used to be a big movie star in Mexico,” he says in an exaggerated whisper. “But now—”



“You were an actor?” I interrupt.



This catches him off guard. “Before. But I make more money as an owner here than I ever did in the film business.”



“What films were you in?” I ask.



“Oh, nothing you’d ever hear of.”



“We get lots of foreign films in Holland. Try me.”



“Really, I don’t think you’d hear of them. I was in a film with Armand Assante. Mostly I was in the telenovelas.”



“Soap operas? Like Good Times, Bad Times,” Broodje says, scoffing a little.



“Here, they are taken very seriously,” Johnny says with a sniff.



“That’s cool,” I say. “That you made your living like that.”



For a second, Johnny’s face flattens out. Even his tan seems to fade. And then he snaps to. “That was then. I make so much more money now.” He claps his hands together and turns toward me. “So, William, what would you like to see?” He gestures out toward the grounds, and I have this first inkling, tiny but real, that she might be here. It’s a small thing, but somehow it’s the happiest I’ve felt in months.



“Every single centimeter of the resort,” I say.



“Well, we are more than one square kilometer so that might take a while, but I am glad to see you are so motivated.”



“Oh, you have no idea how motivated I am.” Which is a funny thing to say because I wasn’t that motivated yesterday. But now it’s like I’ve switched into character.



“Why don’t we start with one of our world-class restaurants. We have eight. Mexican, Italian, burger bar, sushi . . .”



“Yes,” Broodje says.



“Why don’t you show us the one that is the most popular for guests having lunch at this time,” I suggest. “I’d like to see the makeup of the crowds.”



“Oh, that would be Olé, Olé, our open-air cantina. It has a lunch buffet.”



Broodje grins. Lunch buffet. Magic words.



Lulu is not at the lunch buffet, or any of the seven other restaurants we visit during our five-hour tour. She’s not at any of the six pools or the two beaches or the twelve tennis courts or the two nightclubs or the three lobbies or the Zen day spa or the endless gardens. She’s not at the petting zoo, either.



As the day lags on, I realize there are just too many variables. Maybe this is the wrong place. Or maybe this is the right place, but it’s the wrong time. Or maybe it’s the right place and the right time but she was watching TV in her room when I was at the pool. Maybe right now she is sitting by one of the pools while I’m looking at one of the model rooms.



Or maybe I walked right past her and I didn’t even know it.



The good feeling from earlier begins to collapse in on itself. She could be anywhere. She could be nowhere. And worst of all, she could be right here and I didn’t even recognize her.



A couple of girls in bikinis sashay past me, laughing. Broodje nudges me but I barely look at them. I’m beginning to think that I’ve talked myself into a lie of my own telling. Because the truth is I don’t know her. All I know is that she’s a girl who bears a passing resemblance to Louise Brooks. But what is that? The contours of a person, but really no more real that a fantasy projected onto a screen.



Seventeen



“Cheer up, hombre, it’s almost a new year.”



Esteban hands me a bottle. He, José, Broodje, Cassandra, and I are crammed into a taxi, crawling through holiday traffic as we head north to that party in Puerto Morelos, the one Kayla told me about. José and Esteban know about it, too, so apparently it really is the place to be.



“Yeah, come on. It’s New Year’s,” Cassandra says.



“And you won’t go home empty-handed if you don’t want to,” Broodje says. “Unlike some of us,” he adds, full of exaggerated self-pity.



“Poor Broodje,” Cassandra says. “Am I saying it right?”



“Bro-djuh,” Broodje corrects, adding, “it means sandwich.”



Cassandra smiles. “Don’t worry, Sandwich Boy. We’ll make sure somebody takes a bite out of you tonight.”



“I think she wants a bite of my sandwich,” Broodje says in Dutch, grinning at the prospect. I attempt a smile back. But really, I’m done. I’ve been done since Maya del Sol, though I have dutifully checked out a few other resorts, thanks to José and Esteban, who told me how to get into Palacio Maya and got me wristbands for Maya Vieja. But it’s felt like going through the motions. I don’t even know who I’m looking for, so how am I going to find her?



The taxi skids onto a strip of undeveloped beach. We pay the driver and emerge onto a scene. Music throbs from huge speakers, and hundreds of people are scattered up and down the beach. Everyone seems to be barefoot, judging by the enormous piles of shoes right at the entrance to the party.



“Maybe you can find by her shoe,” Cassandra says. “Like Cinderella. What would a glass slipper for the modern girl look like? How about this?” She holds up a pair of shiny orange flip-flops. She tries them on. “Too big,” she says, flinging them back onto the piles.



“Would beautiful lady like to dance?” José asks Cassandra.



“Sure,” she says, grinning. They walk away, José already with a hand on her hip.



Broodje’s face falls. “I guess his taco was more appetizing than my sandwich.”



“As you keep reminding me, there are lots of girls. I’m sure one of them will want a bite of your sandwich.”



And there are so many girls. Hundreds of them, in all shapes and colors, perfumed and primed for partying. On any other New Year’s, it would be a promising start.



The line for the bar snakes all the way around the palm trees and hammocks. We’re inching our way forward when a girl wearing a sarong, a smile, and not much else stumbles into me.



“Steady there,” I say, righting her by the elbow. She holds up a half-empty bottle of tequila, curtseys, and takes a long slug.



“You might want to pace yourself,” I say.



“Why don’t you pace me?”



“Okay.” I take the bottle from her and swig. I hand it to Broodje who does the same. He gives the bottle back to her.



She holds it up, swishes it around so the larva inside somersaults. “You can have the worm, if you want to,” she says in a slurry voice. “Worm, worm, can the hottie eat you?” She holds the bottle up to her ear. “The worm says yes.” She leans in closer, and in a hot whisper adds, “So do I.”



“It’s not really a worm,” Broodje says. “It’s an agave larva.” Jose is a bartender and he explained this all to us.



Her eyes roll unfocussed in her head. “What’s the diff? Worm, larva. You know what they say? The early bird gets the worm.” She hands Broodje the bottle, then puts both arms on my shoulder and kisses me, fast, wet, and boozy, on the mouth. She reels back, grabbing her tequila bottle. “Gets the kiss, too,” she says, laughing. “Happy New Year.”



Broodje and I watch her stumble through the sand. Then he turns to me. “I forgot what it’s like, being out with you. What you’re like.”



Six months ago, I’d have kissed the girl back, and the night would be set. Broodje may know what I’m like, but I don’t.



When we get our drinks, Broodje makes his way toward the dance area. I tell him I’ll meet up with him later. Up the beach, away from the stage and dance area, I spot a small bonfire with a group of people sitting around it, strumming on guitars. I start off in that direction, but then I see someone walking toward me. Kayla of the car rental agency, waving tentatively, as if she’s not sure it’s really me.



I pretend to not be me, and pivot toward the shoreline. As crowded and chaotic as the party is, the water is surprisingly quiet. There are a few people splashing about. Farther out, it’s empty, just moonlight reflecting on the water. Even at night, the water is bluer than I imagined it; it’s the only part of this trip that is coming close to meeting expectations.



I strip down to my boxers and dive in, swimming far out, until I reach a floating raft. I grip the splintering wood. The sounds of the guitars strumming “Stairway to Heaven” and the heavy bass of a reggae band reverberate through the water. It’s a good party, on a beautiful beach, on a soft, warm night. All the things that used to be enough.



I swim out a little farther and duck back under. Tiny silvery fish zip by. I reach out to touch them, but they whip out of reach so fast it’s like they’re leaving contrails behind. When I can’t hold my breath any longer, I come up for air to hear the reggae singer announce: “Half hour until the New Year. Until it all starts again. Año nuevo. It’s a tabula rasa.”



I take a breath and go back under. I scoop up a handful of sand and let it go, watching the grains disperse in the water. I come back up.



“Come the stroke of midnight, before you kiss your amor, save un beso para tí.”