A talisman of what?

It is this thought that circles around and around inside her head, chirping like a bird, bashing itself up against her walls.

A strange name for a hotel. Strange.

The dinner falls apart. Jason leaves money on the table and walks out. Emily sits at the table, left behind, picking at food that has gone cold. Despite the turmoil of the music and tension, of Jason’s silent departure, she is still trying to eat.

“What happened?”

Emily shakes her head. “Nothing worth repeating.”

George smiles at her. She can’t stand it, the slow smugness, the crawling smile sticky at the corners of his mouth. Her shoulders hunch. He reaches out to touch her hair, brushes it away from her cheek, and when he starts to speak she turns her head away. Emily’s body shifts. She puts her fork down. He tries again and there is hidden violence in the way she pulls away from him, a warning shot.

He pulls his hand back. He looks at her. “What’s wrong with you?”

Emily tosses her napkin onto the plate. She looks at him long and hard, her mouth trembling. Her jaw is tight. She pushes herself away from the table, slides off the chair. He reaches out lightning-quick and grabs her wrist, jerks the momentum out of her feet.

“What is this?” He sneers. “Do you need to have your tantrum?” He lowers his voice. He gives her his coldest look. “Is that what this is about? Is that tonight’s script?”

Emily grits her teeth. She wants to twist out of his grip but weakness pulls her down. Unfocused fear turns her knees to water. She feels it rising, struggles against it, the urge to swoon. She breathes hard. She clenches her jaw. “Let go of me.”

“You play it so well.” He chuckles and tosses her arm into her chest. “Go then. Run.”

Emily takes a step closer. Her voice gathers in her throat, focuses there. She lowers it to a growl. “Fuck you.”

His eyes gleam. “Should I slap you? Would it make things real enough for you?”

She turns her back to him. Her hair feels good when it whips against her cheeks. Emily pushes her way through crowded tables, milling customers and the sweaty dancers. Each step makes her feel light, so light she fears getting lost, drifting away. The music drills into her head and pounds against the walls of her heart. George yells after her. The music is sweet and merciful, relentlessness, hammering his voice, pulling it down. It tramples his voice to death beneath an endless stampede of rhythm. She comes close to the door and it’s like a net closing. Out in the street, the air opens up. She takes a breath, pulls the essence of the city into her lungs. It’s night. It’s not quiet and it is, the activity on the street is muted. People walk by, talking in low voices to one another.

Emily wraps her arms around herself. She shrinks back from the sudden cold, the transition from sweat to night. Her teeth chatter. She walks uphill, away from the water. The burn in her muscles makes her warm. She moves upstream; all other foot traffic passes her, flowing downward, down toward the water, the seafront. Her footsteps, both soft and hollow. The long loop road with its nightspots and restaurants glitters toward the sea.

She stops, grabs the long sleeve of a passing man to get his attention. He halts, looking on her with surprise, this interruption in his night walk, the regard of a tourist. In halting Portuguese, she asks him how to get to the Talisman. He points out the way. He takes an old receipt out of his pocket and draws a map.

“Long way,” he says to her in English. “Long way to walk.”

“I don’t have any money.”

He gives her enough to take a taxi. “Too far.” He pushes euros into her hand. “Too far to walk. It would be hurting your feet to walk so far.”

He won’t be dissuaded. Emily says thank you. He nods, mumbles something she can’t understand. His smile is warm and fleeting.

Inside the taxi, the air is still. It smells of cigarette smoke, wine, ancient leather. She sits in the back and watches the buildings flow by, the tall white narrow faces, windows like eyes. She sees the topmost tufts of palm trees. The paved street with its diamond checkers unrolls beneath the tires.

The driver is a dark-skinned woman who keeps glancing at Emily in the rearview. Emily smiles each time, her smile wilting as they come close to the hotel building and the car slows. The woman pulls up. She looks at Emily in the rearview for a long moment, rosary beads swinging. Weak light strikes off the crystalline beads and scatters points of light.

“You don’t look so good.”

“Obrigado.” Emily hands her the money. “Thank you.”

The woman’s eyes are luminous in the dark, caught in wrinkles, turned mysterious with time. “What you’re running from,” she says. “I hope it doesn’t catch you.”

Emily moves away from those eyes. She climbs out of the car and slams the door, sudden fury sweeping through her, choking her. She forces a short sharp breath through her nose and runs away, below the windows shaped like French doors with their little wrought-iron balconies. She runs along the white flank of the building. A boy in the street stops to watch. Her sandals scuff the ground.

The leather straps erode her skin. The pain slips up beneath her consciousness as she walks through the front doors. The long patience of it breaks at last.
She asks the clerk where to find room 23. He tells her it is on the second floor. He says it once in English and peers at her, says it once in Portuguese.

Emily holds back the throbbing pain. She nods, says thank you. The night comes back to her and pulls itself tight around her shoulders. I am here, she thinks. This is the Talisman.

In the corridor, on the second floor, her face crumples. She stops, untying the sandals, and loosens them from her feet. She lifts each foot and inspects the damage. Nothing is broken. She leans against the wall. She cradles her right foot in her hands, massaging the angry skin with her fingertips.

She picks up her shoes and walks to the door. She stands outside it, listening, holding her breath to wait for any sound that might find its way around the jamb’s seal. She holds up her fist and hesitates. Emily bites her lip. She knocks.

The door opens. Jason is there, hiding the surprise in his eyes. He stands sideways, wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt. He glances at her sandals and steps back to look at her feet. “You didn’t walk here, did you?”

“No. An old fisherman gave me cab fare.”

“Did he tell you he was a fisherman?”

“No.” Emily shakes her head. “I knew it from the lines in his face.”

Jason moves aside. “Come in.”

Emily walks into the room. The sandals fall from her fingers, land on the carpet with a soft thump. “Listen, you need to know something.”

“I don’t.” He holds up a hand. He looks away. “It’s all right.”

“No, no, you don’t understand.” She strides forward. “You need to listen to me. Listen. It’s important.” She leans into his face. “You need to leave. Did you tell George where you were staying?”

His eyebrows furrow. “George?”

“Yeah, yeah, George. His name his George.” Emily breathes hard. “He said it was Jason to fuck you up. To fuck me up. Did you tell him?”

“Yeah, yeah. I mentioned it.” Jason shrugs. “He asked, said he was looking around for a nice place.”

“Oh…” Emily makes a meandering circle with her feet, shaking her head. “That’s bad for you.”

“What is going on here?”

“You need to leave. You need to get the hell out of here.” The words come fast, all in a rush, piling on top of each other. She looks at him. Her mouth presses into a trembling line. “He’s going to kill you.”

Jason’s eyebrows go up. “What?”

“Kill you! Kill you!” Frantic, Emily searches his eyes. “He’s going to kill you!”

“Look.” His hands touch her shoulders. They glance her skin, sail off again. “You need to start at the beginning.” He rubs his palms together to warm them. “Come on.” He moves toward the bed, slow, keeping his eyes on her face. He touches her arm. “Come here.” His voice softens. “Sit down. We’ll talk. It’ll be fine.”

“Jesus Christ, I am warning you here. I am trying to warn you. We don’t have time to talk, sitting down or otherwise. We need to go! You need to go!”

“Emily. Emily.” He touches her face. “Please look at me.”

“I can’t. I won’t.” Her voice hollows itself out. “I’ll cry.” She stares off into space. “I’m incoherent when I cry, it’s a mess. I can’t.”

“Shhh. Come on. It’s okay.” With the tip of a finger, he traces on her face the places where her tears would fall. Emily looks down. She draws in a shivering breath. His touch is soft, so soft, that it breaks her. “It’s okay. Please. I want to see you,” he murmurs, bringing his brow close to hers. “I want to see your eyes. Tell me. Tell me. It’s okay. Come on. Look up,” he whispers. “Yes. Like that. Shhh,” he sighs at the trembling of her chin. “That’s good.” He pulls back. “That’s good.”

Emily stands still, arms dangling at her sides. She doesn’t know how her face ended up in his hands. She looks up, bewildered.

“Now please,” he says. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She sniffles. Her eyebrows crease.

Jason gathers her into his arms. He is tender, careful with her posture; he doesn’t want to break it. Emily folds into him.

“I like you.” She is lost, forlorn. The agony in her voice sends chills down his spine. “I don’t know why.”

He strokes her hair. “I like you too.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

She sounds like a child. With the fragility of her position, the way she is in his arms, her voice arouses him and disturbs him at the same time.

“Come here.” He murmurs the words into her forehead. “Lie down.” He rubs her back. “We’ll get you comfortable. Do you want something hot to drink?”

Emily shakes her head.

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

“Come on.”