The Art of Disappearing by Ivy Pochoda (popular romance novels .txt) 📕

called. Held two or three times a year, depending on conditions, the contests summoned competitors to battle the currents of the toughest water—Hawaii, South Africa, the Philippines. In his letters, Max had mentioned huge swells, waves that loomed like houses, tunnels that could hold a city block. He described the blackout pressure of the water crashing over his body and the vacuum suck of the waves pulling him backwards.

When I remember Bermuda, I prefer to think of its oddly tangible nighttime sky. When the sun falls away, the horizons pull in tight and seal the island beneath the dome of the approaching stars. Then the earth’s curve swells, pushing the land higher, so that it seems you could reach up and pull down one of the passing clouds or comb your fingers through the gray velvet of the darkened sky. Nighttime in Bermuda is like being trapped inside a lightless snow dome, the lapping of the water from all sides confirming your confinement. But at the first leak of light, the seal breaks, the sky recoils, and everything bursts into blue—a long call and response between turquoise water and azure sky.

I took a taxi to the hotel and flopped on the bed, listening to the rhythmic whip of the fan blades as I willed my body to cool. Eventually, I crept into the hallway and tiptoed to Max’s room. I crouched down, my ear to the keyhole, held my breath, and listened. At first, all I could hear was the rolling of the waves in the bay outside the window Max had flung open. Short-long, short-long the waves arrived at the dock, licking the cruise ship and jostling the small boats anchored opposite the hotel.

The door was open. Max knew I would come. Against the languid backdrop of the waves, his breath was deep and melodious. A hot wind was blowing the curtains, and there, almost floating on top of the sheets, was Max. He slept on his stomach, his face turned toward the door, his arms and legs spread like the outline of a crime scene. The wind lifted his hair. He had lost the solidity of his swim-team days. His limbs had strengthened and dried like driftwood. And like driftwood, all the unnecessary bumps and muscles were sanded away.

When I returned to my room, I could not sleep. The dry cool of the air conditioner parched my throat, and the machine’s rattling cycle chased my sleep. Having used up all the cool spots on the pillows, I gave up and propped myself up in bed to wait for morning and for Max. I stared at the door, willing it to open, but my eyes let me down, and I slept.

A sliver of light was trickling underneath the curtains, streaking the floor with a single stripe of sun. I flattened the pillows underneath my head and tried to recapture sleep. As I did, gathered into a dream like a fish in a fisherman’s net, my cheek met with a damp patch on the pillow. The last strains of an unfamiliar water song were echoing in my ears. Max had come and gone.

The boat for spectators who wanted to watch the Tidal Roar left from the pier opposite the hotel. I went aboard and rode four miles out to sea, where the race began. My fellow passengers were a ragtag bunch of extreme sportsmen, reddened by the sun and roughened by the sand, and they whooped and hollered each time a wave broke over the prow of the boat. I heard Max’s name spoken several times as the likely winner.

It took us almost an hour to navigate our way to the start boat. The water was no longer the vibrant blue and green I had seen from the airplane. Dark patches began to bubble up from the bottom of the sea and spread out like a lazy inkstain. While I examined these puddles, I sensed something cool and still hovering above the choppy water, something as placid and motionless as a fish eye. It was Max. As I watched the reflection of the start boat bobbing upside down on the white-capped waves, I saw my brother arrive on the deck—a pale blue figure among a crowd of sun-dyed surfers. A jellyfish among the dolphins. I watched him, distorted by the waves, bend and curve into impossible contortions. And I realized that I was not watching a reflection but seeing the actual ebb and flow of the underwater Max. It was his aboveground self that was the reflection—the unreal distortion.

“Max!” I yelled, looking from the water to the boat itself. “Max!”

My brother lifted his head and stared in my direction.

“Max!” I cried, fighting the sound of the motors and the waves.

Then almost without moving, he dived into the water and disappeared—a wave resettling into the sea. For an instant, his head broke the surface and I imagined that he called my name. Then he vanished.

The swimmers entered the water after Max, and the race began. As we waited for them to return, the waves began to grow, slapping harder against the side of the boat and pulling the prow deeper into the darkening sea.

“Swimmer! Swimmer!” someone cried, nearly dropping his binoculars.

“Swimmer.”

Everyone jumped up.

“Ten bucks that’s Max,” someone behind me called.

But as the exhausted swimmer pulled into view, cresting and crashing the waves, I could tell it wasn’t Max. Max would arrive with ease, slipping through the water without trying to subdue it. The panting swimmer was dragged on board. The winner rolled onto his back, lay still for a moment, and then pumped his fists in the air. “Some water,” he bellowed, coughing and sputtering. “You’ve got no idea where it’s taking you. Fifteen-footers. Beautiful black on the inside.” He wrapped himself in a towel. “You know,” he said quietly as he leaned against the railing of the boat, “I’ve never seen it so beautiful out there. Like a sapphire city.”

Two more splashes broke through the surface. Neither was Max. Nor