TOURIST ATTRACTIONS Read online

  "I'll come down later," I said.

  "Okay."

  He went away. After a brief snooze, I decided I could face Tony's letter.

  "Dear Google-Imp," it began. (I regret to say that we had a slew of unflattering pet names for each other.) "Hallloooo Scotland! Sounded in your last letter like the hostel is kind of gross, but I thought I'd say hello to them anyway, in case they opened your mail.

  "You wouldn't believe how much it's raining today. The wind brought down about 50 tons of leaves, which we had to clear out from the church gutters. I performed the heroic deed of climbing up onto those really steep parts of the roof and scooping them out. Deacon Aldritch made me hook myself to the bell-tower beams with a rope and bungee cords in case I fell. He was saying Our-Fathers the whole time, watching me from the courtyard. It was really reassuring.

  "But you'll never believe what I found! Up in the rain gutter under the cross--the side facing Southern Ave.--I found what was clogging the drain: the Mylar balloon with the Cool Angel on it, from my birthday last year!"

  (This was a silly-looking balloon featuring an angel in sunglasses. I brought it to his birthday dinner; I had seen it at the grocery store and it was too stupid to pass up. Within five minutes it was dubbed the Cool Angel, and we were all making fun of it.)

  "Remember how we let it go in the yard, and said, 'Gee, I wonder where it'll end up? Maybe California, maybe Japan?' Well, it got about two miles. Ha! Anyway, it was a neat coincidence, so, thanks, God!"

  This was an odd little quirk of Tony's: he thanked God, literally, aloud, when good things happened to him. I glanced over at Cathy, who had just come in with her Christian-rock earphones on, and thought, She has got to meet this guy. Of course, Tony was a Papist through and through. She might try to feed him to the rattlesnakes.

  His letter went on in a similar vein: a lot of small-town details that made me miss Wild Rose, and at the very end an admission that he missed me...a lot.

  I opened the envelope and stuck my nose in it. It smelled faintly like his house. That made me a bit sad. But I would have felt a lot worse if he had sent some wrist-slashingly desolate missive, begging me to come home, when here I was making dates with a Scottish barkeep.

  Conscience seemed to require a cringe here. I meekly complied, and put the letter back in its envelope. For some reason, the idea of seeing Father Confessor (i.e., Laurence) didn't sound so bad.

  With other people I had to pretend I was saintlier than I was. Laurence, by contrast, would make me out to look more evil than I was. Whatever abuse I took from him would be well deserved, and probably even more than I required. I could walk away absolved, with some condemnation left over for later.

  I went down to the kitchen for soup. Laurence was stirring a large pot at the stove. He was wearing an old white lab coat in lieu of an apron, and needed only asbestos gloves to look like a chemistry professor. Or a mad scientist.

  "Making nitroglycerine for supper?" I asked.

  "Mm-hmm," he agreed. "I was going to separate some isotopes of uranium as a side dish, but you just can't find a good neutron source in these socialist countries."

  Naturally I had no idea what he was talking about, so I sat down at a table and tried to make sense of the newspaper lying there.

  He brought me a bowl of soup, and sat down across from me with another bowl for himself.

  "So, I have a theory as to what's wrong with you," he said, as we ate.

  "Look, I appreciate the soup, but I'm the psych major here, so you can spare me your theories."

  "Really. And, tell me again, just where did that degree get you?"

  I almost snapped a nasty reply at him, but then reminded myself: Father Confessor. Holder of Secret Knowledge. Don't push him, girlie.

  "All right," I said. "Do tell me what's wrong with me. I'm dying to know."

  "My theory is not psychological," he added. "It's nutritional. Why you're sleazing around with a fashion-impaired Scotsman, I don't pretend to know. Why you're always tired and sometimes ill, like tonight, I can guess."

  "Maybe it's because I'm stressed, and I've been sleeping too little."

  "Yes, that's part of it. Living in this unsanitary fever-ward doesn't help either. However..." He lifted his spoon and nodded to the sizable hunk of stew beef on it. "Real food. You haven't eaten any lately. Try as you might, you can't live on coffee, minute rice, and bouillon cubes."

  "I buy fruit sometimes," I defended.

  "Too much sugar," he said. "You're subsisting on empty starch and nasty chemicals, basically. So is Sharon; and Eileen too, when I don't feed her. It's no wonder you guys all think you're starving."

  "Since when do you care what we eat?"

  "Since I have to deal with you."

  "Thanks. Your concern is touching."

  "Well, you'll be healthier if you listen to me. And you'll even look better, for what's-his-name."

  I glanced quickly behind us. None of our acquaintances were around. "Gil," I muttered.

  "Vegetarians have low-energy problems and bad complexions," he told me. "Did you know that?"

  "I'm not a vegetarian. What is your point?"

  "You're a vegetarian in practice, lately. How often do you actually eat meat these days? Or any protein?"

  "I have some milk, in the fridge. And I thought rice had protein."

  "Neither of which is filling. They're mostly carbs. Do yourself a favor and buy some good full-fat cheese. Eat meat once in a while, too. Just look out for mad cow disease."

  "Whatever. I don't care what you say; I'm never giving up chocolate."

  "Chocolate's all right. More vitamins and flavonoids than you might think." He looked down, with a rare self-conscious shrug, and spooned up some more soup. "But I'm sounding like a geek, now. Too many science journals. You can ignore me."

  I was regaining strength, and felt better. I almost wished I knew something about flavonoids so I could humor him with a scientific conversation. "Well, it's good soup," I finally said. "Thank you."

  "Have more if you want. Don't know how I'm going to fit it all in those midget fridges."

  "Okay." I got up and served myself more.

  When I came back, Laurence seemed to be reading the newspaper, but asked without looking at me, "So did you call in sick with your laddie tonight?"

  "No," I said, resettling myself at the table. "He's at home. With his parents."

  "And you've really been with him all these nights?" Laurence turned a page.

  "Mostly," I mumbled, then added in defense, "I've come home, though, you'll notice. I never stayed out all night with him."

  "Yes, well. You've only had a couple weeks. You'll slide into the pit soon enough."

  "Maybe I won't. Maybe I have no intention of doing that."

  Laurence smirked, and turned another page of the newspaper. He calmly refolded the section behind the page he was reading.

  I fidgeted. This wasn't like telling Eileen or Sharon about boys. It was unnervingly impersonal.

  "Why haven't you told me to stop?" I finally asked. "How come you haven't told me that what I'm doing is wrong?"

  He peered more closely at a small-print article. "I should think you know that."

  "I do, but- You love telling people that what they're doing is wrong."

  He shrugged. "Your ethics could use improvement, but it's not like being soft on someone is a crime. It's just a waste of several good evenings."

  "Oh? What about that?" I said mischievously, seizing on a chance to turn the tables. "What have you been doing all these nights, anyway?"

  "Me?" He glanced up from the paper like a shocked Victorian gentleman.

  "Eileen and you. Cuddling under overcoats, I hear. 'Ghost watching', huh? Must be nice, having your own private room upstairs..." I coyly stirred the soup.

  He made a mild disgusted noise. "I don't know what she's been telling you, but you and your chatty sibling have got to get that notion out of your blonde heads."

  "Mm-hmm. Good cove
r, Laurence. Nice try." I finished the last spoonful of soup, and stood up. "Thanks again for dinner."

  Apparently re-immersed in the newspaper, he lifted his hand as an acceptance and dismissal.

  Two steps from the table, I paused. "I was just teasing," I said. "That doesn't count as pushing you, does it?"

  He answered without looking up, "When it counts as pushing me, you'll know it."

  * * *

  "Have you seen many ghosts lately?" I asked Eileen, when we were browsing in a drugstore the next afternoon. "I've forgotten to ask. It was your whole point of coming here and all."

  "No." She studied the label of a nail-polish bottle. "Not lately. I've always been with Laurence, and he think he scares them away."

  "He scares everyone away."

  She put the bottle back on the shelf and picked another color. "Seriously, I think it's something to do with him."

  "I'm sure it is. You can't concentrate with someone spouting scientific facts in your ear. Kind of kills the visionary mood."

  "Oh, that isn't it." She had an irritating way of brushing aside all my common-sense remarks. "I'll see ghosts if they're there, no matter what I'm thinking about. But they're sensitive, you know. Someone who doesn't believe in them can intimidate them. Or he could just have an aura that they don't like."

  "Eileen," I said, "how can you know you'll always see them if they're there? Couldn't they parade around invisible? Or is this a ghost-physics law I wasn't aware of?"

  She tolerated me with a sigh. "There's a different feeling in the air when they're around. Just a feeling."

  We moved to another aisle and considered some facial scrubs. "Well, have you ever seen a ghost in Laurence's company?" I asked, attempting to make a respectable study of it.

  "I don't think I have," she said frankly. "I was pondering that the other day."

  "And you're sure it's him? Not you?"

  She upturned one hand in a diplomatic way. "I suppose we could have clashing auras. Something about the combination might offend spirits, or block them from view."

  I did laugh then, as I followed her out. Clashing auras? Was there a definitive textbook on that, or did she get it from a fortune cookie?

  On the sidewalk, she resumed the conversation: "Actually, it could be that I'm distracted. I might be seeing ghosts and just assuming that they're pedestrians. For one thing, the city's always busy, and for another..." She sighed again, this time a thoroughly dreamy sigh. "I really am getting too attached to Laurence."

  I looked at her like she was insane, then quickly adjusted my features to something resembling compassion. "Does he...umm... does he feel the same?"

  "Oh, he hasn't said anything. But I can tell." The late October chill was bringing out the roses in her cheeks, and a smile rode her lips. Her long black hair rippled confidently in the wind.

  I was skeptical. "You can tell how?"

  "He's always insisting on paying, when we go to restaurants or pubs, lately. And he's always letting me get under his overcoat when we're out in the cold, now. Would he let anyone do that if he didn't like them?"

  "Well, he's a gentleman, in his way," I tried to explain. "He thinks it's his duty. You shouldn't hold your breath for him, that's all."

  She gave her troubled, hurt little laugh. "Sometimes I think you don't consider me good enough for him," she said.

  "No no, I think you could do better," I protested. I was instantly aware of how insincere it sounded. And as a matter of fact, it was a lie: I thought Laurence was way out of Eileen's league. An intolerable tyrant, but still out of her league.

  "Well, thank you," she said, ruffled, "but he's probably the best person I know."

  "Okay," I said. I tried to make it sound neutral.

  Chapter Nine

  Outside the Recording Studio

  I saw Gil again that night. "Mum's come doon with a flu," he told me, as we walked along the street. "She'll be hanging aboot the house for at least a few nights yet, so I'm afraid we can't go there."

  "That's okay," I said glumly, and told him about Laurence discovering my secret.

  "Hmm." He didn't even slow down. "Well, if you're sure he won't tell." Gil had a habit of treating subordinate clauses as complete sentences.

  "He probably won't tell; he'll just lord it over me. He's supposed to be moving to Maine, anyway, after we get back."

  "Don't worry over it. Be nice to him, is all."

  Easy for him to shake it off. Even if Tony was a bodybuilder, he was 5,000 miles away and posed no threat to skinny little Gil here. I, however, had to face Tony again someday.

  "I suppose it was bound to get difficult," I said.

  "Aye. That's life for ye." Gil also had a habit of substituting cliches for quality conversation.

  Just because you're Scottish doesn't make that cute, I thought in irritation. This was the first time he had annoyed me, and I felt bad. I blamed it on Laurence, as the party who had complicated the issue.

  "What's it, nearly November now?" Gil asked. "When are you going home, then?" He threw his lightweight arm around my shoulders. His tone had turned more considerate.

  "March twenty-first," I said. "First day of spring. That's our flight out of London; we'll have to leave Edinburgh before that."

  "A long time yet. That's good." We were under the shadows of an ivy-covered wall. He bit my ear gently. "I'd no' like to see ye go."

  If anything was designed to melt an American girl's heart, that was the phrase, the accent, the action, and the setting for it. I turned and kissed him, he clutched me and let us fall against the wall, the ivy enfolded us, and the frowning Saints Laurence and Anthony were forgotten for the time being.

  Gil led me a few blocks further as we chatted, into a part of the city that was not particularly scenic, but which he seemed to enjoy walking through. I rather wondered why we kept ending up here.

  Tonight he explained part of the mystery. We sat on a sidewalk bench, watching the clouds skate along the hills, and he said, "That building over there, I used to work there."

  I squinted at it. The night shadows made it hard to see. It seemed another four-story stone building from last century or so, just like the others packed close along the street. "What is it?" I asked.

  "Recording studio," he answered.

  "Really?" I was impressed. "I didn't know they had bars at recording studios."

  His voice turned a bit tart. "I haven't always been a barkeep, you know."

  "Oh, I didn't mean-- Well, there's nothing wrong with-- Anyway, what did you do at the studio?"

  He shrugged off the insult, and gazed at the building across the street. "Assistant technician stuff. Mixing and re-mastering and recording and things."

  "That's great. Why didn't you ever tell me this?"

  "I'm telling you now, aren't I?"

  "Yes, I guess so." Oddly touchy about this issue, eh? "So who was recording there?" I asked. "Anyone I'd know?"

  "Oh, aye; lots of them. Most Scottish bands prefer to do at least some of their mixing here, and several English as well. A few American, even. The manager, John Davis, he's American, ye ken." And he went on to list some artists who had worked there, all of whom he had either met, or watched from behind a pane of glass.

  "Sounds like a very cool job," I said. And indeed, after all our trivia-contest discussions about music, I was nearly salivating with envy.

  "Aye," he said. "Pays a mite better than bartending, as well."

  "So why did you quit?"

  "Didn't quit. I was fired." Tart flavor was back in the voice.

  "Oh," I said, wondering if maybe he had failed a drug test, or assaulted somebody with a broken whiskey bottle, or what exactly. One never knew with these unsettled working-class British lads, I thought romantically.

  "John Davis's daughter, you see," he explained, "Shelly--'Miss Davis' to us--she was very capable as a techie, but sort of treated us like servants. Like we weren't good enough to be on her level; she had to do all the talking when the bands
sat in with us. Me and the other fellows, we would make comments aboot her when she wasn't around, for she dressed well and was'nae bad to look at, I suppose. But some lap-dog of John's, he heard me say something about her one day, an' he told John. And I was called in, and there was a great rabble, and I ended up sacked for sexual harassment."