THENEWYORKER, SEPTEMBER 16, 2019 55
From where I stood now I could see
the path we had taken, my friend and
I, and I remembered too how he had
pointed to this beach, telling me that
in summer very late at night you could
find men here, that there were shel-
tered places in the rocks where you
could go with them. I wondered if I
would want that now, if there were men
to be had. Shortly after R. had told me
he wanted to end things between us, I
had gone to the city center, seeking I
don’t know what. For almost two years
I had been with no one but R., and for
the past three months I hadn’t been
with anyone at all; I went out in search
of feeling, I suppose, or maybe the ab-
sence of feeling. I descended the flights
of stairs to the bathrooms at the Na-
tional Palace of Culture, though for so
long I imagined I had left them be-
hind, that I had been lifted out of them,
as I was in the habit of putting it to
myself, into a new life. I had thought
that before, when I sat in that room in
Boston with the priest, I had thought
in precisely those terms, I am being
lifted out of it, not by my own agency
but by some intervening force: God,
love, I thought, edno i sushto, one and
the same. But we are never lifted out
of such places, I think now, and so I
went back to the bathrooms beneath
N.D.K., I had never stopped thinking
about them; even as I lay with R.,
flooded with love, there was a part of
me untouched by him, a part that longed
to be back there. My hands shook as I
undid my belt at the urinals, out of ex-
citement or dread, I felt I could hardly
breathe. Almost immediately a man
stepped up next to me, nineteen or
twenty perhaps, very beautiful, his large
cock already hard. Possibly he was a
hustler, he was so eager, though he didn’t
make any demands as I reached over
and took him in my hand, feeling the
thick warmth of him as I closed my
eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to dis-
cern what I wanted, knowing how easy
it would be to take him into the neigh-
boring room with its stalls. I heard him
whisper Iskash li, do you want it, and
though I did want it I let him go, I hid
away my own hardness and fled.
It was a beautiful night, the nearly
full moon casting its light upon the
water, and I wanted to be with them
now, these people I hardly knew who
seemed so at ease with one another.
I took off my shoes and walked up
to N., our erstwhile guide, who was
smoking a cigarette, standing well away
from the surf where the others were
wading, letting the waves brush their
ankles and calves, shouting and laugh-
ing. Hi, he said, smiling at me, speak-
ing in English though my Bulgarian
was better, it is beautiful here, no? And
I said it was, very much so,
prekrasno. He asked me
about the morning’s work-
shop, and I told him it was
fine, that they were inter-
esting writers, I liked them
very much. And how was
the Bulgarian group, I
asked, and he turned to me,
smiling widely, and said
Today we talked about the
G-spot of the story, how it
is like with a woman, it is difficult to
make the story come. Ah, I said, taken
aback, I see. And then, after a pause,
But I don’t understand, I said, why
should the story be a woman? It was a
fair question, I thought, but he looked
at me with blank incomprehension,
even though I had spoken in his lan-
guage. Couldn’t it be a man, I asked,
would it change anything, and I thought
he was going to say something in re-
sponse, but then our attention was
claimed by a commotion farther down
the beach. What’s that, I said, as we
started walking toward the others, who
had gathered now in a circle, what’s
going on, and then, as we heard whis-
tles and catcalls and voices chanting
strip, strip, N. told me that the priest
had said he wanted to swim in the sea.
We could see him now, already bare-
chested, his bearded face bright in the
light of cell-phone cameras brought
out of pockets. Immediately, catch-
ing sight of him, I felt myself in that
strange state of vibrancy and stasis, like
a flame submerged in glass, sealed off
as always when I feel desire I shouldn’t
feel. Not that he was so desirable: he
was thin and pale, with a silver cross
glinting on his chest. His hand drifted
to his jeans and he paused, letting the
encouragement rise, looking around
the circle until he found D., eager as
the rest, hooting and calling take it off,
and with a look that seemed to dedicate
the act to her, the whole evening, thenight and the sea, he undid the buttons
of his fly and stripped. There was an
eruption of cheers, and he began play-
ing to the crowd, lifting his arms and
flexing, smiling at the flashing lights;
he was entirely one with them now,
I thought, all his sanctity was gone.
He wasn’t naked, he was still wearing
a pair of tight black briefs, and I was
surprised to see they were a designer
brand, sleek and European,
not at all what I would have
expected. He posed for a
moment, balanced on his
skinny legs, and then he
turned his back to us and
ran for the water, splash-
ing at first awkwardly and
then diving in, fully sub-
merged. Jesus, I said to no
one in particular, it must
be so cold. He’s crazy, N.
said beside me, and then, three weeks
ago he is in Israel, the Holy Land, and
he swims in the River Jordan. It is for-
bidden to swim, but he doesn’t care, he
swims anyway. We watched him for a
while before most of the group lost in-
terest, turning to other pursuits, pour-
ing the last of the wine. D. and the
Bulgarian woman climbed the tall life-
guard’s platform together, waving to us
below. But I kept watching him, visi-
ble in the moonlight; he was a good
swimmer, he seemed at home in the
water, I thought, like a creature recon-
ciled to what it was. I kept waiting for
him to turn, to swim back, but he didn’t,
and finally in the dark I could hardly
make him out at all. He’s kind of far,
isn’t he, I said aloud, again to no one
in particular, shouldn’t he be turning
around, and then N., who hadn’t been
paying attention, said Idiot, it’s dan-
gerous at night, and both of us shouted
for him to come back. He didn’t hear
us at first, he kept swimming, and then
the others were shouting too, in En-
glish and Bulgarian, and all of us were
waving our arms. He stopped finally,
and waved one of his own arms in re-
sponse, and then he began swimming
toward shore, more slowly, I thought,
as though there were some force pull-
ing back at him, some element work-
ing to bear him out farther still. THE WRITER’S VOICE PODCAST
Garth Greenwell reads “Harbor.”