sand above the high-water mark, looking out over the conflicting currents, which are so strong here at the end of the Baja that you can count on being swept out to sea. Waves leave tongues of foam on the beach as the water retreats; an intricate pattern of tiny craters remains in the sand, and through them bubbles surge up to fill the hollows.
A tangled piece of seaweed lies crusted next to Sabineâs bare feet. Old-woman feet, she thinks, and brushes specks of sand from her ankles. Her first day in Mexico, her legs were bitten by sand fleas. It seems only moments ago that these same legs belonged to the girl who ran along the island beaches of Rügen, kicking up sprays of salty water. Sabine pictures her son, Horst, arriving from Berlin at the Los Cabos airport in his business suit, riding one of the vans to the hotel in Cabo San Lucas, and standing on the terrace of the restaurant with Armando, the stocky waiter with the melodious voice, who serves Sabine papaya juice every morning.
Armando will point across the waves of the Pacific.
âLaseñora,su madreâ
he says to Horst, âshe looked at the waves for many hours. We spoke about
la señoraâ
Armando enjoys teasing Sabine about buying her watch from herâa parody of the barter between tourists and the vendors who sell jewelry, blankets, and pottery in the market near the ferry landing. âHow much you want for your watch?â Armando will ask Sabine, and when she tells him she doesnât want to sell it, he smiles and insists, âIâll give you good priceâ¦. Almost new ⦠Cheap, I buy it cheap.â
She doubts that Armando will engage Horst in his banter.
Theyâre both serious as they stand on the terrace where palm trees grow, their nuts nestled where the trunk meets the leafy branches, pulled in like testicles on a freezing man. One of the slight amber cats that swarm around the hotel brushes past Horstâs legs, almost touching. A fishing boat moves fast and parallel to shore. Warm air carries the scent of the hibiscus blossoms that grow between the hotel and the sand-colored rocks. Those rocks have rounded holes in them like Picasso sculptures, and they turn pink at sunset. On the way to his room, Horst runs one hand across a rock and finds a shell wedged into one of the smooth crevices.
Sabine feels the wind on her neck, a strong wind that moves across the ocean, making it look like a river; yet the waves keep crashing in. Where the sky meets the sea, it is hazy but fans into brilliant blue toward the December sun. A streak of water shoots up as though something had been dropped from a great height, and the arched body of a whale surfaces for an instantâblack against the gray of the ocean.
Sabine has been planning this day of her death, much inthe way as she planned the day of her wedding forty-eight years agoâwith the kind of momentum that makes it impossible to stop. Then, she began sewing her wedding dress the day Werner proposed to her. Six months ago, on her way home from the doctorâs office, she stopped at a travel agency where she booked this trip to what she calls the end of Mexico because she knew she didnât want to walk into the freezing Ostsee, knew she wanted that last submersion to be kind. At a department store she chose a swimsuit that matched the vibrant colors in the travel brochures.
Sabine doesnât regret leaving life. Only that she has to disguise it as an accident. Because of the laws, for oneâyou can get yourself locked up if you fail. And then, of course, her children. She thought the hardest part would be making the choice, but it isnât. Even in her dying she is worried about her children. She doesnât want them to feel responsible, doesnât want to encumber them with her body to take home and abandon to the craft of the undertakers. In Germany, there are two words for what she is about to do:
Freitodâ
free death,
A tangled piece of seaweed lies crusted next to Sabineâs bare feet. Old-woman feet, she thinks, and brushes specks of sand from her ankles. Her first day in Mexico, her legs were bitten by sand fleas. It seems only moments ago that these same legs belonged to the girl who ran along the island beaches of Rügen, kicking up sprays of salty water. Sabine pictures her son, Horst, arriving from Berlin at the Los Cabos airport in his business suit, riding one of the vans to the hotel in Cabo San Lucas, and standing on the terrace of the restaurant with Armando, the stocky waiter with the melodious voice, who serves Sabine papaya juice every morning.
Armando will point across the waves of the Pacific.
âLaseñora,su madreâ
he says to Horst, âshe looked at the waves for many hours. We spoke about
la señoraâ
Armando enjoys teasing Sabine about buying her watch from herâa parody of the barter between tourists and the vendors who sell jewelry, blankets, and pottery in the market near the ferry landing. âHow much you want for your watch?â Armando will ask Sabine, and when she tells him she doesnât want to sell it, he smiles and insists, âIâll give you good priceâ¦. Almost new ⦠Cheap, I buy it cheap.â
She doubts that Armando will engage Horst in his banter.
Theyâre both serious as they stand on the terrace where palm trees grow, their nuts nestled where the trunk meets the leafy branches, pulled in like testicles on a freezing man. One of the slight amber cats that swarm around the hotel brushes past Horstâs legs, almost touching. A fishing boat moves fast and parallel to shore. Warm air carries the scent of the hibiscus blossoms that grow between the hotel and the sand-colored rocks. Those rocks have rounded holes in them like Picasso sculptures, and they turn pink at sunset. On the way to his room, Horst runs one hand across a rock and finds a shell wedged into one of the smooth crevices.
Sabine feels the wind on her neck, a strong wind that moves across the ocean, making it look like a river; yet the waves keep crashing in. Where the sky meets the sea, it is hazy but fans into brilliant blue toward the December sun. A streak of water shoots up as though something had been dropped from a great height, and the arched body of a whale surfaces for an instantâblack against the gray of the ocean.
Sabine has been planning this day of her death, much inthe way as she planned the day of her wedding forty-eight years agoâwith the kind of momentum that makes it impossible to stop. Then, she began sewing her wedding dress the day Werner proposed to her. Six months ago, on her way home from the doctorâs office, she stopped at a travel agency where she booked this trip to what she calls the end of Mexico because she knew she didnât want to walk into the freezing Ostsee, knew she wanted that last submersion to be kind. At a department store she chose a swimsuit that matched the vibrant colors in the travel brochures.
Sabine doesnât regret leaving life. Only that she has to disguise it as an accident. Because of the laws, for oneâyou can get yourself locked up if you fail. And then, of course, her children. She thought the hardest part would be making the choice, but it isnât. Even in her dying she is worried about her children. She doesnât want them to feel responsible, doesnât want to encumber them with her body to take home and abandon to the craft of the undertakers. In Germany, there are two words for what she is about to do:
Freitodâ
free death,
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