11. On a pebbled beach

Steadily, she rose herself from the bed, carefully folding the sheets behind her to prevent even the subtlest of draughts from cooling the cocoon Saul was tucked in and disturbing his sleep. He was on his side and, before she could depart from their bed, she felt compelled to rest, shyly and ever so softly, her hand on his large powerful shoulders. He didn’t make a move and she, feeling comfort in the tranquillity of his deep sleep, let her hand stay there for an instant or two longer. She caressed his shoulders, down to his forearms, over the white cotton sheet, in a slow, almost vestigial, touch. How she loved him! His powerful frame and the placid nature of his character; a placidity only strong men, aware of their strength and thus of the futility of ever displaying it in a violent manner, conveyed such a feeling of harbouring protection, she almost felt guilty from not being in his arms now. And in her beatitude she was certain she’d never be unfaithful, she’d never betray him.

The flow of the sea breeze in the curtains, however, swept her from her place next to the bed and towards the open window where the full moon shone in all its majesty, leaving a trail of pale light on the ocean, like – so was the image that came to her – a bride’s train extending from the shore to the horizon. She smiled, feeling silly at herself for entertaining such thoughts, and glanced over to Saul, still in his sleep. For a second, she wanted to wake him up and tell him of what she’d just thought; to see how he’d react to the prospect of marriage. Like a silly thing, really, of what nothing serious was to be expected, that required no answer, no specific reaction, no commitment from his part.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air and absorbing the ever changing shades of aromas brought in from the sea: the iodine from sun dried kelp on the shore, the blossoming jasmine that crept up the hotel walls, the bed of colourful peonies by the steps of green shale descending onto the beach – all these produced an inebriating smell, swarming her senses till she was too alert of them to go back to bed or stay in the room.

She picked up a tee-shirt and a pair of grey sweat pants, put on her beach slippers and left, noiselessly closing the door behind her, pausing for a moment – with her hand still on the door knob and holding her breath so she could hear every minute sound around her – to check if Saul hadn’t noticed her leaving.

The noise of the elevator shook her – it had the loudness of daytime -, and she became suddenly conscious of herself, alone, in the middle of the night as if in the wrong place.

She didn’t count on seeing anyone, having forgotten there would be a bell boy on duty and someone, probably, at the reception desk. She was therefore surprised and caught off balance when she saw the bell boy materialise right in front of her once the elevator doors opened. He was the Latin type and in his early twenties, and carrying luggage of some late night checked in guests, somewhere from a Nordic country, and looking, at first, as surprised as she. But he was quicker to reassert the control over himself than she was over herself. He watched her, looking not at her, but at her female features; something she learned to understand all men do, only the conspicuity of it gaining sophistication with the men’s age and maturity. All this was familiar terrain to her and she was thus able to take alleviation in this; the fact that she had no underwear, whether secret or not – most likely not –, changed nothing in her inaccessibility and, automatically, her invulnerability, to the young man heaving the suitcases. At the end of the hallway, the Nordic guest, a couple, were lagging behind the bell boy. She noticed the woman in the couple. Blonde, blue-eyed, with an athletic body and, like herself, in her thirties. A beautiful face, but, like all blonde women past their thirties – or, with luck, but never later, their forties –, showing the withering signs of age told in sharp wrinkles and the deepening coldness of the sunken blue eyes, each year sinking them further into coldness and away from gaiety. Blonde women age worse than brunettes, she considered with unhidden satisfaction. Blonde women seem to carry their sorrows on their skin, she thought, whereas brunettes bury them in their hearts.

She crossed the lobby and walked through the small garden of peonies, carnations and pansies towards the steps, which swirled lazily through resin-oozing pines, stray lavenders and yellow brooms, leading down to the beach.

She walked on the pebbled shore, taking slow strides, measuring her steps as a way of keeping busy while her mind wandered off, thinking of things back home, of her and Saul, of lost, disperse moments, and of episodes, yet to happen – but were sure to happen –, of bliss, tranquillity and joy. She walked the full length of the beach, wetting her feet in the incoming waves, and these dictated the pace of her thoughts, opening new chapters when they breached. Casually, she picked up a pebble and chucked it, spinning, onto the surface of the dark water. It reminded her of a game she used to play when she was a child, when her parents brought her to the beach on summer holidays and she imagined how it’d be to have children of her own. She spent a while there, chucking pebbles, relishing the idea and revelling on dreams of things pure and simple.

The night was mild, tender to her senses, and the rolling, swelling surf inviting. Finding the beach deserted, she yielded to the temptation and took her clothes off. Carefully, she trodded on the pebbles and made her way into the sea, lead in her bearings by the foam of the waves, glistening white in the moonlight. Gradually, she let herself immerse in the water, dissolving in it, feeling unrestrained in her movements and free. Free. She swam and she floated under the starry sky and she counted the gulls flying above and she tried distractedly to make sense of the shapes of clouds and idly let the water enshroud her bare skin. She was free and time passed quickly.

A figure appeared on the shore, directly in front of where she was. Instinctively, she let her body sink till she felt the sand under her feet, leaving only her head above water, slightly over her chin. It seemed to her, that figure was watching her – had been watching her. She couldn’t determine, at first, whether it was a man or a woman. A small red ember point flashed – a cigarette or a cigar had been lit. The figure moved and she could distinguish trousers etched against the backlight: man’s trousers and a man’s stride.

She suddenly felt conscious of her nakedness, alone in the dark water, and the stupidity of it all. And although she could not be sure of whether the man had in fact seen her, much less if he’d been watching her, she decided to stay put, observing the figure from the distance, which seemed fixed on her position. Yet – there was no movement from him towards her, nor did his behaviour betray any particular intentions towards her. It looked as if, maybe, this man – perhaps an insomniac like her –was intent on simply enjoying the cigar or cigarette he decided to smoke on the beach. And, if indeed he had noticed her (of which she was almost certain), she couldn’t tell, from his body language, if he’d made out there was a woman or, for that matter, a living body, in the water. Her clothes, whether or not he’d notice the bundle she left amidst the pebbles, remained untouched, she was sure. Yet – he too didn’t change position and stayed perfectly aligned with hers, on the shoreline. She felt uneasy but not fear. Not quite. She just wished Saul was there with her. Oh, she loved him and needed him.

Finally, after finishing his smoke, the man moved on and away from the beach, disappearing among the shadows of the garden of the hotel. In good time, as she was beginning to shiver hard from cold and the immobility. Surveying the beach for any other passers-by and finding it deserted again, she came back onshore and rushed for her clothes. She desperately wanted to be back in the hotel room in the warmth of her bed and Saul’s. But she decided to make time in the garden until her skin and her clothes dried up, embarrassed to reveal Saul she’d been swimming naked, alone, in the middle of the night.

She went up, ignoring the guard patrolling the grounds and the bell boy, who merely stole a look at her to identify her as a guest.

Quietly, she opened the door to the room, weighing her hand on the door knob and peering inside, looking for Saul. He was still asleep. She entered on her tiptoes and started undressing in meticulously rehearsed intervals. She hadn’t the time yet to put on the oversized tee-shirt she used as a night chemise and was fully naked when Saul tossed and woke up, staring in utter surprise at her.

He rubbed his eyes and asked “What’s up, sweetie? You up? What are you doing naked?”

She looked keenly into his eyes, before proceeding to tell him. She would tell him everything, everything that happened; her folly, the foolishness of it all, how much she’d needed him. “Oh, nothing, I just had a bad dream, that’ all.” And she left her eyes linger on his.

Saul took her in her arms and, with a smile beckoning a smile from her, rolled her head over onto his chest, letting her body weight fall on him. “There, there, it’s over now. Come here and sleep now, baby.”

And this, although she could never blame him for it – it was not, it could never ever be, his fault –, she knew, in her heart she knew, was Saul’s mistake.