Sand
by Philip J. Lees
Sand in her hair, sand in her eyes, sand in her crotch … goddammit!! Two boys, eleven or twelve years old, playing racquetball, noisy as hell as the ball thuds against one wooden bat, then the other, and all the time they’re yelling, goading and baiting each other, then as if that wasn’t enough one of them dives when the ball goes wide and he lands not four feet from where Alice is lying on her beach mat, hiding behind ultra-dark wraparound shades, one hand holding the book up to screen her face from the sun as she reads, the other just raising a cigarette to take a drag, so that when the kid piles into the ground and throws yet more sand in the air her mouth is half open and now she’s got sand in her fucking mouth as well, but before she can pull herself up, find a stick or a rock from somewhere and smash the kid’s head in with it he’s up again, shrieking and running off to join his mate who has retreated further down the beach.
“Shit!” says Alice to herself, whacking down the Harlequin romance, whose pages also crackle with the sand that’s worked its way in between them these last two days, and turning to spit the sand out, but her mouth is too dry and when she reaches for her water bottle she sees that it’s empty. “Shit!” she says again, aloud this time. It’s a difficult word to say when your mouth is dry and coated with sand, but she manages it. She’s sitting upright by this time and the movement has made her aware of the tightness at the backs of her knees, along the tops of her shoulders and under her eyes that means that even with the sun block she’s spent too much time out here already and can expect to pay for it later.
So she stashes her book, her cigarettes and the empty water bottle (some people just leave their litter on the beach, the uncivilised sods, but not Alice, oh no!) in her shoulder bag, pulls herself to her feet, ties her towel around her waist, picks up her straw beach mat and rolls it, holding it away from her as she does so and shaking the mat just enough for the breeze to carry the sand away from her but not so much that it will land on other people—“You see!” she screams silently, “It only takes a little consideration.”—then she works her feet into the flip-flops, past caring now about the grit between her toes, and treads her way along the beach to the nearest wooden stepladder leading up to the promenade. She’d prefer to walk barefoot, but she tried that yesterday and burned her feet.
There’s a café-bar at the end of the promenade, right by the top of the steps, and she decides she’ll sit down in the shade of one of the big canvas sun umbrellas and drink a coffee, maybe an iced coffee, a glass of water anyway, even a beer if the mood takes her. The man is there again, the man who was there yesterday, sitting at the same table with the same small carafe and tall glass with the remains of some cloudy liquid that must be ouzo, she thinks, what else can it be? He’s in his thirties, she estimates, not that tall, dark hair over a high forehead, moustache, he’s slouched in his seat and there’s a bulge in the lower part of his blue tee-shirt, but that’s okay—a little belly is charming on a man. Not that she’s looking at him, of course, oh no, it’s just that seeing him in the same place at the same time two days running she’s bound to at least notice him, isn’t she? She can’t help it. Anyway, she’s not looking at him and he’s not looking at her, he’s looking down at the beach, out to sea, anywhere except at her, but that doesn’t stop her pulling her stomach in as she slides into the chair at a wooden table on the other side of the café, but parallel to his table, because she, too, likes watching the people on the beach, and then she adjusts the straps on the top of her bikini, making sure her boobs are hanging level before she decants the essentials—book, cigs—from her shoulder bag and puts it down on the wooden deck, leaning it against a table leg. She takes off her sunglasses and puts them on the table, wonders whether to take off her sun hat, but can’t imagine what her hair will look like so she keeps it on. She straightens the towel under her, pulling out the creases so it cushions her backside against the straw seat of the chair, settles herself in, lights a cigarette, looks out over the sea waiting to be served.
Most of the tables are empty at this time—too late for lunch, too early for happy hour. She hears footsteps and turns, but the waiter, who is little more than a young lad, is going over to the other table, where the man is sitting, holding up his now empty glass. The young waiter bends over as the man speaks to him, then nods and takes a folded piece of paper and slips it into his shirt pocket—a tip?
Then the waiter is at Alice’s table. What shall she order? Before she can say anything the boy is leaning over her, glancing about in conspiratorial fashion before looking her in the eyes.
“Mr. Andreas,” he says, nodding back over his shoulder. “He like to buy you a drink. Okay?”
Alice is flustered and doesn’t know how to respond. Don’t be silly, she tells herself. After all, she’s not some naive young girl, she’s a mature, sophisticated woman—she’s thirty-five, she’s been married, divorced, she knows the ways of the world. Even if she is on her own, after Maureen backed out at the last minute and Alice with mulish stubbornness said she was going anyway, she can look after herself and have a good time, Maureen or no Maureen. She takes a long drag on her cigarette, then presses what’s left into the glass ashtray.
“Okay,” she says, as if it’s another person speaking, somebody else’s voice, but the other person sounds calm enough, in control, so that’s all right. She nods for emphasis, turns her head to smile her thanks to the man, Mr. Andreas, but he’s already half out of his seat and as soon as he sees her gesture he’s walking over, holding out his hand.
“My name’s Andreas,” he says. “May I sit down?”
He has a nice smile and brown eyes, but it’s all a bit too fast. Nevertheless, “Sure,” she says in her bright stranger’s voice, as if entertaining strange men at her table was something this other Alice did every day.
He sits down and smiles again.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Alicia.”
It pops out before she can think, but it’s all right, she tells herself. It’s not a lie, just a … variation. If challenged she can always say that he misheard.
“Alicia,” he repeats, drawing out the middle syllable. His English is clear but there’s a definite foreign accent that changes the vowel sounds, turning her name, her new name, into something luscious and exotic. Ah-lee-ss-ee-ya.
“A beautiful name,” he says, smiling again. “And what would you like to drink, Alicia.” It is as if all his attention is focused on her, on her answer to his question.
“I don’t know,” says Alicia, this new person sitting at this wooden table by the seashore with an unknown Greek man who’s about to buy her a drink, though they’ve barely been introduced. “What are you having?”
“Ouzo?” as if seeking her approval. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try some,” Andreas says. “If you don’t like it we’ll order something different.”
“Okay,” she says. Then she’s conscious again of her dry mouth and she brushes a hand across her lips, worried there might be sand sticking to them, but there doesn’t seem to be, thank heaven!
“Could I have some water first?” she says. I’m very thirsty.
“Sure.”
The young waiter is still close by and Andreas speaks to him in Greek. Alicia can make out the words ‘carafe’ and ‘ouzo’, and there’s more that she doesn’t understand. The waiter goes away.
Andreas pulls a soft packet of Marlboro from his shirt pocket—the red packet, full strength—taps it against his knuckle until a few filters are showing, then raises it to his mouth and pulls out one cigarette with his pursed lips under the moustache. Then he holds the packet out towards her, almost as an afterthought.
“No thanks,” she says, “I just …” She indicates her discarded menthol stub in the ashtray.
He nods and lights up, cupping the flame of the lighter in two hands and narrowing his eyes in concentration as if it is very important to get the cigarette burning in just the right way. He’s not as old as she first thought—probably late twenties, but he looks older, maybe it’s that serious manner.
The breeze has died now and the air feels heavy and moist, even in the shade of the umbrella where they’re sitting, not like strangers but like people who know each other. The waiter is back already, with a tall, transparent, plastic bottle and two glasses. Alicia unscrews the cap of the bottle and pours some into each of the glasses. She takes three deep swallows, then tops up her glass before replacing the cap. The water bottle has already started to sweat, droplets of water forming around it and dampening the label. Alicia is sweating, too, and feels damp herself in places she’d rather not think about right this minute.
“That’s better,” she says.
“Are you on holiday?” Andreas asks her.
The conversation is less than profound. Where is she staying? Does she like it here? Has she been here before? Where has she visited? Does she like the food? What makes it special is that when he addresses her, when he asks her a question, it’s as if the world stops turning until she answers, as if the information he is seeking is the last hope to save a life. She has never been with someone so intense. And then when their ouzo arrives, along with a platter of octopus and salad, it’s the opposite. While Andreas deals with the waiter, inspecting the bill before tucking it under the edge of the ashtray—which he has moved to his side of the table—giving further instructions to the young man in the white shirt and black slacks while pouring olive oil over their snack, Alicia might as well not be there for all the notice he takes of her.
But then the waiter leaves and Andreas is back and once again she is the sole focus of his interest. He impales a section of octopus tentacle on a toothpick, shakes the oil from it and offers it to her, holding it suspended a few inches in front of her mouth.
“Try it,” he says. It is a command, not a request. “It is fresh today. Very good.”
If she thinks about it she won’t be able to do it, so she doesn’t think, just leans forward and takes the morsel between her teeth, pulling it off the tiny skewer. It is tart on her lips, and warm, but not hot, so keeping her mind a blank she sucks it into her mouth and begins to chew. It is tastier than she expected and also more tender.
“Mmmm!” she says. “It is good.”
He smiles. “It is an aphrodisiac,” he says.
What? Did he really say that? But he is not looking at her now, he is helping himself to the octopus, turning over one piece after another until he finds one that meets his standards. He bites it off the toothpick, closes his eyes and chews.
“Yes,” he says—and now he looks at her again. “A Greek word. From Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love.”
“Oh, really?” What else can she say?
“Alicia,” he says, looking at her as if the way she responds to what he is about to say will determine the future course of his life, “you are a very beautiful woman.”
But before she can say anything, his focus changes again and he is pouring her a splash of ouzo, adding enough iced water to turn it cloudy—the cloudiness of indigestion medicine or toilet disinfectant—fixing a second drink for himself, then placing one glass in front of her and cocking the other one high so that it’s clear he’s going to make a toast. She raises her own glass.
Andreas pauses to mark the moment, then, “To friendship between people,” he says. They clink glasses. “And to love,” he continues, clinking his glass against hers again before she can remove it, if that’s what she would have done, she’s not sure, and anyway now it’s too late.
So she says nothing, just sips at the ouzo. It is sweet, with a pungent flavour of liquorice, and under other circumstances she thinks she might not like it, but right here, right now, with the first flecks of pink, harbingers of sunset, tinting the ripples where swimmers still disturb the slick surface of the sea, the milky ouzo is like a magic potion, an ancient nectar, and she, Alicia, is a goddess, possessor of the wisdom of the ages. She swallows, the ouzo numbs her palate, the tang of octopus lingers on her tongue.
“To a beautiful woman,” Andreas says, raising his glass again, and she doesn’t know what to say, so she just smiles what she hopes is an enigmatic smile.
It goes on like that while they drink and nibble, she is relaxed, in control—she tells herself—yet somehow off balance. By the time Andreas pulls a wad of currency from his back pocket and tosses two notes on to the table for the waiter she is feeling that her conversational clumsiness has made her miss one opportunity after another. She couldn’t say what those opportunities were—or maybe she would just prefer not to say—but she is left with the sensation of having missed out, of not having taken full advantage of this encounter.
When Andreas suggests dinner, then, she does not demur.
“I’d love to,” she says. “But I need to change.”
He nods. “Of course.” He looks at his watch and she takes the opportunity to check her own. Six o’clock. She has been sitting with this man, in her bikini, for almost two hours.
“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he says, with the faintest hint of a question. He has already ascertained where she is staying and she was pleased to find that he approved, though not without reservation.
“That’ll be fine,” she says.
“Good.” He smiles and gets to his feet. “I’ll see you later.”
Then he is gone and she is sitting alone at the table, towel around her waist, sun hat still on her head, smoking a menthol and thinking about the prospect of dinner, and then maybe dancing—Andreas knows a nice club a little way along the coast—and then … And then?
§
The next day the wind has come up, blowing northerly off the sea, and Alice doesn’t fancy lying on the beach with the sand blowing into all her crevices again. The tender parts of her body were sunburned yesterday—those of them that were exposed—and it’s better to spend a day in the shade, she tells herself.
Andreas left her room well after midnight. He couldn’t stay overnight, he said. He had to start work at six in the morning. Hotel management, morning shift. The hotel where he worked was somewhere else, not here. Did he tell her where it was, what it was called? She can’t remember.
He wasn’t a great lover. His foreplay was perfunctory, he entered her too soon and he finished just as she was getting started, but at least she had a man in her bed, inside her body, for the first time since the divorce—and for some time before that, in fact, because she and Colin hadn’t made love for months before the break up. Or rather, they hadn’t made love with each other. Colin had been seeing Rachel, but Alice didn’t find that out until later.
Anyway, even though Andreas hurt her a little it wasn’t his fault—or not all his fault—it was the sunburn. His kisses were passionate enough and he told her over and over how beautiful she was, how much he cared about her.
So Alice spent most of the morning lying in bed, dozing and remembering, getting up once to go to the bathroom, and then again on an afterthought to hang the “Do not disturb” tag on the doorknob outside. She felt languorous, that was the word, a lovely word, and she didn’t rise until midday, when she took a shower, washed and dried her hair, then wandered to the hotel restaurant to have a light brunch.
Now she is sitting in the same café-bar, at the same table—as luck would have it, it was free when she arrived—with an iced coffee and wearing a loose sun-dress this time, not a bikini. No sun-hat today, her hair hangs loose. She is waiting, smoking a menthol and watching the people playing on the beach and swimming in the water, waiting to become Alicia again, Alicia the sensual, Alicia the goddess.
Andreas’ shift finishes at two o’clock, he told her, but he often has to work over. Now it is almost three.
The wind is getting strong enough to be annoying and the young waiter—a different one from yesterday—winches down a thick plastic screen that is mounted on a tubular aluminium frame running across the seaward boundary of the café. That’s much better, Alice thinks, although the screen, in theory transparent, spoils the view by making it blurry and indistinct, like peering through a rain-washed window. She turns her chair so she can look past the screen, further along the beach to the far end.
She has been watching for some time before the realisation of what she is seeing insinuates itself into her conscious awareness. By the waterline, just before the beach rises into a curving, rocky promontory, a couple are playing racquetball. The girl is in her twenties, dark-haired, slim and tanned, her breasts jiggle under the yellow halter top as she dances in and out of the water, returning shot after shot, now jumping high, now ducking low.
The man has his back to Alice, but as the girl lunges for a shot she loses her footing and stumbles into him. The man catches her by her upper arms and helps her back upright. The girl is laughing and pushing her hair back from her forehead. The man bends his head and kisses her. They embrace, they turn as if dancing, and when the kiss is finished and he lifts his head Alice sees that it is Andreas.
For an instant she is frozen inside. Then, conscious of her immobility, she stubs out her cigarette, twisting it between her fingers, eliminating one particle of hot ash after another until not one glowing fragment remains. How could he? she thinks. How could he … here? Of all places, why here? How can he be so … crass? But of course, she knows the answer. He wants her to see him, he wants her to feel this humiliation—that way there can be no doubt.
Then inside her something happens. She feels the presence of Alicia, Alicia the possessor of wisdom, Alicia the goddess, and with her all those other goddesses from ancient times, Aphrodite the passionate, Athena the wise, Hera the jealous, Nemesis the vengeful. It is as if they are speaking to her across the ages, filling her with power. She closes her eyes and turns herself inward, letting their strength flow into her.
Outside the wind is rising, blowing harder and harder, climbing the scale from storm to gale, from gale to hurricane. Inside Alicia channels that force, as the angry air whips up the sand from the beach, churning it into a whirling cylinder that sways this way and that as if seeking a direction, then seems to decide and bends to fling itself where her will commands. Now the beach is filled with sounds of fear, horror and pain, as with her mind’s eye Alicia watches the sandstorm strike her erstwhile lover, battering him to the ground. Her inner eye sees the skin being flayed from Andreas’ body, flesh sizzling as the sand whirls and burns, those lips that showered her with kisses are now torn away to leave teeth and jaws gaped in a scream, his hands clasped over his sex are whittled down, unable to offer protection, as Andreas’ soft body dissolves to bone, then bones crumble and fall apart until there is nothing but a hump in the sand.
Then Alicia feels the peace start to return. The screams of agony become the shrieks of children playing with a beach ball; the howl of the hurricane is an aeroplane passing low overhead on its approach to the airport; the hiss of tortured flesh is the waves breaking on the sand; the beating is the flapping of the screen as it is battered by the wind; step by step her vision restructures itself into the reality that was there before. When it has done so she opens her eyes. Andreas and the girl have gone.
“Are you okay, madam?” The waiter is bending over her. He looks concerned.
“Yes, thank you. I’m fine.” She is back in control. Alicia is fading and Alice returns.
“Can I get you something?” the waiter asks.
Why not? she thinks. Why not?
“I’ll have an ouzo,” she says. “One of those carafes.”
The boy nods and notes it on his pad.
“And something to eat with it,” Alice says, lighting up another menthol. “Octopus salad. But only if it’s fresh.”
- End -
© Copyright Philip J. Lees 2004