Solitude and expanses of white sand stretching forever were all that Saburo desired after his divorce. He visited every travel agency within kilometers of his Tokyo apartment, and after a week of careful pondering, chose a destination. He paid for his ticket with cash, and packed two bags with several sketch books, painting supplies, some paperback novels, Japanese and French dictionaries, and a single change of clothing. He had already decided to bury the ghosts of his life—if only temporarily—and go native as soon as he stepped off the plane onto the tropical tarmac. His destination was a Pacific island so obscure and distant that the weekly airplane was an event of general interest to the dwindling population of smiling, flower-clad natives. There was but one hotel on the island, managing to survive on a ration of tourists supplied in tiny gulps by a single-runway airport where nothing larger than a twin-engine plane could land. It was the off season and he was one of only three passengers to arrive that week.
Every morning Saburo rented a battered green bicycle with under-inflated tires, and struck out in a different direction, determined to find the beach of his dreams where he could contemplate in silence. Perhaps he would make a few sketches, and if he was bored by that, find some pleasure in reading. In his shoulder bag, along with his sketch book, a high-powered monocular, bottled water, and a novel, he carried a towel and bathing trunks in preparation for the very remote possibility that he would decide to take a swim. He was much more likely to watch tropical bird-life than take a swim, for he had never liked sea-water. His sunglasses dangled by a cord around his neck, and he wore the broad-brimmed straw hat he had bought when he arrived. Aside from the hat, his shirt was the most native thing about his attire, which included old running shoes and a pair of faded Japanese-made dungarees. Everyone on the hotel staff wore brightly-colored shirts and his was just the same, but he was disappointed after purchasing it to read on the inner label that it was actually manufactured in Sri Lanka.
He had been on the island for six days—far from the crowds, the galleries, the critics, his ex-wife—and had at last found his beach, though the sand was almost black. Its lack of whiteness was a mere detail. Not a soul was to be seen on either the beach or the low bluff above when he descended the path and walked out onto the hot sand. At one end of the beach was a perfect little hummock of grasses topped with bushes, where he sat in partial shade. And the spot presented a grand, sweeping view of the curved bay out to a point where palm trees grew in profusion almost to the water's edge. Breakers flashed white as they crossed a coral reef some distance out. The place was blissful and empty, with naught but black sand and blue sea and a bright cloudless sky. He was therefore quite surprised when, glancing up from a sketch he had long been absorbed in making, he saw a movement along the path that led to the beach.
Approaching was a young woman, whom he recognized from having glimpsed her in passing several times, as another guest at the hotel. She appeared to be alone, carrying only a rolled bamboo mat in one hand, and he had a sudden ill feeling that she would stop to chat. She was of that Mediterranean caucasian type with round, dark eyes set above high cheeks with delightful hollows, and a voluptuous mouth that seemed constantly open in a smile that revealed fine teeth. Her skin glistened with freshly applied oil, and like the native women, she had pulled her hair into a loose pile behind her neck, letting its lush waves frame her face in black. Two silver earrings dangled and glinted in the sun. She was barefoot, bare-headed, without sunglasses, and she wore the tiniest of pure-white bikinis.
The bikini flattered her figure extremely, Saburo thought, and as an admirer of pretty women, he could not help but watch as she descended the path, stepping carefully, her arms raised aloft like wings for balance as she walked. When she reached the sand, she stretched, and looked around, then flung wide her arms. She was lithe as a crane, and he would not have been surprised to see her ruffle her feathers and stand on one leg. Presently by the way she moved across the sand, dancing to an unheard tune, he was certain that she must be a ballerina—for what else could she be with such grace? He wondered why she had come to such an isolated beach.
She would certainly know, having seen his bicycle by the side of the road, that she was not alone. She had probably stopped her own bicycle next to his, delighted to have found company for the afternoon. And she had left her things in the basket to be fetched after ascertaining that she was welcome to join him—she might even have brought lunch. When she approached, what should he do? He could try addressing her rather coldly in French: Bonjour, mademoiselle; comment allez-vous? If that caused her to tilt her head and fix her dark eyes on him quizzically, he would have to resort to English. Other than necessities like off/on, men/women, occupied/vacant, and Made-In-USA, the English phrase he most lucidly remembered was, "This is a pen." That would not do at all, except that he did have a pen in his possession. He might be more successful addressing her in Japanese, which she probably did not understand. That would put a quick end to the encounter, and she would have no choice but to leave him in peace.
He felt relief when she began to walk in the opposite direction. The high cut of her bikini left her lovely ass completely visible, rolling with her hips as she went. When her delightfully swaying form dwindled to two white blobs shimmering in heat waves above the sand, he again turned his attention to his sketch book, where he was rendering a fantastic castle that towered above dense, tropical jungle. He was planning it as a large canvas, and in his mind's eye he saw the eventual colors vividly. Perhaps it was better rendered in hard-edge watercolor. He had not yet decided on the exact medium, and let it waver back and forth between oil and water.
While he contemplated, lulled by the faint perfume of some unknown flower, his attention was distracted again by the woman as she returned from her walk. She would stop to talk, he was certain, and felt his heart beat a little faster with annoyance at the prospect of being interrupted after he had previously been relieved of her. No matter how she looked, he had no wish to engage in conversation. She was sure to be a bore, as such pretty things usually were—his ex-wife was a case in point. They probably did not speak a common language either. Her French was sure to be non-existent. Yet, what was she doing out there, alone but for him? Probably she had not noticed him at all, sitting as he was, wedged between grassy hummocks in shadow. She was certainly not a dancer. More likely, she was the only daughter of a wealthy family. Maybe she came to forget a broken heart. Her father probably made shoes in Rome, and she had inherited a fortune along with a closet full of magnificent footwear. No, it was not Rome at all. She was rather the only daughter of a rich Brazilian rancher. In either case Saburo was safe, as he spoke neither Portuguese nor Italian—even his French was rather terrible. He let her flit, in his mind, from situation to situation, but persisted in seeing her as an only daughter—and decided there was probably some truth to that intuition at least.
The woman sat down at some distance from him, and after unrolling her little mat, sat looking out to sea. She seemed to sigh, and put her arms round her knees, resting her chin on one fist. He returned to his sketch, and in a moment looked up again to see that she had taken off the top of her bikini. As a student of feminine form, and an artist, what could he do but sneak a glimpse of such exquisite fruit boldly offered? He rummaged in his bag, and took out his monocular. She was very young, probably not more than twenty, and as he had expected, her breasts were excellently rounded, the nipples nicely shaped and upturned. The hand of the master sculptor was everywhere evident in her form, and he was reminded for some reason of a particular piece by Rodin—the facial profile could almost have been hers. He watched for a few seconds while she re-did her hair, then swung her legs, somewhat apart, in his direction and lay down flat on her back, parallel to the line of the water, with her feet pointing toward him. He blushed with the realization that he was still watching her, and set the monocular on top of his towel. She would have been justifiably outraged had she found him staring; but more, he should not have let her appearance distract him.
She apparently believed herself completely alone, or she would not have removed her top and lain face-up. Did she, too, seek the solitude of this beach? Of course she sought it, Saburo thought, or she would not have come there, danced in such apparent delight when she found the beach unoccupied, and lain with her nipples pointed skyward. But why? It must be that she was a fashion model fleeing a broken love affair. The man was a handsome Austrian skier who had left her to marry someone else—most certainly her cousin, to whom she had introduced him at a reception some months before. They had eloped to Tanzania, and she was plunging herself fully into the tropics to forget him.
For an hour or more she lay, as Saburo noticed every time he turned a page in his sketch book. He did not carry a watch, but judged the time crudely by the shadows and the sun. She had not moved at all as far as he could tell, and he wondered how she could lay so quietly in the heat. No sooner had he thought this, again observing her through his monocular, than she raised her arm. He set aside the monocular and went back to his sketch book. She was quite beautiful, really, and when he put his pen back to the paper he realized that he had been sketching her face.
This was simply too much, he decided with a burst of chagrin, and flipped the page. He should have to begin anew, and get his mind settled round other thoughts than a woman who came to invade his solitude, to sit on his beach. More than that, she had dared to distract him from his leisure by the unexpected baring of her breasts. If he had asked her, she might have been agreeable and left.
That was no attitude to have, though, his conscience told him after a while, as she could not have been doing it purposely. She was pre-occupied and had not noticed him. Maybe this painting that he planned needed just such a woman to bring it fully to life, but she must not be sad. Yes, that was it. He had been sketching her because she would appear somewhere in the picture, but she would be happy. He turned the page again and began to sketch it anew.
Again he looked, and seeing that she was in movement, raised the monocular. She sat up and held her bikini top carefully across her breasts, then turned over and lay on her stomach. Of course, he realized, the maneuver was to keep her nipples from being chafed by the mat, as they were sensitive parts unused to rough handling. They deserved a gentle touch. She raised herself on her elbows to adjust the cups beneath herself and lay down again.
There being nothing further to watch, Saburo returned to his sketch. The woman must be in the foreground, he decided at that instant, for she had inadvertently claimed his attention with her movements, her intrusion into his solitude. He began to wonder how to properly place the castle. When he arrived on the beach, he had not wanted to sketch a woman at all. A few birds, perhaps, or a monkey—there were no monkeys on the island, though, so he should forget that. An animal of some type might go in his picture and be suitable. Indeed, it might be just the thing. Perhaps the castle was mere decoration.
Picking up the monocular while he contemplated the type of animal most suited for depiction in his painting, he took another look at the woman. She had not moved since turning over half an hour before. But what was this? He set his elbows carefully on his knees to steady the monocular. Yes, his artist's eyes had not been deceived. Her legs were somewhat apart as they had always been. Now he could see that where the roundness of her young buttocks edged into the space between her smooth thighs there glowed a big red bloom on her white bikini.
How embarrassing for her, he thought when he remembered that she had brought nothing at all to cover herself. If she continued lying on her stomach, it was sure to spread downward under the influence of gravity. In that suit, she could not possibly hide it when she stood up. It would be a pity for her to enter the hotel lobby with such an obvious red bloom between her legs.
But that was none of his concern, he decided firmly, for he did not even know her. She should have planned more carefully. Of course, she could wash herself in the sea. He set down the monocular, and at that moment an inspiration crept up his spine to tingle his scalp. His painting must have huge flowers and humidity and a great tropical sky with a sparkling sea, and the castle would be only in the background, though in its beauty, it would be a secondary focus of attention, subordinate to the woman who lounged in the foreground. She would be Polynesian in a dress of purest white lace—and sniffing a big, red blossom.
When he finished the sketch, he gathered his things, feeling that he must begin at once on the final product, back in his room. He was so exhilarated he wondered if he might be embarking on his life's masterpiece. He found her bicycle, as expected, a short distance from his, and noticed that there was nothing in her basket. Apparently she really had come with nothing but a mat. He turned his bicycle around and began to pedal away before his conscience revolted. A dip in the sea after lying in such heat would have little effect on her crimson surprise, and she could not very well wrap herself in a bamboo mat. Any gesture would only take a moment, and he could not leave her in distress, even if yet unrealized. He stopped, and abandoning his bicycle momentarily by the road, walked down the path to the beach.
"You've been such an inspiration," he began to say when he stood near enough for her to hear, but he let the sentence dwindle when she did not stir. She must actually be asleep, he thought, but continued anyway in a hurried voice. "I think you can probably use these more than I." Near her head, he put his neatly folded towel and bathing trunks, then stole away in silence.
Copyright © 1994 Richard McGowan
All Rights Reserved
First published by Spectrum Press (Chicago) 1995