first meeting with Marcia has got Bliss no further forward, other than confirming his suspicion that he is a very small fish in a very large cesspool. Still jumpy at the sight of anyone vaguely resembling Edwards, he wanders the jetties and quays of the port with a warm baguette under his arm, journal in hand, and his thoughts on the ranks of flashy yachts, trying to calculate how many mainline junkies it takes to keep each afloat.
With his eye on two especially well-appointed craft, each bristling with a helicopter, a deck load of expensive marine toys, and enough communications hardware to out-manoeuvre an average frigate, he drops onto a convenient bench and watches the frenzy of activity as deckhands and day-workers scrub and polish the already immaculate vessels.
A flotilla of drab harbour ducks, a drake and his harem, spot Bliss taking a meditative bite from his bread, quickly leap the quay wall, and mob him noisily for titbits. The crumbly French loaf showers flakes onto the quayside, which are swooped on by the male, leaving his wives squabbling over thin air. After three failed attempts to reach the smaller birds, Bliss christens the aggressive drake “Edwards” and decides he might as well let him pig out until he is stuffed.
Ten minutes later, with half the baguette inside him, Edwards’s head suddenly flops to one side, and he waddles to the edge of the quay, his gut scuffing the ground. With an ungainly belly flop the large drake drops with a noisy “plop” into the harbour and promptly sinks.
“Bloody hell,” utters Bliss, rushing to the edge, but other than a thin trail of bubbles there is no trace of the bird. The words “serves you right” die on Bliss’s lips and he slouches away from the rest of the family, head down, facing yet another restless day.
In an effort to clear his mind he isolates himself at the end of a jetty and opens his journal for another serious start.
I am an author writing about a man who sits alone on a jetty gazing at the ocean. Who am I? Why am I here? What do I think? What am I waiting for?
Like the breathing of a somnolent giant, the gentle swish of the tide rises and falls under the jetty with such power I feel my spirit being carried away across the ocean to some distant paradise where all is revealed.
Footsteps on the wooden planking bring his head up as a young woman throws out a towel suggestively close to him, then does a striptease with her dress, revealing a bikini thong that offers virtually no protection against the elements.
“Look at me!” screams the tiny triangle of strategically arranged material.
“What are you looking at?” says her face as she catches him, “and what are you writing about?”
Paradise is not all it’s cracked up to be, he writes, sensing that the woman is somehow annoyed that he may be writing about her. That, like the naked indigènes of other less civilized cultures, she is concerned his writing will steal her soul, or will expose her to her enemies.
Feeling the weight of her stare he keeps his head down, writing gobbledegook, and debates whether or not she wants him to pay her attention. Should I approach her? he wonders. Let her know I’m not a nutter. But what to say — flattery? I am writing about a beautiful woman …
What does she expect? he questions, trying to read her expressions and feel her vibes as she swings from inquisitiveness through interest to concern, then annoyance, and eventually outright fury, as she snatches up her towel and storms off along the jetty, the naked cheeks of her bottom clenched in fierce anger.
What did I do wrong? he wonders, feeling even more dejected as he puts away his pen and turns his thoughts to the malignancy of Superintendent Edwards. The possibility that an old rattan beach mat would solve his dilemmas does not occur to him as he sits on the jetty and winds himself up with worry.
Watching as the beach quickly fills with the day’s visitors, his eye is caught by a noticeable void in the carefully arranged mosaic of basking flesh. A frayed beach mat lies abandoned on the sand, like an empty raft amid a sea of floating bodies, yet is accorded more reverence than any sun worshipper.
“Mind the mat!” shout worried parents, as playing children blindly rush across the sand in pursuit of balls, kites, and each other, and newcomers give the space a wide berth as they scout for a vacant spot. Near-naked sun seekers, shining with oil, can fend for themselves, but the unoccupied mat obviously demands protection from all.
“Gosh — did that swimsuit shrink?” muses Bliss, spotting a V-shaped man whose skinny legs seem incapable of supporting his pumped torso. His chest still bears the breadth of an active youth, but the rest of his body is retreating into old age as he spends his days patrolling the shoreline with the arrogance of an elephant seal beachmaster. The sunbathing beauties instinctively know the trophy he seeks, and at his approach they quickly turn onto their stomachs or grab a towel.
The beach prowler takes on the question of the vacated mat, standing overly close as he scours the beach, hoping his intrusion on the mat’s personal space will induce the owner to claim possession — hoping the owner may turn into a trophy.
“See. I was guarding your mat for you,” he will insist, but only if she is worthy; otherwise he will snort loudly and grumble about the inconsiderateness of people leaving unattended mats.
After five minutes of posturing, the pariah becomes restless at his lack of magnetism and draws upon the strength of surrounding bodies, gathering a small group to infringe upon the mat with him as he leads a deliberation on its fate.
“I zhink we should move it,” he suggests, taking command. “Ça vous défrise?” he enquires — any objections?
The crowd backs away from the edge. “It is nearly midday,” one quickly explains. “He could be having an early lunch.”
“He?” the beach-master queries, with more than a trace of disappointment.
“Mais oui,” says the other, “it seems most logical to me. Regarde — zhere is no bag, no towel, no dress, and no sunscreen. What woman would go to zhe beach without sunscreen?”
The realization hits the old beach bum like a cold shower. His chest deflates as he loses interest and wanders off.
Then the French veneration for lunch — déjeuner — from midday until mid-afternoon, wins the rattan mat a breathing space. The halyards and shrouds of yachts sing in the early afternoon breeze like a giant musical extravaganza, then the vent de midi picks up a notch and sends parasols, plastic chairs, and small children on skateboards skidding along the harbour wall. The rattan mat lies unruffled until three o’clock, precisely when an inquest is convened by a holidaying Berliner.
“Is zhis beach mat kaput?” sniggers Bliss to himself from his vantage point on the jetty as the German gathers a small group to surround the antisocial item.
“It has been here since zhis morning,” explains one in English.
“Yes — but precisely when?” the German demands to know.
“Does that matter?”
“Certainly. It is essential.”
“But why would anyone abandon such a beautiful mat?” asks another in French, leaving the German out of the loop.
“Beau?” questions another native. “It is crevé — dead. See, it is limp — not even rigor mortis.”
“But we must know if it was here before nine this morning,” insists the German, attempting to restore his authority by precision. “Then we might assume it is abandoned.”
“Why?”
Because, though nobody will express it, the early morning bathers are a breed apart. Misfits, misshapes, and those burdened with an unruly metabolic system who take the waters before the high achievers arrive in the spotlight of the sun and further batter their bruised egos.
The momentary awkwardness is broken by a young Englishman, with a beer bottle in each hand and a couple of illuminated plastic ducks on his head, making