Читать книгу The Affair - Gill Paul - Страница 6
ОглавлениеIschia, June 1962
The sun hadn’t yet risen but a glow was reflected in the eastern sky and the steely Mediterranean was beginning to lighten. An elderly fisherman sat on a wooden bench, struggling to knot frayed ends of a broken net. He liked the stillness of the hour before dawn. The air was uncannily quiet: no breeze, no birdsong, no hum of insects, just the regular shushing of waves.
Over a fence to his left, like a mirage, there were dozens of wooden boats from ancient times moored along a newly built jetty, to be used in a Hollywood movie. Banks of oars protruded from the sides of the vessels, and the sterns and prows curled ornately inwards. He’d heard they were to be destroyed in a mock sea battle and he shook his head at the extravagance. So much craftsmanship, all to be smashed to pieces – the world had gone mad.
He heard a murmur of voices before he saw two dark figures creeping down to the shore. There was a woman’s laugh. They wouldn’t see him where he sat with his back to a rock but he watched as she stuck a toe into the water and shrieked at the cold. Her companion said something indistinguishable; there was no doubt it was a man. They were drinking from a bottle, and when it was drained the man threw it in the water. The fisherman let slip a tutting sound and the man turned in his direction as though he had heard.
Suddenly he grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her onto the sand. It won’t be comfortable there, the fisherman thought, with small griping stones and the odd piece of sea glass. Sometimes stinging shellfish burrow under the surface; that would give her a start. Every second the air was lightening and now he could see that the man was lying on top of her. They’re not married, the fisherman guessed. Who would choose to fornicate on a jagged shore instead of the comfort of the marriage bed? The thought briefly made him sigh for the memory of his wife, who’d passed four years ago, and for the vast comfort of her body.
Now the man was humping against the woman beneath him. Did he know there was a witness? Did that excite him? The fisherman took no pleasure in watching – there was no stirring in his loins – but all the same he didn’t look away. When they finished, she stood to brush the stones from her back, and he could tell from the tone of her voice that she was laughingly complaining of small injuries. The man kissed her, and they spoke in lowered voices, but soon after he turned and walked back up the hill.
Instead of following, the woman began to stroll along the front, gazing out at the pink horizon, her shoes dangling from her hand. She crossed into the area where the fisherman’s boat was hauled up on shore, and stood there for some time just watching.
Once the tip of the sun’s brilliant-white dome had slid over the horizon and you could already feel the beginning of the day’s heat, she spun around and began to walk up the shore path directly towards the fisherman. As she got close, he saw that she was a beauty, and a familiar one.
She was startled when she noticed him, but said ‘Buongiorno’ in an American accent. She watched him, as if trying to gauge how much he had seen, and as she passed she gave him a wink.
He nodded briefly. She should put her shoes on, he thought. There were fish-hooks on the ground, easy to miss but hard to remove from the flesh. But he didn’t know how to say that in English, so instead he carried on mending his net.
Some time later, the sun glinted on an object lying in the sand where the couple had been. The fisherman walked down to investigate and saw it was a piece of jewellery made of brilliant stones. He picked it up, surprised by the weight. He’d never seen diamonds before but had no doubt that’s what they were. He considered for a minute, then slipped the object in the pocket of his oilskin trousers before going back to his net.
