He sat watching the sailboats leave the bay for the expansive horizon. Beyond the azure waters, into the deep dark blue abyss, he watched the sails go up and fade. He recalled his youth, sitting on his father’s boat, gazing down at the water below. Transfixed by his limpid reflection staring back at him. Reaching out from underneath the railing, allowing his arm to dangle, to see if his hand could breach the water. Well short, he watched his watery image reciprocate his every motion. He would lie there and watch himself watching him for hours on his father’s boat. A gull landed on the balustrade before him, breaking his concentration. “Were you listening?” she asked. He turned. Her expression was one he knew: a playful concoction of disappointment and pleasure. Many women had displayed this visage before. He smiled. “No. Just thinking.” “What were you just thinking now?” she asked. “The wonder of naïveté.” “How poetic,” she said, lighting a cigarette. He watched her moisten her lips with her tongue before putting the filter to them; then gently inhaling, her cheeks became more sunken, her lips parted, the cigarette was removed, and she exhaled into the air. The smoke mixed with the scent of the bay—combining the aromas of primordial fecundity and cloying fatality. He was not sure which scent he preferred more. He checked the time: eleven past one. More tables were being filled. Pierre, the waiter, was returning. “Do you know what you want now?” she asked him, taking another drag. He looked back. “Never.” She smiled while exhaling. Pierre stood before them. “Monsieur is ready?” “Oui. Je vais devoir le wild mushroom soup, lentils du puy, mushroom hash, and truffle mousee for the first course; le fresh turbot ‘cuit au plat’ with sunchokes, confit potatoes, wilted chard, red wine sauce fresh lobster, heirloom carrots, pea tendrils, and sorrel for the second. Merci.” “Your French is not that good,” she told him. “Moi?” “Oui,” she smoked some more. “Well, your English is nothing to write home to mother about.” “Hmm?” “Never mind. Silly American saying. Drink?” “Oui.” “What?” She held up her glass to Pierre and told him another Chardonnay. Pierre left and he checked his watch again: five minutes had passed. He put his hands into his pockets to help him forget. “What appetite you have.” “Yes. I suppose so,” he grabbed his drink. The ice rattled as he lifted the glass to his lips. In the Marseille sun, the amber liquor glimmered while he drank. “Typically,” she said, peering off toward the harbor, “you have no ice in the drink, and the cognac is saved for after the meal.” “Yes,” he straightened himself in the chair, “well, I’d rather drink how I please, when I please.” He set the glass down. “What I wouldn’t give for a beer.” “Beer?” “Oui. La bière.” “You have no sense of taste.” He laughed at her remark. “Perhaps you are right.” She took one last drag and put out the cigarette. A sailboat headed for the sea. She watched intently. She watched the undulating ripples in the mainsail until the boat turned into the wind. The regal blue and pure white stripes of the sail bulged, lifting the bow just above the water below. She observed the white boat glide effortlessly across the bay. “How exciting it must be to do such things.” “Hmm?” He looked up from his watch: ten minutes since he last looked. “To sail. To fish. To be out in the sea. Even if it is not forever, it is still a beautiful, blue world.” “Sacré bleu,” he said, sipping on his drink. She looked over at him incredulously. “I do not think you know that meaning correctly.” “Whatever,” he shrugged. Pierre returned with her Chardonnay. Both of their meals would be arriving shortly. “How many pearls do you think they get a day,” he said, pointing out to a fisherman’s boat. “Pearls?” she asked, placing the wine down. “Yes. Pearls. In the Mediterranean.” No initial response was given. She was momentarily bemused. “No. I do not think you think right. Nothing here, but rocks. No pearls.” He gave her a glance. “You’re out of your mind.” “Pardonne moi?” “I remember when I was young. My grandfather used to tell me about watching the fishermen diving down and bringing back mollusks up. They would come back with pearls littering their small boats. Ever since I have always wanted to come and see that. Watch them go out into the wide-open sea and come back with that great mother of all pearls.” A gentle wind passed over them. In the distance, the festival could be heard. Children were playing in the alleys. Men and women were dancing. Dogs begged for food. Cats remained blasé, luxuriating in the windowsills above. Firecrackers were set off. Drapeau tricolores hung above the streets. His eyes diverted from the bay to the direction of the revelry. Then down to his watch: ten minutes since last. “Yes. Every since I was a little boy I’ve wanted to go out there and find my very own.” She lit another cigarette and sipped her Chardonnay. There was a brief moment where she wanted to tell him how wrong he was. How incredibly quixotic and naïve he was being. She smoked her cigarette and drank her Chardonnay instead. “What are the plans for the evening?” she asked. He looked up from his watch: a minute. “Hmm? Plans? Yes. Fireworks at the boardwalk, I believe. In the evening, after dinner.” “Sounds nice,” she exhaled. “Doesn’t it?” he said, picking his thumb. He could hear the fishermen below laughing as they docked. His father let him help tie up the boat at the end of the day. Their skin red from being under the sun all day—his father’s much darker and freckled from years of experience. “A whole day out on the open water is worth a week on dry land,” his father would tell him. “There is nothing freer or purer than the open water.” He understood. Out in the deep, vast ocean was where he first learned to swim. Fighting to keep his head above the water with nothing but the hand of his father for brief support. An imperceptible bottom, myriad fathoms below. No land in sight. It was in the nothingness where he first learned to live. “Where is Pierre?” she said. He looked at his watch: eight minutes. Almost an hour now. He watched her. She searched for the waiter. The cigarette still rested between her fingers, the Chardonnay in the same hand. Her white blouse was open just enough to show her chest, and sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Legs crossed on display with her cuffed and pleated navy blue shorts. Her long light brown hair was pulled back, making her skin more svelte. In the Southern French sun, her haired look golden. He rubbed the face of his watch with his thumb, but he would not look down. His eyes were on her. “Did you mean it, what you said last night?” he asked. She glanced over her shoulder. “Hmm?” He cleared his throat. “Last night, on the beach. Did you mean it?” She turned to face him, placing the Chardonnay down and flicking ash off the cigarette. A moment of silence shared between them. No fishermen in the bay. No gulls in the sky. No children in the streets or dogs or fêtes in the distance. Only the sound of his breath and feel of his heartbeat. She took a long drag and exhaled slowly. “Of course, every word,” she said. He exhaled in relief. “But,” she added quickly, putting out the cigarette. “I am not sure she wants to hear such things.” “Who?” he said. Her eyes motioned for him to turn around. He did. His wife approached. “Hello, George,” she waved. He looked down at his watch: an hour since he first looked. “Ah, yes. Perrine, this is Margo. Margo, Perrine.”
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