'No thanks. I had my lunch.' She turned to look at him. He bit into a
sandwich, the bread almost disappearing into his big brown hand.
'Why weren't you writing this morning?' she asked.
He shrugged, chewed and swallowed. 'Didn't do so well this morning.
I was at the typewriter at six, but didn't produce much. I had trouble
with the lady in the story. I didn't feel like fighting it, so I gave up
and gave myself a day off.'
'In the book I just finished, Max was in love with the French girl,
right?'
'Yes.'
'Why didn't he show it? He was so cold.'
He stared at her. 'You thought so?'
'Yes. He was an interesting character, except that I thought he was
much too selfish.'
'In what way?'
Linden shrugged. 'He used her. He took for granted she was always
waiting for him when he came back. When she made demands of her
own, he waved them away. He didn't want to bother himself with her
wishes. He really didn't even want to consider them.'
'It wasn't the right time in his life for a permanent relationship.' His
mouth quirked. 'He was too busy spying.'
'Not fair to the girl, though.'
'No, not fair at all.'
She caught something in his voice and their eyes met for a fleeting
moment.
'Is that what happened to you?' she asked. 'Too busy running around
the world covering wars and revolutions?'
The dark eyes looked at her intently. 'You're very perceptive.'
'It wasn't difficult to guess.'
'Well, it's a long time ago.' He took another bite of his sandwich. He
had stripped off his shirt and was sitting in the sun. His chest was
very brown and contrasted sharply with his white shorts. His legs
were strong and muscled and the dark hair glinted in the sun. Above
the waistband of his shorts she noticed a scar on his left side.
'What happened there?' she asked, pointing at it.
'Another battle scar. El Salvador, Central America, another garden
spot.'
'Good Lord, where else have you been?'
'I try not to remember.' He took another bite of his sandwich.
Obviously this was not a welcome topic of conversation.
She finished her coffee and gave him back the cup. 'Thanks.' She
slung the pack on her back and slid her arms through the straps. 'I'm
off. See you.'
His mouth full of food, he gave a wave of his hand in goodbye.
The trail back to the village seemed endless and she trudged down
the path, seeing and hearing nothing around her, feeling miserable.
She'd dragged her easel and paints and brushes out to the beach and
was painting the rocks, the white clouds above them and the blue and
orange trawler in the foreground. It was going well, better than in
weeks. She lost herself in time, seeing only shape and form and line
and colour, a magic place where nothing else mattered. So intently
was she working that she didn't notice the man until he was standing
near her.
She looked up sharply, irritated at the interruption. She'd not been
able to let herself go like this for such a long time. Resentment
burned inside her. It was like a rude awakening to be dragged back
out of that curious sense of concentration to find someone standing
there watching her work. He was about fifty, she guessed, short and
broad-shouldered, with a dark, swarthy look, and sharp black eyes.
Once he'd been handsome, but now he was flabby and out of shape.
He wore a shirt and a sarong and was barefoot.
'Miss Mitchell?' He was looking her over, his eyes like a touch on her
body. He made her skin crawl.
'Yes,' she answered coldly.
'My name is Julio Marinozzi. Justin spoke of you.' His dark eyes
were now trained on the painting. 'Excellent,' he commented. 'Is it for
sale?'
Resentment faded. She felt a stir of excitement, but was determined
not to show it. 'It's not finished yet.'
'And when it is finished?'
She nodded. 'Yes.' There were more paintings stacked against the
wall of the spare bedroom than she knew what to. do with. Living on
the island was extremely cheap, but not free, and without a regular
pay cheque she'd eventually run out of savings. The sale of one
painting—if she got the price she got at home—would keep her for a
couple of months on Pelangi.
Mr Marinozzi gave her a brilliant smile, white teeth flashing in his
dark face. 'Good, good,' he said, hitching up his sarong. 'Let me know
when it is finished and we will discuss the price. And now, let me not
disturb you any longer. Good day.'
She watched him for a moment as he plodded off through the dry
sand. The old lecher. Must be one of the renters, newly arrived, for
she had not seen him before. She returned her attention to the
painting, trying to look at it through objective eyes. It was good. The
colours worked well together. It really was beautiful, and she felt a
flush of joy. For a while she worked on, but her concentration had
gone. The light was changing and she noticed the dark formation of
thunder clouds on the horizon.
Packing up her things she went back to the house. It was later than
she thought—almost lunch time. In the kitchen Nazirah was cooking
curried shrimp and the spicy smell made her ravenous.
The sky turned ominously dark. Nazirah lit one of the kerosene lamps
to use in the kitchen and put a couple of candles on the table for
Linden.
The rain came while she was eating. It thundered down with a
sudden, instant violence that always amazed her. One minute it was
dry, the next the water came down in torrents. It poured from the
heavens for about half an hour, then slowed down to a steady rain for
another hour, then to a drizzle.
She went out on to the verandah. The world was wet and steaming.
The trees dripped. Flowers drooped. Sodden frangipani blooms
littered the soaked grass. The sky drooled a grey mist. A soft wind
stirred the sodden greenery. Birds, hidden, chirped. Chickens and
roosters pranced around in the mud. Puddles gleamed on the paths.
It was cool but not cold. She went out into the drizzle and strolled
along the beach. The sea was grey and restless. She picked up some
flat, round shells with a pearly shine, thin as glass. Some were pale
silvery in colour, others shiny charcoal. She stuffed them in the
pocket of her jeans to add to her collection. She was always picking
up things, not knowing what to do with them, but wanting to take
them home and look at them again.
She reached the rocks and sat down, inhaling the cool, wet sea air.
Among the boulders small crab-like creatures scrambled in the
current of ebb and flow of water, and for a while she watched them
until she got bored.
It had stopped drizzling. She didn't feel like going home, so she went
into the village and looked at the houses, the potted plants neatly
arranged around them, the clean-swept yards, the laundry on lines
underneath the houses. Children were out playing barefoot in the
puddles. Five black and white ducks s
at neatly in a row on a fallen
tree trunk, twitching their feathers.
Justin was coming down the path as she reached her house again.
'Had a walk in the rain?' he asked, looking at her damp clothes.
'It's nice when it doesn't make you cold.' She shook her braid back
over her shoulder. 'Were you coming to see me?' The incident at the
waterfalls had not changed their routine. Justin still came to see her
now and then, or asked her over for a drink in the evenings. The last
few weeks had gone by quickly and calmly, but she had to admit that
the solitude she initially had come looking for was beginning to bore
her.
'You have time for coffee?'
She spread her arms wide. 'Oceans of time.'
He gave her a sharp look. 'Something wrong?'
'I think I'm bored. I'm beginning to think that television might be
exciting.'
His smile was faint. 'Oh boy, you're in trouble.'
'Don't you ever get bored?'
'When I do I fly to Kuala Lumpur or Bangkok to visit friends. After a
few days of that, Pelangi is like heaven again.'
'Well, maybe I should have a wild weekend in George Town. That is,
if I sell my painting to Mr Itahano. What's his name?'
'Marinozzi. Julio. You've met him?'
'He approached me on the beach, took one look at a half finished
painting and decided he wanted it.' She grinned. 'Of course he hasn't
heard my price yet.'
'I wouldn't worry about it. If he wants it he'll pay anything.'
She grinned wider. 'Thanks for telling me that. The price just went
up.'
Justin laughed. 'Quite the mercenary, aren't you?'
'Listen, it's been a while since I saw my last paycheque!'
'Sorry, sorry .. . didn't mean it.' His eyes were laughing. 'Put some dry
clothes on if you want to have coffee with me. That wet tee-shirt is
bad for my blood pressure.'
Involuntarily she looked down at her shirt, seeing it cling to her
breasts, revealing them in all their detail.
'Eat your heart out,' she said, and rushed up the stairs to her house.
She heard him laugh and she slammed the door closed. She wondered
what was happening to him. He seemed to be less serious and more
light-hearted lately, laughing and smiling more often.
He groaned when he saw her come into the door fifteen minutes later.
'Did you have to wear that sack?' he asked.
'What sack? This is not a sack. This is a caftan. Very exotic material,
don't you see?' It covered her up from shoulder to ankle in wide folds
of vivid blue, hiding every line and curve of her body.
'I'd rather see what's underneath it.'
'You've seen it all before.' She turned her back on him and examined
the books on the shelves. 'I'd like to borrow some more books,
please.'
He was behind her, turning her around to face him. His hands slid
down her side and came to rest on her hips. She glared at him.
'Justin, I warn you. Get your hands off me.'
'I want to know it's really you underneath this thing.'
She could feel the warmth of his hands through the thin material.
They moved up to her waist and she slapped them away. He put them
next to her head against the bookshelf and looked into her eyes. Her
heart began to race; there was nothing she could do about it. She felt
uneasy under his gaze, but she was trapped with her back against the
bookcase.
'There's a whole village of willing maidens out there. Why don't you
pick on them?'
He shook his head. 'And ruin their reputations? Have a heart!'
She sighed. 'You're not worried about my reputation, I take it.'
He lifted one eyebrow. 'Are you?'
She grimaced, not answering.
'Why don't you relax? You might even like it.'
'I have been kissed before.'
'Ah, but not by me.'
'Oh, yes I have.'
For a moment he looked confused, then his expression cleared and he
grinned. 'By the falls? That hardly counts. That was my gentleman's
kiss for innocent girls. I assume you are no longer innocent.'
'Oh, shut up, Justin!' She pushed against his chest, but it was useless
and she let her arms drop by her sides in defeat. 'What's got into you
lately?'
'Don't ask dumb questions.' He lowered his arms and took both her
hands in his. His hands were big and brown, but nicely shaped,
holding on to her securely. Good hands, she thought, as if it mattered.
She kept staring down at them, not pulling away.
'Look at me,' he said softly.
She was surprised at the sudden change in him, to see the look in his
eyes. There was gentleness and warmth there, and the teasing
laughter had gone. The tenseness inside subsided and when his lips
touched hers she did not resist.
She closed her eyes and there was a warm melting sensation in her
stomach. His lips were firm, parting hers and the taste and smell of
him made her knees weak. He held her close against him and the
blood rushed madly through her limbs, filling her with wild longings.
It was wonderful and terrible and the force of it made her dizzy.
I don't want this! The thought exploded in her head.
I don't want this! She tore away with frantic strength and he let her
go.
They looked at each other. There was silence, broken only by the rich
warbling of a bird outside and the sound of the sea washing on to the
beach.
She stood very still, willing her breathing to its normal rhythm. She
swallowed, the taste of him still in her mouth.
'I would like that cup of coffee now.'
He nodded, turned and left the room. With unsteady legs she moved
to a chair and sat down. He came back a moment later, strode up to
the bookcase and took some books off the shelf.
'Have you read any Ken Follet? Or Wilbur Smith?'
She shook her head. 'No, I haven't.'
'Try Wilbur Smith. I'm sure you'll like him.' He handed her several
and she looked at the titles, glad to have something to do. She felt
uncomfortable, as if too much had been revealed and she could not
bear to acknowledge it now by word or look.
The coffee was brought in by Ramayah, Justin's cook, an old woman
with her hair pulled back from her face and sharp eyes that missed
nothing. She entered the room, padding softly on bare feet, carrying a
tray. She wore a sarong around her waist and a long- sleeved fitted
blouse over it. Carefully she placed the coffee and the cups -on the
table, then a plate with friend bananas.
'Do you know,' he said after Ramaya had left, 'that Christmas is a
week from today?'
'A week?' She'd lost all sense of time. In this tropical world it was not
easy to think of Christmas. There were a few Chinese Christians on
the island, but most of the islanders were Muslim, traditional Chinese
or Hindu. 'I hadn't even thought of it,' she said.
'You're not going home for Christmas?'
'No. There's nothing there for me.' Her tone was flat.
'What about your sister?'
'Her family always spends Christmas with her parents-in-law. I'm
welcome enough, but. ..' she shr
ugged. 'I don't feel very much at
home there, and Stefanie always gets on my nerves.'
He raised one dark eyebrow. 'Why is that?'
'She thinks I should get married and have a dozen children. She has
four herself and she's younger than I am. Married at eighteen. First
baby at nineteen. Second a year later. Then a set of twins. And if that
isn't enough, she's pregnant again. It makes me nervous just thinking
of five kids under five.'
He gave a hearty laugh. 'Some people are happy with a lot of kids.'
'She is, and that's great. But she has this misguided notion that the
rest of the world should feel just like she does. She hasn't caught on
to the idea of freedom of choice. It's irritating. We always get into
arguments.'
'What do you want for yourself?'
'Oh, I'd like a family—a couple of kids, but I'd still like time for my
painting.'
'Were you planning to marry this man .. . Waite?'
She stabbed her fork in a piece of banana. 'We talked about it.'
'And?'
'I got scared.' In the end she hadn't even wanted to talk about it
anymore. She put her plate down. 'Is there any more coffee?'
'Help yourself.'
She poured the coffee. 'You too?'
'Please.'
She took his cup and filled it. 'Did you ever think about getting
married?'
'I was too busy.' He paused. 'And too selfish.'
There was a silence. 'What happened?' she asked softly.
He looked into his cup. 'Her name was Kate. We were together for
more than four years. I'd be gone for months at a time, but when I'd
come home we'd have a wonderful time. In the beginning it worked
out all right. She had a demanding career of her own and was very
busy. But later she became unhappy with the arrangement. She
wanted to settle down, have a baby.'
'And you didn't want to?'
'I wasn't ready. I couldn't see why we couldn't go on the way we had
for the past years. It suited my life very well. She was always there
for me when I came home. I was a selfish bastard.'
'What happened?'
'It went on for another year or so. I think she hoped I'd change my
mind, but I didn't. Then one time I came home and she wasn't there.'
He put the cup down. 'I went crazy.'
'Did you find her?'
'Yes. But it was too late. Nothing could persuade her to come back to
me.' He paused. 'The next time I was in Beirut I got shot. After that,
in the hospital, I had a lot of time to think.' He picked up his cup
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