Chapter Eight: Must See
“There can be few more beautiful sights in nature than waking to a new day on Bora Bora.”
• • •
There had been many previous occasions in Stuart’s life when he wished that he didn’t wear glasses, but he couldn’t remember one that was more agonising than now.
It was early morning, the sun barely showing itself above the horizon, and it was still relatively dark in the dormitory. Stuart was lying on the bottom bunk he had bagged for himself the day before, when he and Stefan had first arrived at Chez Pauline. It had been one of the few beds in the room that offered a view out through the narrow, wooden slat shutters to the beach and the beautiful lagoon beyond, plus, it had stood furthest distant from any of the other residents of the big, airy room. Stuart hadn’t yet entirely embraced the communal nature of budget travelling. Things had changed later on in the day, though, when a second boat had arrived, bringing travellers back from the ‘next island on’: Maupiti. Stuart then found himself hemmed in by an as yet nameless woman from Canada, who chose the top bunk on the right-hand side of him, and the Swiss couple, Corrie and Norbert, who occupied the two bunks on the other side of him, closest to the wall: Corrie on top, Norbert below. Stuart was just relieved that the room wasn’t in such demand that someone had been forced to sleep directly above him.
Stuart had been awake for twenty minutes, or so he judged at a rough guess without looking at his watch. He hadn’t opened his eyes, but instead, lay back on the pleasantly firm mattress, contemplating what he should do with the day ahead. It would be good to find out where Jenny was. No one seemed to recognise her at Chez Pauline when he asked, but there weren’t that many choices when it came to budget accommodation on the island. It shouldn’t be too difficult to track her down unless, of course, she had already moved on again. That was a possibility. Stefan was snoring. Stuart had grown accustomed to the sound of the young German’s nocturnal tones. Someone else was talking quietly in their sleep, in one of the beds close to the door. Now that he came to listen, he could hear Norbert’s breathing too, four feet away in the bed immediately beside him. Deep, rhythmic breathing. The contented breathing which comes with peaceful sleep. Perhaps he would hire a bicycle. It should be possible to cycle around the whole island in a day. God though, how long was it since he last got on a bike? Five years? Six? Still, they say you never forget. It might make him a bit saddle sore, though. Perhaps he would wait and see if Jenny would like to join him. It would be fun cycling together. That was assuming he could find her.
Thud. It was quite a gentle thud, but it was enough of a noise to make Stuart automatically open his eyes.
Corrie was standing beside his bed, in the gap between the Swiss couple’s bunk and his own. He could tell it was Corrie, although he could not see her face: everything above her upper torso was blocked out to him by the proximity of the bunk above. Corrie’s tall, willowy frame was unmistakable though. Even through his narrow letter-box of view he could see that she was completely naked, facing directly towards him, perhaps oblivious to the fact that he was already awake. Perhaps not caring if he was. She was swaying slightly backwards and forwards, humming quietly to herself, her arms raised, searching around on the bunk above him, perhaps looking through her possessions for something to wear. She was so close that Stuart could have reached out and touched those beautiful, long legs; so close he could have breathed her in. He could almost feel the charge of suppressed tension shooting through the digits of his left hand, mere inches away from the exposed pale flesh; sparks of invisible energy shooting right out from the tips of his fingers, bridging the gap between them, reaching out to touch and burn, to caress or be extinguished. If only. If only ... if only he could see her better.
Spectacles had been Stuart’s habitual companion since the age of nine. His eyesight had not been great then, over the intervening years it had got a good deal worse. When he was younger he had found his glasses a constant nuisance: there was the name-calling at school, mild and silly but still annoying; there was the fear of breaking them in P.E.; there was the inability to see during swimming. As he got older, the annoyances reduced - or perhaps he just became more accustomed to accepting them. His initial fear that girls would find him repellent, was not born out by the subsequent evidence to the contrary, indeed, some women even seemed to prefer the ‘intellectual look’. It was still a hassle going swimming, but not an insurmountable problem. He was constantly being asked, if he had ever thought of contact lenses but, in adult life, he had never had particular cause to resent his poor vision and the facial adornments it necessitated. Until now, that is.
Before him was a vision of paradise. A sight of beauty only occasionally presented to a fortunate few individuals. And here he was, viewing it in fuzzy focus, through squinting, myopic eyes.
He knew where his glasses were. He was always very careful about where he placed them overnight to make sure they did not get accidentally smashed. He could give longitude and latitude. Under his bed, on the right-hand side, inside his left shoe. Weird, I know, but it had always worked for him before. But could he reach them? Without her seeing? That was the question. It would take stealth and ingenuity.
It was only a thin sheet which covered Stuart, the slightest movement beneath which would be detectable. He would have to take it slowly. And yet, she wasn’t going to stand there forever. A fine balance between minuteness of movement and deliberation of action was required. Slowly does it. Slowly, slowly. He felt the fingers of his right hand ease themselves out from the concealment of the white sheet and walk their way, spider-like, down the wooden side of his bed. He let his arm swing limp. It was the kind of movement you make in slumber. He stretched out his fingers, experimentally. Still, they didn’t quite make the floor. He was going to have to move his whole body slightly. Shift the weight to his right buttock and ease up, slowly, gently, shift across to the right. He flexed his fingers once again and this time felt the wooden floor of the room underneath his bed. Almost there. And she hadn’t moved; was still searching; hadn’t noticed. As far as he could tell. Fortunate that he had had the foresight to keep his glasses at this end of the bed, close to hand: never let your valuables far out of reach. Even so, it took some seconds before he was able to locate his first shoe, but patting around his hand soon made contact with the familiar feel of soft leather, and he was quickly able to draw the object closer towards him, such that he could feel inside. Even now, luck was with him. It was the correct shoe. His glasses were still safely inside it. He had one arm of the frame between his fingers now and, like a fairground lucky dip crane, was gradually, inch-by-inch, easing them out, feeling the weight of the heavy lenses as they raised clear of their overnight container, feeling the other arm of the frame opening up, ready to be effortlessly slipped on his face and over his ears. Up, under the sheet, unseen, almost there. Slowly. Slowly.
It is hard to look nonchalant when you are intending to be a Peeping Tom, but Stuart thought he gave it his best shot. He combined the transfer of the vision-enhancing spectacles to his face with the stifling of a pretend yawn. What could be more normal?
Clarity arrived with a start. He could see. He could see. Crisp, precise images; clear, fine lines; minute detail. Yes. And Corrie had not moved. Yes. He rolled slightly on to his left side, to afford himself a more comfortable view.
In the end, it was not the beautiful, long legs of Corrie which ultimately caught Stuart’s now fully-focussed gaze, but the pair of pale blue eyes and brightly smiling countenance of Norbert that he saw, perfectly framed between the two fine limbs, beyond. Stuart was reminded of an image of a predatory animal, licking his lips, savouring the prospect of an easy meal, looking out from the hollow of his lair. Norbert held Stuart’s look unblinking, his smile marginally widening on witnessing Stuart’s obvious discomfort.
Stuart started to say, “I ...” before being silenced by seeing Norbert
holding a finger up to his lips, maintaining the conspiratorial silence.
Big Fish Page 9