of color. Where the flowers ended their
jeweled displays, their pagan illuminated manuscripts, fruits took up the
gradations. Once or twice, her mouth full of fruit, she stopped. She had the
feeling that she was eating the dawn.
Lying in her hammock she could see both sea and
the sunlight, and the rocks below between the stellated, swaying palms. From there
too she could see the gardener at work with the tenderness which was the
highest quality of the Mexican, a quality which made him work not just for a
living, with indifference, but with a tenderness for the plants, a caressingness toward the buds, a swinging rhythm with the
rake which made work seem like an act of devotion.
Her day wa free until
it was time to play with the orchestra for the evening cocktails and dancing.
Before, she had had the feeling that
festivities began only with the evening, with the jazz musicians, but now she
saw that they began with the sun’s extravagance, and ended with a night which
never closed up the flowers, or put the gardens to sleep, or made the birds
hide their heads in their wings. The night came with such a softness that a new
kind of life blossomed. If one touched the sea at night, sparks of phosphorous
illuminated it, and sparkled under one’s step on the wet sand.
Sometimes, at the beach, the sea seemed not
like water but a pool of mercury, so iridescent, so clinging. Swimming on her
back, she could see the native musicians arrive, and she would swim ashore.
A guitarist, a violinist, a cellist, and a
singer would cluster around an umbrella. The singer sang with such sweetness
and tenderness that the hammocks stopped swaying. He enchanted not only the
bathers, but the other musicians as well, and the cellist would close his
heavy-lidded eyes and play with such a relaxed hand that his brown arm seemed
to be held up not by the weight of the hand on the bow, but by some miraculous
yogi means of suspension. The South Sea Island shirt seemed to contain no
nerves or muscles. The violinist played with one string missing, but as the sea
occasionally carried away a few of the notes anyway no one detected the missingones .
The waves, attracted by the music, would unroll
like a bolt of silk, each time a little closer to the musicians, and aim at
surrounding the peg of the cello dug deep into the sand. The cellist did not
seem to be looking at the waves, yet each timethey moved to encircle his cello, he had already lifted itup in midair and continued to play uninterruptedly while the waves washed his
feet, then retreated.
After the musicians came children carrying
baskets on their heads, selling fruit and fried fish. Then came the old
photographer with his old-fashioned accordion box camera, and a big black box
cover for his head. He was so neatly dressed, his mustache so smoothly combed
that he himself looked like an old photograph. Someone had touched up the old
photographer until he had become a black and white abstraction of old age.
Lillian did not enjoy being photographed, and
she sought to escape him by going for a swim. But he was a figure of endless
patience, and waited silently, compact, brittle, and straight. The wrinkles of
his face all ran upward, controlled by an almost perpetual smile. He was like
the old gardener, so ritualistic in his work, so stylized in his dignity, that
Lillian felt she owed him an apology: “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
“No harm done, no harm done,” he said gently,
as he proceeded to balance his camera on the sand, and just before disappearing
under the black cloth he said: “We all have much more time than we have life!”
Watching Lillian being photographed was Edward,
the ex-violinist with red hair and freckles who lived in a trailer on the
beach. His calendar of events was determined by his multiple marriages. “Oh,
the explosion of the yacht? That happened at the time of my second wife.” Or if
someone tried to recall when the American swimming champion had dived into
jeweled displays, their pagan illuminated manuscripts, fruits took up the
gradations. Once or twice, her mouth full of fruit, she stopped. She had the
feeling that she was eating the dawn.
Lying in her hammock she could see both sea and
the sunlight, and the rocks below between the stellated, swaying palms. From there
too she could see the gardener at work with the tenderness which was the
highest quality of the Mexican, a quality which made him work not just for a
living, with indifference, but with a tenderness for the plants, a caressingness toward the buds, a swinging rhythm with the
rake which made work seem like an act of devotion.
Her day wa free until
it was time to play with the orchestra for the evening cocktails and dancing.
Before, she had had the feeling that
festivities began only with the evening, with the jazz musicians, but now she
saw that they began with the sun’s extravagance, and ended with a night which
never closed up the flowers, or put the gardens to sleep, or made the birds
hide their heads in their wings. The night came with such a softness that a new
kind of life blossomed. If one touched the sea at night, sparks of phosphorous
illuminated it, and sparkled under one’s step on the wet sand.
Sometimes, at the beach, the sea seemed not
like water but a pool of mercury, so iridescent, so clinging. Swimming on her
back, she could see the native musicians arrive, and she would swim ashore.
A guitarist, a violinist, a cellist, and a
singer would cluster around an umbrella. The singer sang with such sweetness
and tenderness that the hammocks stopped swaying. He enchanted not only the
bathers, but the other musicians as well, and the cellist would close his
heavy-lidded eyes and play with such a relaxed hand that his brown arm seemed
to be held up not by the weight of the hand on the bow, but by some miraculous
yogi means of suspension. The South Sea Island shirt seemed to contain no
nerves or muscles. The violinist played with one string missing, but as the sea
occasionally carried away a few of the notes anyway no one detected the missingones .
The waves, attracted by the music, would unroll
like a bolt of silk, each time a little closer to the musicians, and aim at
surrounding the peg of the cello dug deep into the sand. The cellist did not
seem to be looking at the waves, yet each timethey moved to encircle his cello, he had already lifted itup in midair and continued to play uninterruptedly while the waves washed his
feet, then retreated.
After the musicians came children carrying
baskets on their heads, selling fruit and fried fish. Then came the old
photographer with his old-fashioned accordion box camera, and a big black box
cover for his head. He was so neatly dressed, his mustache so smoothly combed
that he himself looked like an old photograph. Someone had touched up the old
photographer until he had become a black and white abstraction of old age.
Lillian did not enjoy being photographed, and
she sought to escape him by going for a swim. But he was a figure of endless
patience, and waited silently, compact, brittle, and straight. The wrinkles of
his face all ran upward, controlled by an almost perpetual smile. He was like
the old gardener, so ritualistic in his work, so stylized in his dignity, that
Lillian felt she owed him an apology: “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
“No harm done, no harm done,” he said gently,
as he proceeded to balance his camera on the sand, and just before disappearing
under the black cloth he said: “We all have much more time than we have life!”
Watching Lillian being photographed was Edward,
the ex-violinist with red hair and freckles who lived in a trailer on the
beach. His calendar of events was determined by his multiple marriages. “Oh,
the explosion of the yacht? That happened at the time of my second wife.” Or if
someone tried to recall when the American swimming champion had dived into
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