Morning. My eyes are closed. The early bus is leaving the beach. We are heading back to the city.
Eyes closed – I can see wave upon wave shining ashore, clapping hard down on shoreline sand, spraying sunlight and rainbows into the morning blue. Cool, blue sea breeze moves along the far horizon, flecked white tips dance with ships far out at sea. The moon and stars fell not long after dawn and now only the white hot sun burns down on alabaster sand, filling the pure blue sky with glare, arrowing down on the surface of the Indian Ocean.
The early bus is moving, uphill downhill, turning, heading back to the city. Eyes stay closed. I can feel the sunlight still moving through my skin, saltwater cooling the sting, drying now, hair still wet, body heavy, eyes closed, sand stuck between my toes. Arrived at the beach around 7am when all was still cool. Lay on my back, slept off the night, digging toes down into soft sand. Could feel the sun moving across my skin, shadows walking past (all dark for a moment then light again). Sounds of people all around; happy people laughing. Ocean kept lapping waves on the shore. Opened eyes and nothing but blue – no clouds, no commitments, no sense of time. A plane flying high above, climbing higher in silence, moving off, up along the coast. Someone laughed, three big waves crashed with children screaming in distant laughter. Thought about reading my book, but it stayed there half-open on the beach (pages rippling with occasional sea breeze). Eyes close again.
As the sun angled up and shone down, I eventually made my way towards the blue to swim. I stood at the shoreline for a moment; I saw one endless sheet of shining blue, glittered and large. I saw cormorants swimming and swooping for shoals of fish; I saw my friend Bruce swimming out past the reef (his yellow swimming cap moving parallel to the coast in a group of four splashing out in the deep). And into the water I waded, deeper until I dived. Underneath the water the great dance of sunlight swayed in buoyant silence, flying with me in the ebb and flow of twirling shells in the gin jade emerald blue, moving back and forth, swaying in hammocks, looking at these gemstone wonders swirling around you until you have to surface once again for air.
The bus stops suddenly. Eyes open. The driver jumps out from his seat apologising to the congregation – he wants to take a photo of the ocean. Yes, it really is that good today. An entire ocean so flat. Nine huge tankers sit out along the horizon, waiting for a berth at the docks. Then out of nowhere a wave moves in so fast, swelling, racing, arcing up then with an intake of roar it collapses with a bang of surf onto the wet sand. The driver has his photo and jumps back onto the bus. The bus is moving again, leaving the beach behind, heading back to the city. Eyes closed now.
Even on this bus I can still feel the saltwater, the morning, the sunshine moving across me.
Mid Morning. Stepping off the bus and into the white heat of the city felt like walking into the artwork of Giorgio de Chirico. Silhouettes, sloping shadows, empty spaces. The forecast for this week predicts we will reach 40.c. Burning, blistering heat. Footsteps slow down a pace. Elsewhere, indoors, the shade is the best place to be. Towards King Street, for a coffee, I cross the road, the busy street, shimmering tarmac, heated fumes, passing traffic. I look up and see Neil sitting at the steps of the Trinity Church. Neil on the Trinity steps. Usually, he’s there sat reading; today he’s there sat talking to somebody. He looks up and sees me. I wave, he flashes a peace sign back with his fingers. I think he’s a writer, I think he’s homeless; he’s always on those steps reading, writing, talking to somebody.
Along King Street, the flow of shade stretched past each intersection. It was cooler here and colours could emerge from the bleaching, blinding sun. Murals of art shared space with open armed palm trees, which stood at the corners wriggling thin fingers of palm leaves in what little breeze breathed. A white cockatoo flew high above the street casting a moving shadow over bookshops and buildings, and the two stone lions lazing in sunshine on top of the old theatre, while a Mauritian restaurant began to prepare for its lunch service with the sounds of sega music moving through the heat.
Up at the café, I found the best seat in the house (outside, to the right, tight up against the windows, on the pavement, facing out). There, everything felt like a Saturday should. There, everything always felt as if today would be one of those days in which you would be destined to meet a special someone, someone special, at some stage during the day, one of those once-in-a-lifetime dalliances that starbursts immediately and sparkles throughout the summer. There, it would easier to watch the world walking past, to waste time productively, to idle, to daydream, to convince yourself that this was an essential part of being.
Sunshine was falling into the street, causing parked bicycles to shine as they leant up against white walls. I watched a woman cross the road. She left the shade to walk over into the sunshine. Her hair lit up at once. Shoulder length blonde curls that bounced in life. A man with long, black sideburns growing down his face and a paunch hanging out of a red t-shirt, gunned past on a skateboard; his wheels tore up a sound on the hot, dry tarmac. A taxi pulled up in front of the café. A man dressed in a suit and a white shirt (no tie), got out. He went into one of the apartments above one of the shops opposite my seat. Next door, two girls sat in the sunshine on the steps to their flat. Gloss black hair, sunglasses screening eyes. Brickwork and white paint, two concrete steps that led up to their open doorway. Three shoppers walked past them, each carrying bags and sullen faces. I saw another friend, Jean-mic, walking slow, slow walking (and I mean s.l.o.w.w.a.l.k.i.n.g), broadchested in his t-shirt and shorts, sunglasses on, arms swinging at his side, overtaking us all. Then the cars came. A blue car turned up the street making noise. A speeding white car followed up, slowed down and sounded its horn echoing on the narrow walls – a bald, smiling face waved at me. I only recognised my friend Antonio moments after his car sped off. An elderly couple walked gently past the cafe holding hands and shopping bags in silence.
A small, dragon fly came to rest at my table just as my espresso arrived. It sat there, warming its wings and moved only when I went to drink my coffee. The golden crema cooled in the white demitasse. Sweet on the palate, warm, sip, swallow, bitter, leaving the taste of roasted smoke cooling through the lungs.
The table next to me – a family of four – got up and left the café. The sound of scraping chairs carried in the air. They left behind a newspaper on one of the chairs and it was open at the horoscope page. I leant over and checked over for mine. I read it – it was pretty good without being accurate. It said it was time for legs to be up and running, telling me I was smart enough to strip away flattering words in order to see what was really on offer; creative skills linked to writing would open the way to new successes. So it said. A child came running up the pavement, his footsteps stopped suddenly at the café to say hello – out of breath and panting, it was Gavin, the son of a family I knew. Carrying a copy of Ian Fleming’s ‘Live and Let Die’ he was running late for an acting class but wanted to say hello. I watched him run off up King Street.
The sun was high, much higher than when I arrived and now almost overhead. A spinning disc of burning light. The street was hot. The blues and greens were bright. Passing people blurred and my eyes ached. It was time to go home, to sleep a siesta, and then to find a way to make all the words and sentences of the morning breathe and flow into stories that meant something to me. If they made other people happy, then great. But there was an indulgent purpose in being able to spend an afternoon touching and sculpting the moments of your time from fleeting thoughts and visions into captured language on paper. To defy the running rivers of Heraclitus and to step into that same water twice, to swim beneath the great dance of sunlight, to sway in buoyant silence and to look at all the gemstone wonders swirling about you until you had to surface once again for air. And then, when all the writing had finished, and the Muses subsided, the night would fall flat like the morning ocean, to reveal great pools of starlight and the opportunity to dance again.
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siesta del somewhere 