chapter Seven, continued

to read from the FIRST CHAPTER

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EPISODE 14

'You remember the shipwreck in Punaouilo, don't you Laurent?'

I was surprised at that new diversion from Carlo. After twenty years, I had forgotten his digressive way of talking and even thinking, somewhat oriental, full of subtleties, continually surprising, often leaving me dazzled and breathless.

And a bit annoyed, in my teens... or maybe pretty much -- but then, after he had left, and at my father's painful absence, I'd consider it an unimportant detail, and it actually had become part of the longing I felt for him.

'Of course!' -- I answered expectantly, and waited, patiently.

What about my mother in this, I thought? Because the shipwreck was a program for just the two of us, my father and I -- never had we been there with Catherine. Carlo had just started talking about her, her arrival on the Île du Blanchomme, a story that had always been hidden from me, and suddenly he threw at me a memory that excluded her in all... Was it a tactic to make me empathize with him? All those recollections about the lovely moments we had spent together while Catherine had been gone...

'I thought so...' -- Carlo continued, smiling -- 'You had a fascination for that sea ruin... The first time you saw it... you were three... or four years old? We were returning from somewhere, in the evening... And going along Passage Beach you suddenly shouted from the back seat of my bike... Daddy, a 'monter'! And we stopped so that you could take a good look at the monster...'

It took you a while to understand what a shipwreck should be. And when you finally did, you seemed so sad! You asked why didn't anyone like the boat, and why it had been abandoned... You wondered who lived there, in the middle of the sea... When I said no one, you replied... "Not even the fish nor the birds like this boat?" And that seemed to make you immensely sad ... "When I'm rich, you said once, I'll fix this boat to live on it..."

I told you what I knew about that boat of Asian origin, and its sinking that had had such tragic consequences for Punaouilo in the past... It seems that the entire crew had been ill for many weeks, and they may have been even a little demented... What this disease was, no one ever found it out... It is said that Passage Beach, in the past, with riptides, effectively disappeared and gave passage to the boats... And so they had tried it that night, rather unskilfully, and ran aground.

The crew members that had not yet died from the disease, jumped into the water and swam to shore, where they were aided by the natives of Punaouilo, while other natives on canoes headed for the boat to rescue the rest of the crew... Apparently, there had been no one else alive aboard, and I think that even when faced with the dead bodies on the ship, the natives did not understand that they were threatened by a serious and highly contagious disease... The natives had no knowledge of foreign diseases, and how deadly they were... They even brought to land the groceries and useful objects that they could rescue... And so the population of the island was also infected, the disease spreading more rapidly and more fatal among the natives...

Maybe, Laurent, I was not very skilled in telling you such a story of disaster and death in the night time, and on the site of the tragedy... You were only four years old, what did you make out of it? I felt goose bumps myself thinking about the sad consequences of that accident... The few natives to survive were those who had left the island without taking anything that was not their canoes... no food, no objects, not even clothes... Everything was contaminated, and Punaouilo ended up deserted, a cemetery in the open for many decades, having become taboo... Until the European settlers arrived and occupied it, promoting the return of the natives, at least one generation later...

The next day you wanted to return to the site, and upon seeing clearly that it was a boat broken in two, you said it was silly to have called it a 'monter'... And you asked me to take you there so many times since, during the day, night, afternoon, was it early or late... We were there in all seasons and all years in a row from that first time... I could not so well understand your fascination, and how it aroused your imagination, but we'd always go there, whenever you asked me.

Do you remember that many times we would just stand there, in silence, watching the wreck? You trembled with excitement at every wave pounding against the old hull, making ​​the whole ship creak, or every time a bird landed on the old and still upright mast, seeming that it would be tore apart at last... By then, the wood of the boat had already become like rock, virtually indestructible, and yet you seemed to fear for its fate...

'I don't remember that...' -- I was intrigued. My father seemed to have more impressions of those visits than myself, perhaps because he was an adult then, and able to watch me while still observing the landscape, while I had been concentrated solely on the wreck, and probably lost in my own imagination -- '...but I think it was on that beach that you taught me how to swim...'

'Exactly!' -- Carlo beamed at my remark.

And suddenly I understood my father's present situation... he should also have had his expectations regarding our reunion, and like me his heart should be swollen and aching with painful hopes, fearing how much I had forgotten about him, or how much I liked him yet. It was like a dance of re-mating... and each shared memory was a victory... for him, for me, for us! 

And that seemed to be what Carlo was really interested in, and not exactly the story he was telling me.

'I had never seen you afraid of anything, like you were upon learning how to swim, Laurent.' -- at that, Carlo had smiled softly, and I think he had also had in mind how, overcoming my fear, I'd later become a juvenile swimming champion, in France, since he had still been present for my fisrt victories -- 'At first I thought you were more afraid of entering the ocean near the ghostly boat than of the sea itself... You asked me several times if dead people were still living there... But it was not fear, it was curiosity that inspired you, and then it was with the promise that we would visit the boat that I could make you get past the shallow water...'

'Come, my son. Trust me. I will not let go of your hand...'

'Come, my dear. Come with your father, Laurent.'

'I think Catherine instilled that fear in me...' -- I shared with Carlo. 

My mother had never liked the sea. She hated it -- that was the verb she used, and I assume that being a writer she weighed exactly what she said and how she said it. Treacherous, dirty, dangerous -- those were the adjectives she used for the sea. She attended the public library every day, but she never went to the beach, and hated getting dirty from the sand and the salty water, and she easily got burned from the Sun... Having spent part of her life on an island in the Pacific Ocean had not changed that -- it only made ​​her thoroughly unhappy.

But not me. For those had been the best years of my life, my childhood in Punaouilo!

And after we left it, I adopted the pools in France only because I missed the sea so much! And if I came to win several major championships, and was being touted as a likely Olympian, it was because one day I had trusted Carlo and learned to swim from him... though not much better than a crab, which was all that he could teach me.

But I don't want to be unfair -- he could swim no better than a crab, but most important is that in the water he made me feel safe and was able to share his joy and sense of freedom with me.

It was on Passage Beach, next to my father, and through his arms, that all my joys and aquatic glories began... and also... that... which would take me forever away from the swimming pools.

'I remember the night we went up on the boat...' -- I shared with Carlo, filled with sweet memories.

'When... we went up on the boat?' -- Carlo looked at me puzzled -- 'You mean... when we climbed up on that boat? We never did that, Laurent! You often requested that we'd do it, but I never allowed it. Your mother had  accused me often enough of being inconsequential, for having wanted to raise you in freedom... But I was never irresponsible. We never went up on that boat. The wood had become stone and was extremely sharp. And our weight would probably have made the boat collapse...'

'But I remember that night so well, Carlo!' -- I was disappointed that my father had forgotten about one of my most cherished childhood memories -- 'I even wanted to climb the mast, which, in fact, you did strictly forbid...'

'Of course I forbid it, and not only that!' -- Carlo retorted, vehemently -- 'You are mistaken, Laurent. We never really approached the boat... There was always the danger of the mast breaking and falling upon us. And the weight of a single bird could do it... and they seemed to know that, because they never built their nests on that mast... Even the winds and the storms could have broken it, any time... No, Laurent, we never got any closer than ten meters of distance from that boat.'

'Carlo... Don't you remember it? It was the night of the shark...' 

"Daddy, a shark..." -- I shrieked, and my voice had sounded raggedy and more acute than normally, just like a little girl's.

"I've seen him already, Laurent..." -- Carlo had answered quietly, almost in a whisper, as if neutralizing my cry -- "It's only a baby shark. He will not do anything to us. But even so, we'll get out of here, because he might be accompanied..."

"You swim ahead, Laurent. I'll be following you. Calmly, my son. I'll keep an eye on the shark. Now go."

'Don't you recall that night, Carlo? You said it yourself... that we had invaded the shark's habitat space as we approached the boat... I got really scared but you tranquilized me... and brought us safely to the beach... You were my hero!' -- I said softly, feeling fond of my father and fond of my memory.

'That actually happened, Laurent. We did encounter a blacktip reef shark near the shipwreck once, and probably because we had invaded his space he had to come check on us... But we had not gone up on the boat... That has never happened.' -- Carlo smiled condescendingly -- 'And it was daylight, when we found that shark... It was no baby, I can now tell you... I lied because I wanted to calm you... With more than a meter, it was already an adult shark, and I think we were in real danger there... It was our best kept secret, especially from Catherine, wasn't it?'

I was in dismay, deeply uncomfortable and hurt with Carlo's insistence in dismissing my version of that encounter. My main childhood adventure, my most exciting memory...

I remembered having gone up on the shipwreck, or at least swimming among its remains... and more than once! How could this never have happened? Surely, I had never have gone there on my own -- I had always been accompanied by Carlo. So how could his recollections be so different from mine? And worse, his memories... were destroying mine. 

My childhood in Punaouilo seemed so far away in time and distance, so pure and naive and happy that it was almost improbable... and now Carlo was pushing it even farther away. Should I trust him?

'We've been so many times to that wreck, but we never got to swim there during the night, even though that was perhaps your most frequent request as you grew older... But I never gave in. Sorry, Laurent...' -- Carlo sighed -- 'Such was your fascination for that shipwreck that I started wondering if it did not hold a message for me...' -- Carlo smiled from deep inside his sadness, softly -- 'Actually, everything and whatever came from you with intensity... I tended to interpret it like a message... You yourself a long, slow message, lovingly unfolding into my life.'

'Your usual silence at Passage Beach, so unusually deep and consistent coming from a child, intrigued me, and got me wondering. I myself had had this fascination for decadence and decrepitude as the theme of my Parisian paintings, but that shipwreck... I began to ponder if it had anything to do with my own life... And it was as if the wreck... it had been endlessly happening before my eyes... still happening.'

'For my own life was a wreck in slow motion... My paintings that no one wanted, how much they were irrelevant to the world, and how gradually it became irrelevant to me as well, as I took on the role of the wall painter... which I had so insistently tried to avoid during my time in Paris, rather starving than submitting... But with a family to support, there was no choice... My inner life became sad and poor, although I won a few bucks, although I had you... It still felt meaningless.'

''But then Drew came into my life, and the money followed, and my motivation to paint came back as I grew accustomed to being seen and recognized, my work appreciated and desired... And seeing that boat decaying before my eyes I realized that the wreck in slow motion... which I could observe in all the sordid and sad details... was my relationship with Catherine, itself another wreck... and our little family, which never came to be...'

'That never came to be, Carlo?' -- it seemed too cruel -- 'What do you mean by that?'

'Your mother and I have never been in accordance with the education that we wanted to give you, Laurent. She felt I was giddy and overly benevolent, and I thought she was carelessly unattentive and too rigid towards you. Nor had we ever shared the same values ​​and goals in life... In fact, we could not have been more different from each other... How often did we do things as a family, the three of us together? Do you remember any important occasions, Laurent?'

'A birthday party in Puanouilo, perhaps?' -- it had been the last time I had seen my mother in Punaouilo. -- 'The last one before Catherine left to France, I think...' -- I replied wryly. I felt bad, because Carlo had contradicted and was now daring me.

'That's it! And that's all...' -- Carlo smiled sadly -- 'That's what I'm talking about...' -- and next he fell into a heavy silence. He looked so tired and wasted. Much, much older than Catherine, though they were both fifty eight years old.

'In the vast silence, I could hear Catherine vomiting in the bathroom. And also crying, angrily, and I think even cursing... She kept flushing the toilet, repeatedly, and I thought I should have warned her about how it was crucial to save water on the island...' -- and suddenly I realized that Carlo had returned to the Île du Blanchomme, to the evening of Catherine's arrival -- 'I waited for everything to become again silent, and as she did not return to the beach, I went upstairs to look for her in the house.'

I found her sitting at one of the tables that Armand had placed on the veranda, around a small lounge which he called the Music Room, where he kept his guitar and the stereo. It was the only room in the house that actually resembled a hostel, with the four tables creating a small eating environment, a bit like a charming Parisian bistro -- and it was there that the girl had sat. She should have found the matches, because she had lit a candle, and under that gentle light, for the first time I thought she looked beautiful in her fancy dress, which bared her back.

I brought her some juice I had prepared that afternoon, thinking she might like to drink something to get rid of the vomit's taste in her mouth -- I didn't mention that to her, of course -- and as an apology for my previous rudeness.

'Merci.' -- she said when I handed her the glass with juice. Inadvertently I glanced at her generous décolleté dress, and I caught a glimpse of her breasts under the loose fabric, but luckily she seemed oblivious to my indiscretion -- 'I hate boats!' -- and then she was telling me how  sick she had been since coming to the islands, having to use boats to get around, and I realized that she too was trying to apologize for her bad mood -- 'I have once been on a cruise ship, and I also felt sick, but these tiny little boats here... They are dreadful! And worst of all was travelling to this island!'

I tried to tell her the probable reason for the sea being rougher around the Île du Blanchomme were the dangerous currents encircling it, but she did not seem to want to listen to it, and just cut me off.

'Juice?' -- she grimaced, having drunk half a glass until finally having realized what she was drinking -- 'Don't you have anything stronger?' -- and she clarified it as I looked at her blankly -- 'Are you sure that you understand French? Have you ever been to France?' -- but she did not want to hear my answer -- 'Don't you have wine? Or anything alcoholic? I need to recharge my energies...'

I laughed. Not at the request properly, and of course not at the fact that she was feeling weak, but at the absurdity of thinking that there could be wine on a tiny island lost in the Indian Ocean.

'Sure!' -- I told her wryly --  'I'll bring you our wine list...' -- I added, very unskillfully.

I saw she took me seriously for she was happy, and only understood it was a joke when I did not leave her side. I laughed again.

She was immediately offended, and again I saw her mood worsen.

She was mad at me as she jumped from the chair, her anger exploding. 

The girl had a delicate constitution and looked fragile, her figure so slim and petite -- her arms were so thin that it looked like they could break with that emotional burst. In contrast to her round breasts, that I found myself watching, and which were not too full but so well made ​​as those from a Greek classical statue. In her outbursts, her frailty transformed into recklessness. 

It was her way of imposing herself, I thought.

'How rude you are!' -- she cried, full of scorn -- 'If you intend to host civilized beings, how can you not have wine? What kind of hole is this hostel? My God, how long will I have to wait to get out of here?'

'Maybe a week...' -- I replied calmly, without stepping into her ​​anger -- '...at least!' -- and I confess I felt a certain pleasure in torturing her with that disheartening information -- 'I'm not sure how often the boat comes around the island, but I think it never takes more than ten days for it to return...'

'How come you don't know? Don't you live here?' -- she moaned -- 'Ten days? You must be kidding! I need to wait that long for that damn boat? At this hole... with you?' -- she emphasized the 'you', making it clear that my company was worse than the uncivilized island and the dreadful boat -- 'Where are the other guests? Is there anyone more educated here that I can talk to?'

'No guests! I've said it before... this is not a hostel...'

I said it gently, but it was as if I had punched the girl, who seemed to fall over her own body, moaning, and walked towards the couch at the Music Room, where she collapsed.

'Can I help you? Do you want more juice?' -- I did not know what to do, I did not know what to say, I did not know how to behave in such a situation, but I guessed I should try -- 'Haven't you been overexposed to the sun on the beach, this afternoon?' -- I had noticed her skin was so pale and delicate, and it seemed to me to be overly pinkish, as if she had been assaulted by an army of sun rays -- 'It could be a heatstroke, and drinking water probably helps...'

'No!' -- she moaned, and gestured me to back away from her -- 'I want to be alone!'-- she fidgeted on the couch, restlessly -- 'Is the ground of the island moving?'

'No, of course not...' -- her ideas were so ridiculous, but I tried not to laugh, and instead empathize with her suffering -- 'You could still be feeling the rocking of the boat...'

'Damned boats...' -- she whispered, and it seemed to me that in a couple more minutes she fell deeply asleep. 

I went to the kitchen to wash the dishes of the day, and I had to smile as I saw the lipstick mark on the girl's glass. Did I place my own lips on it, before washing the glass? I don't remember if I did it that first night already, but I certainly did it afterwards...

When I returned to the Music Room, she was sound asleep. Against my will, against my education, I again glanced at her breasts... and more intently this time, since I knew I wasn't being observed. From the way her body was twisted, I could see the edge of one of her nipples appearing under the fabric -- and I almost felt vertigo from the overwhelming wave of desire that invaded and dominated me. I had to run away from the room, confused, not to act brutally against the asleep, helpless girl.

What was that?!? Lust burst in me more violently than anything else I had ever felt, like nothing before... If I had stayed a moment longer beside that couch, watching the sleeping girl, I could not have stopped my hand from touching her... and not only her breasts... and next I could have thrown myself on top of her, and maybe ...

Maybe... I would had been conceived! -- I could not help but think.

I was a little embarrassed from the way Carlo was telling me his story, including such intimate confessions, but at the same time I was fascinated with the possibility to acknowledge my own conception... I guess many children have that curiosity about the occasion of their conception, and as a teenager I had asked Catherine about it, and shamelessly she had told me a story I now discovered had been thoroughly made up -- and I was about to discover the truth.

'There haven't been many women in my life...' -- Carlo pondered -- 'From my mother I remember very little, and when I moved in with my grandfather, he was already a widower. I think I took from him a certain asceticism, and my celibacy never bothered me. In my teenage years in the Apennines there was nothing sexually exciting -- the animals having intercourse and procreating, yes, but that did not arouse any desire in me, to try it myself. Moreover, sometimes we had some guys helping on the farm, but until Armand's heartfelt confession I had never thought of having sex with another man.'

Parisian women astounded me, and I dismissed them thinking they were meant for guys like Armand. To my eyes they were voluptuous, sophisticated, intellectual, all full of attitudes and style -- even the waitresses and shop assistants seemed like untouchable queens to me. I could blush when I recalled them, especially at the Cinematéque, engaging in long, passionate kisses with their boyfriends. And I never considered having one for me -- I had to struggle to survive in Paris, make good use of my time to get the best training possible, and somehow try to establish myself in the city.

I thought I'd take a cold shower to calm myself, but that was not what happened at the bathroom, and for the first time since coming to the island, I jerked off. Not even the smell of her vomit still lingering in the bathroom turned me off. I stroked myself feeling a guilty pleasure all the time -- for I was finally wasting the sexual energy I had been accumulating and transforming into vital and spiritual energy, like I had studied in that book about Indian philosophies... and I felt even more guilty for being so aware of the girl's presence in the house... and in my mind... and the fact that she was the reason why I was wildly touching myself like that... and when I came, I was thinking of her nipple and how it would have tasted in my mouth...

I had not known how to deal with women, and neither did I know how to deal with my own lust.

I had learned from the masters of India that lust was the chief enslaver of human beings -- and since I had never really felt it before, I had considered myself naturally free of it, to be the one remarkable exception to all beings. 

Until that evening on the Île du Blanchomme.

It was a tremendous explosion, or as if the walls of a huge dam had collapsed  -- and I could no longer contain the force of the waters of my desire. Neither wanted I.

'I went to sleep, and after having fidgeted in my bed for a few minutes, again I masturbated...' -- Carlo suddenly looked at me, as if returning from the Île du Blanchomme -- 'Am I embarrassing you, my son? You know, I was in my early twenties, and a virgin... Now that I am older this seems so far away... almost a curiosity... and so unlikely to have happened... That strong lust... I was guiltily masturbating in my room, separated only by a tiny wall from the girl sleeping on the couch... That girl was not yet your mother, Laurent... And as I jerked off I was thinking of Armand, too, and equally feeling guilty, and confused...'

I was as tormented as I had been the previous night, but it was a different kind of suffering -- instead of nightmares, I was fully awake and aroused by desire, lust, which I did not seem to want to get rid of... In my mind I could understand how enslavening it was, but those bodily sensations were so good and nice, so intensely pleasurable... And I gave in, again I gave in to it and masturbated until I exploded and was left drained...

I eventually fell asleep, exhausted.

I woke up a few hours later, before dawn, again with a hard-on -- and needing to go to the bathroom to pee.

Since Armand had been gone, instead of using the corridor, I had taken to crossing his room, which was next to mine, to get to the bathroom, adjoining his.

I stopped halfway.

The girl must have woken up in the middle of the night, and having left the Music Room and wandered through the house without my noticing it -- but had she seen me, lying naked and hard on my bed? --, she had found Armand's bedroom and taken hold of his big, comfortable bed.

For a moment I was just confused and baffled. But next I was furious with her, for she had occupied my friend's bed with such ease, something that I had been unable to do even in his absence. I almost kicked her out of that room, such was my indignation at her disrespecting the bed where I had experienced so many emotions and special feelings with Armand. Of course, to her it had been just an available bed in the hostel, not a love nest...

 But I did not wake her up in my rage, only because my demanding hard-on humiliated me... and I cautiously turned back, returning to my room.

But once back there, though separated by a single wall, my fury and indignation quickly vanished to give in to lust -- and while servicing my raging hard-on and watching dawn breaking, I fantasized about both Armand and Catherine, and was now inside him, then I was in her, and in my thoughts I could not distinguish whom I was with, riding that bed that now united and mingled their bodies into one genderless body, confusing them in my mind.

I saluted dawn with another big spurt in several ropes that I aimed at my body, so that I didn't have to clean the room afterwards, and all covered with cum I went down to the beach to bathe in the sea, so as to cleanse myself and to calm down.

For another day in a row I did not meditate in the morning. I did try to sit, but the problem was no longer just calming my mind... since my thoughts kept going back to the girl, my body was no longer like a safe and stable mountain to which I'd bring back my wandering mind. The solid mountain had turned into a blazing volcano.

 So I just sat there feeling the breeze on my naked body, watching the sun rise, and then I swam as much as I could, against the currents, trying to tire myself and pacify my desire. 

I felt I was losing it... but what was it? My freedom, probably. My privacy, surely. My peace of mind, of course. It was like losing myself, as painful and pleasurable as it could be!

NEXT CHAPTER

the story of the shipwreck in Punaouilo was loosely based on the masterpiece  "Shipwrecks" by Akira Yoshimura, a book I adore, one of the best I have ever read, and it is mentioned here as my inspiration for that interlude in this chapter, as well as a reading suggestion. 

see more at my Notebook