The Beach Read Free Page B

shirtsleeves had appeared.
    Just at that moment a harsh, insolent voice sounded from the bottom of the square—the voice of that Biagio. "Marina, don't open,- they're drunk as beasts." Exclamations and scufflings came from the window. I could vaguely see waving arms.
    But already the man and Ginio had collided on the stairs and were crashing around, panting like mad dogs. The man had black trousers with red piping. Doro, who was gripping my shoulder, let go suddenly and joined the fight. He kicked out at random, trying to find an opening, circling around. Then he quit and stood under the window. "Are you Rosina or Marina?" he said, looking up. No reply. "Are you Rosina or Marina?" he yelled, his foot on the doorstep.
    A crash followed; something had fallen, a vase of flowers as we discovered later. Doro jumped back, still looking up to where at least two women were fussing around. "We didn't do it on purpose," said a sharp-voiced woman in exasperation. "Did we hurt you?"
    "Who is speaking?" Doro shouted.
    "I'm Marina," a softer, rather caressing voice answered. "Are you hurt?"
    At that point I left the shadow, too, to speak my piece. Ginio and that other man had broken apart and were circling each other, grunting and fanning the air. But suddenly the carabiniere jumped over to the door, pulled Doro away, and shoved him back. The women upstairs squealed.
    All around the square, windows opened again; there was a cross fire of hard, angry voices. The man had shut the door and one could hear him slamming down the wooden bar behind. A rosary of insults and complaints cascaded around us, dominated by the sharp voice of the first of the two women. I heard—and this is what finally sobered me—Doro's name running from window to window. Ginio set up a new storm of shouting and kicking the door. From windows around the square, apples and other hard projectiles—peach stones perhaps—began to rain down, and then, when Doro was seizing hold of Ginio and pulling him away, a flash from the window and a great explosion that silenced everybody.
     
     
    3
     
    The first evening, walking along the seashore with Clelia, I told her what I could about Doro's exploit, which wasn't much. Still, the extravagance of the thing brought a grudging smile. "What egotists," she said. "And me bored down here. Why didn't you take me with you?"
    Seeing us arrive the afternoon after our escapade, Clelia showed no sign of surprise. I had not seen her for more than two years. We met her on the stairs of the villa, she in her shorts, sunburned and chestnut-haired. She held out her hand to me with a confident smile, her eyes under the tan showing brighter and harder than when I last saw her. Right away she began to discuss what we were going to do the next day. Just to please me, she postponed her descent to the beach. I jokingly pointed out how sleepy Doro was and left them alone to make their explanations. That first evening I went looking for a room and found it in a secluded back alley, with a window that gave on a big, twisted olive tree unaccountably growing up from among the cobbles. Many times afterward, coming home alone, I found myself contemplating that tree, which is perhaps what I remember best from the whole summer. Seen from below, it was knotty and bare, but made a solid, silvery mass of dry, paperlike leaves. It gave me the sensation of being in the country, an unknown country; often I sniffed to see if perhaps it might smell of salt. It has always seemed peculiar to me that on the outer rim of the coast, between land and ocean, flowers and trees should grow and good fresh water should run.
    A steep, angular stone stairway led up the outside of the house to my room. Underneath, on the ground floor, every so often, while I was washing or shaving, an uproar of discordant voices broke out, one of them a woman's. I couldn't quite make out if they were cheerful or angry. I looked through the window grating on my way down, but it was too dark by