reef, the rusted wreckage of a vessel was prominent as a tilted metal mass, intermittently surged by waves. Embellished by palm clusters, the northern and southern pink granite headlands enclosed the beach like matching bookends. The giant granite rocks had been carved by eons of wind and water into irregular shapes resembling jigsaw puzzles. The scene was engrossing. With so much visual stimulation it was like watching a movie.
Marlon understood. “Uh, huh. This is a special place.” That look of wonder was common for first-time visitors and he smiled contentedly. “My backyard.”
Kylie glanced at him and, at that moment, she was so overwhelmingly happy she had to fight the desire to smother him with a motherly hug.
Emerging from under the cool, shaded canopy at the front of the restaurant, Dink disrupted the moment as he returned with the drinks.
“Talk about bloody feng-shui!” he exclaimed loudly. “This beach is superb.”
He handed Kylie and Marlon their drinks and they nodded their thanks, and agreement. Dink could not disguise his awe at this sublime beauty and stood, mouth slightly agape, watching the waves roll into the lagoon. There were a handful of tourists, including the European girls they had seen earlier with Marlon, lying silently on beach towels enjoying the sun. It was a lazy but sensual scene. No one spoke and, in fact, many seemed to be dozing, drunk with bliss.
Dink raised his beer. “Ah, well, a man is not a camel.” And slugged thirstily from the bottle. “Aaah, that’s the ticket!”
Kylie’s gaze turned skywards, and she tracked several large, dark birds effortlessly circling the northern headland. “Those birds are so graceful. What are they?”
“The frigate birds are common here. Good fishing.” Marlon flicked at a fly that had settled on his face.
“What’s over the headland?” she asked, noting the rumbling sound and the fine misty spray above the headland rocks.
Marlon’s brow furrowed and his voice was a mixture of admiration and dread, “That is the wild side of the island. Côte Sauvage. A very difficult area.”
This piqued Dink’s interest and adventurous spirit. “The savage coast. That’s pretty mysterious. Can you hike along there?”
“No. It is not wise. The only way past the sea-cliffs is to walk in the water.” Marlon’s evocative description of the jagged reefs, large waves and treacherous currents was intended to be a truthful but serious warning. There was no safe way back onto land until you reached the north point of the island, into the boat harbour beyond the break wall. “The water becomes very deep and there is a powerful current. You have to swim this part except with a very low tide.”
“Have you done it?” Dink asked, still assessing the feasibility of the route. He recognised the description of the break wall and anchorage where he had first met Ajay.
“When I was younger. With my brothers. We would sometimes wade and dive, spearfishing for octopus on the reef.” Maybe he sensed Dink considering the idea, and added, “But only when the swell and wind were low.”
“OK, so another day,” Dink said cheekily but with some intent.
“You’re incorrigible, Dink!” Kylie smacked his arm. “Do you have a death wish?”
“Go hard or go home.” He smirked, rubbing his shoulder.
“Sure, but within reason. Your recent choices haven’t been so great.”
Chapter 8: Nita
January 24th, 2010
“Ajay, can you set the table, please?” Nita asked her son impatiently. For the third time in the past half hour. “They are coming at seven o’clock, right?”
“Yes, yes, Mama. I’ll do it now.” He got up off the low couch in the living room with an exaggerated groan of effort and started towards the verandah.
“Just help your mother, would you,” Soval chided his son whilst still deeply ensconced in his recliner chair. He was fervently scanning the local paper. “She has done all the hard work.”
“Yes, Papa,” Ajay assented, knowing this to be the truth. He admired and respected his father, but he loved his mother, and she spoilt him. Nita had been busy in her kitchen all day. She loved to cook and to share the incredibly crafted meals with guests. Her Persian cultural heritage had instilled in her the duty and privilege of hosting foreigners, and her upbringing had allowed her to learn how to cook marvellous traditional delicacies as well as to adapt to cooking in new countries, first England and now the Sedois Islands.
Nita had started early with a methodical walk around her exquisite garden. She collected fresh herbs and spices there before foraging the local area to gather additional ingredients that were not in her garden or were not yet ripe. Then, with her bike wheeled beside her, she headed towards La Porte where roadside stalls sold coconuts and fresh vegetables from the northern farms. Nita was little in stature but was a bustling bundle of energy. She was well known on the island and appreciated for her generosity of spirit, sound counsel, and her ability to keep secrets when required.
Her selfless rearing of several abandoned children, combined with a continued commitment to girls’ education and non-judgemental moral guidance, were respected and admired by the local community. And she was also Ajay’s mother. Kindly greetings and friendly conversation followed her as she passed along the road collecting the required items. These were stowed carefully in the basket on the back of her bicycle. Most people would not dream of taking her money, remembering some kindness done for them or theirs by her or her son. Nita was gently insistent and would always pay something, even if it ended up being a small portion of the actual price.
“You’re too kind,” she would trill repeatedly and enthusiastically as she kept on moving north along the road. “Thank you again. I’ll see you soon.”
Her real destination was the northern port and she aimed to arrive mid-morning, just as the fishing boats returned with their catch. The fishermen would announce their arrival into port by blowing loudly through the conch shell. This age-old signal indicated they were ready for business. The mournful bellow from these musical mollusc shells carried well across the island, as there was little other noise to compete. Nita knew from experience that to get the best seafood it paid to be waiting at the port when the boats were coming in. She could begin cheerful haggling as the boats were anchoring in the bay.
“What have you got for me, Gregoire?” she hollered at the first trawler.
“Ah, Nita, lovely. I’ve got some large red snapper,” he responded cheerfully and with pride. “Show her, boys.” One of the youthful deckhands expertly hooked his fingers into the gills to hoist a sizeable snapper for inspection. His muscular biceps bulged with the weight of the prized fish.
“Oh, that’s perfect. I’ll take that one. Any seafood?” she enquired after the netted by-catch of small crabs and fish that often fleshed out a spicy curry.
“Only a small amount, I’m afraid. I would’ve kept more if I’d known you wanted it.”
“I’ll take what you have. I don’t need much.” She rested her bike on a coconut tree and sat contentedly next to Gregoire’s wooden shack, knowing she had what she required. Ajay had asked Marlon to catch fresh octopus
