A Day at the Beach

I step into the hot sand, at Tamariz beach (in Estoril); I look for a spot close to the water and once I find it I spread my Kapulana [1] on the sand. Then I take my shorts off, rearrange my bathing suit’s straps and start protecting my skin (SPF 50). I take a book out of my bag; make a sand pillow (under my Kapulana), lie down and begin to read “Un amour pour rien” by Jean d’Ormesson (of the French Academy). The sound of the waves relaxes me…

“Philippe, qui n’a connu que le plaisir, rencontre Béatrice en Italie. Elle lui semble jolie, sans plus, et douce. Philippe s’amuse au début de cet «amour pour rien» qui peu à peu le prend, l’occupe, l’obséde. Bientôt lassé par l’apparente légèreté du jeune home, Béatrice se détourne de lui. Alors, mais trop tard, Philippe comprend que cet amour dont il jouait s’est mué en passion.”

“Philippe, who lived for pleasure, meets Béatrice in Italy. Her beauty, simplicity and sweetness strike him. In the beginning Philippe has fun with this «unattached love» that slowly holds him captive, chases and obsesses him. Soon, Béatrice, weary of the apparent shallowness of the young man, distances herself from him. Then Philippe realizes, all too late, that this unattached love had turned into passion.”

«What an idiot! [I converse with myself] This is so typical…but I wonder if it is passion, love or simply the sense of possession…hmmm…! »
A family of four people passes by me and the younger son throws sand on my Kapulana, with his foot; the father notices this, slaps the kid and orders to him to apologise “Pede desculpa à senhora, vá! [Apologise to the lady, now!]” In shock I tell the “gentleman” that it’s ok, after all we are in a beach, the man gives his kid a deadly look, the kid apologises, I faintly smile and they walk away…

“Tu sais, me dit-elle, on me fait beaucoup la cour. [You know, she tells me, I have been courted a lot these days] (…) Je te raconte ça, continuait Béatrice, parce que, après ce que tu m’as dit, c’est trés difficile pour moi de toujour résister [I’m telling you this, she continued, because after what you told me I am finding it very hard to keep resisting].”
“C’était le chantage. C’était naïf, mais trés classique. Elle essayait de me rendre jaloux [Blackmail, naïve, but what a classic. She wanted to make me jealous]”…I comment «No, you silly man! She is giving you a last chance; if you speak she’ll stay with you! Quel con! [2]»

I close my book, gazed at the sea and think «Hedonism is a blindfold…exciting, pleasurable, yet it blinds you to love and to the simple things in life that really matter…Ah, Philippe…you don’t understand jot of life…and pain will catch up with you…». I continue to read…an hour later (as the end approaches: Béatrice slept with several men; one of them impregnates her; she falls in love with another who didn’t love her at all – he only wanted her for pleasure; Philippe follows her life like an election campaign on TV…he suffers “Plutôt alors mille fois voir Béatrice morte que de la voir attaché a un autre! [I rather see Béatrice dead than with another man!]”; she calls him one day to ask him to take her to an abortion clinic, in Lausanne, which he does. Philippe hopes that they get back together, however she asks him to drop her off in Dijon, where she’d meet the man she loves, in a hotel) I put down the book and go for a swim, but when I reach the water «Hell no! This water is too bloody cold!» discouraged, I simply freshen my body with some water and get back to my book…

“Qu’il est lent, le temps du Malheur! Les heures passérent, interminables; les jours passérent, interminables; le semaines passérent, interminables; les mois passérent, interminable; et les saisons, interminable. Je ne revis plus Béatrice.”

“How slow passes by the time of unhappiness! Hours went by, interminable; days went by, interminable; weeks went by, interminable; months went by, interminable; and the seasons, interminable. I never saw Béatrice ever again.”

«Ahh…Philippe…you managed to ruin three lives: yours, Béatrice and the baby’s» I murmured while closing the book.


I, now, invite you to read Livingsword’s tale of his day at the beach: here!


[1] Kapulana = Mozambican word for African cloth.
[2] Quel Con! = French expression meaning: idiot!