The Whimpering Beach

A short story by Fletcher Kovich

 

Perhaps a necessary part of an adventure is an element of danger. Perhaps without that element, there can be no adventure.

The “news” is an assault on my sense of safety. I am told of invisible “bugs” that want to harm me, of the diseased pound, the depressed economy, the impending floods, the risk of being penetrated by en eloquent youth’s cutting satire; or an errant youth’s thrusting blade—Do not, whatever you do, go out after dark. And this is all in my own country, in my own home town. This is not freedom. Here, I am in prison, and the guards at my door are called Fear. I feel them standing sentry over me. I needed a holiday from their oppressive counsel, and perhaps it was this that made me ignore the UK Embassy’s warning about terrorist activity in the Southern Philippines.

I closed my front door behind him, suitcase in tow, and as I was about to walk away I heard an incredulous voice nearby. It was my very own sentry, Fear, telling me, “But the plane might crash——”

A mantra came to me, which I recited in my mind: “Fear, I am no longer yours.” And as I walked away I glanced over my shoulder, smiling, and noticed that he (or she) was no longer there.

In the Philippines, I arrived at my hotel in Davao. Of course, Davao is in the South. Fear had warned me about the South, so what could I do but book my holiday in the South? I alighted from my taxi and looked around me, to the busy and noisy roads, the smiling Filipino faces, the dazzling sky, to the hotel building, all concrete and proud, and then to the dark shadows that concealed the alleyway across the street, and concealed that other alleyway over there, and I looked to the murky shade under that tree over there, but nowhere could I see Fear standing sentry.

On the second day, I was sat in a bar in Davao when a teenage boy passed by me as though being carried on a breeze, and when I looked down I found he had left on my table a glossy flyer advertising the Bluejaz Resort in Samal. He seemed to have left a leaflet on my table only, as if his message were meant for my eyes alone. The flyer promised an island paradise of crystal clear waters, white sands and every hue of beach-side pleasure. I looked up and the boy was gone, but standing in the corner of the bar I thought I caught a glimpse of Fear, who then delighted in telling me, “And now they have come for you.”

I pocketed the flyer, whose words then seemed to call to me from my pocket, and I soon found myself stepping up off the Samal ferry and onto a long stone-built jetty which then ushered me onto those white sands. I sat at a table in the shade overlooking the beach and a warm breeze caressed my face. As I sat there, enjoying its touch, I felt a profound calmness releasing from somewhere inside me and spreading to fill my whole body. I became aware of the chatting voices all around me, some near, some distant, some clear, some indistinct—like birdsong in a forest. And as I looked along the beach, I caught another glimpse of Fear, who was standing under the shade of a table canopy, and I fleetingly heard him say, “I wonder how they will get to you.”

I looked away, reciting my mantra in my mind: “Fear, I am no longer yours.” I sighed, and again I could only hear that forest birdsong.

I noticed a group of Filipino friends playing volleyball on the white sands and as I watched them, one of the men looked over and, as he saw me watching him, he froze momentarily, as though recalling a long-lost memory. Then the moment passed and he resumed his play. I watched him jumping for the ball and—I guess he could not help himself either—he kept glancing back at me. He was in his late twenties, of athletic build and perhaps slightly taller than the average Filipino. He wore a white sun visor and sun glasses but this did not in any way disguise his focus on me, as though there were some fundamental force passing between us and it did not need mere vision to guide it. He struck the ball again and as his friends cheered, he glanced back at me as a child might seek the approval of a parent—Look what I did; are you proud of me?

It was then that I heard it for the first time. As the man then looked away from me, I heard a distant whimper carried on the breeze, as though coming from somewhere nearby, though I could not tell where. There was something about the quality of this whimper that made me wonder, for one moment, whether the beach might be haunted. I could still hear the group of friends playing volleyball and also the sound of those other chatting voices. But the quality of that whimper had seemed different from all the other sounds, for it seemed that I had heard the sound inside my own head, rather than it travelling to me from outside. And yet it was not like the memory of a sound; it was much more vivid than a memory. It seemed to me that I had heard the sound through some extra sense that had suddenly switched on within me, some extra channel that had momentarily opened up to allow me to hear that sound. For some reason I then realized—with absolute certainty—that I had just experienced telepathy. There seemed no other explanation; the experience had been fleeting but vivid, and was like nothing else I had ever known.

I watched the game and thought no more about it—for what else could I have done—shouted out to everyone nearby that I had just experienced telepathy? No, this was one of those one-off miraculous experiences that we each might sometimes have in life but which must remain our own private experience, for we can only communicate common experiences to other people, and this experience was far from common. So, I said nothing, kept it to myself and continued watching the game.

Later, I was waiting at the bar when I noticed that the sound of the volleyball game had ceased. I looked round and found the Filipino man standing beside me. He smiled and asked:

“Are you American?”

Over his shoulder, I noticed that Fear was stood nearby, glancing at me but this time saying nothing; he just watched me, as though words were no longer needed.

“English,” I said.

The man looked puzzled, “Excuse—?”

I told him, “I’m from England,” which did not seem to help, so I added, “British—?”

His face relaxed and then seemed to immediately glow with excitement, as a child’s does when they think of an impending birthday party, or of Christmas, “Ah, British!—UK.”

I smiled, “Yes.”

He glanced down at the seat of the bar stool beside me and I motioned for him to sit there if he wished, which he did. I held out my hand and introduced myself.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Hass. Pleased to meet you. I noticed you watching our game.”

As I held the palm of his hand in mine, I recalled the sound of that telepathic whimper. Perhaps I now associated it with him, since I had heard it while watching him. But whatever the reason for me recalling it just at that moment, it reinforced in my mind the idea that there truly was something special about that beach, about what I was experiencing there, and perhaps it was this that made me smile so broadly back at Hass, or perhaps it was simply the fact that I found something about his smiling face so captivating. As I looked into his dark eyes, it then seemed that something from within those eyes—perhaps some raw emotion that could contain its tender desires no longer—reached down into my heart and grabbed it. Ordinarily, this might have made me look away in alarm—so strong was the effect on me—but I kept watching him and smiling, as he did also, for what seemed like half a minute or so, as though we were holding a deep conversation with our eyes alone.

“It was a delight to see,” I told him, recalling the sight of him striking the ball and then looking back to me, as if for my approval.

It seemed that we already knew each other, or perhaps I was deluding myself. I seemed to feel this more and more about new people that I met, and perhaps it was true; perhaps I did already know them, for once you have got to know yourself well enough, then perhaps you already know most other people, whether or not you have met them, for there is not that much difference between us.

“Are you staying here,” I asked.

“Just for the day. I came with my friends.” He seemed to glance over towards his friends, who were sat at a table nearby. One of the women in the group was watching us, beaming with a smile. I looked back into Hass’s eyes. Of course I knew what his friend was thinking, but I—as we do in this situation—did not refer to “the game” that was afoot. I pretended to have no knowledge of it and simply said, “They will miss you.”

He said, “They will understand.”

And then I realized, as I was watching his face, that as I has glanced over at his friends, I had seen Fear standing next to their table, as if waiting on them, and this time Fear had seemed to start saying something to me, but all I heard was that mantra in my mind: “Fear, I am no longer yours.”

Hass said, “Are you staying long?”

We started to talk and it soon seemed that a floodgate had lifted and our lives began to empty out onto the table between us. He told me of his brothers and his mother and his work in Davao, and was eager to hear of my life.

From a distance, I had noticed his body, the way he had moved while playing volleyball, the shape of his chest and his flat tummy and—yes—the curve of his bum. And now that he was sat before me, I found myself—to my surprise—captivated by the shape of his fingers. I watched them as he held his glass and then gently gesticulated, using only his fingers, as though demonstrating his innate reserve, his lack of ostentation; and the more gently he expressed himself, the more captivated I became. I looked up and watched the shape of his lips as he spoke, the way his mouth moved, and the glimpses that I caught of his tongue as he told me about his unhappy experiences with his ex-boyfriend, an American whom he had fallen in love with. I could only half hear his words, as the sight of his mouth seemed to bewitch me—as his eyes had already done, only his mouth seemed to be casting its spell by dancing a sensual symphony—for that was how I was experiencing the sight of his lips; they were somehow entering me and affecting me physically, as only the sound of the most sublime music can do in those moments when I am most receptive—and this symphony was drawing me in to its dance the more I watched it. He perhaps noticed my distraction and then broke off and said:

“But I’m over him now. And I don’t want to talk about him, anyway. Tell me more about you. How is your holiday going? I hope you’re enjoying it. Have you met anyone nice yet——?”

As we were speaking, I again recalled the sound of that telepathic whimper. Hass continued talking and I kept watching his eyes and I could not help smiling, as he was smiling too, and as I watched him, I was listening, in my mind, to the sound of that whimper, and I found myself trying to picture who might have made the sound. I imagined a young boy who was afraid; perhaps he was cowering in the corner of a room, afraid, for perhaps a snake was blocking his path and it was dangerous for him to move but he had no choice; he could not stay there forever and this sound I could hear was his whimpering as he was taking those first few steps towards that danger that he had no choice but to face.

Hass asked, “Where are you staying? Will you be here long?”

As he asked this, I caught a glimpse of Fear passing by our table, and Fear whispered to me: “He has come for you. He has a knife.”

I started to speak, to block the sound out: “I’m staying here tonight,” I told Hass. “I’ve booked a room.”

We continued talking, but Hass talked less and less, due, probably, to the repressed excitement that I could tell he was struggling to hold in—that slowly rising tide of desire within him—like the excitement of a boy who has been told that he has a special gift waiting for him if only he can keep it secret and not mention it. He managed as well as any excited boy could to keep that secret, but I was fully aware of his suppressed joy as we walked across the warm sands towards my room—perhaps I knew his suppressed joy so intimately since I was attempting to conceal the same secret myself. We entered the shade of my room and as our eyes met, I again heard that telepathic whimper, and again, though I was hearing it inside my head, it also sounded as though coming from nearby, perhaps just outside the room.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?” His suppressed excitement now seemed to be making it difficult for him to speak.

Fear seemed to have stepped into the room, for I noticed him standing in the corner, and he said, “It is a trap. His friends will be here soon to kidnap you.”

I watched Hass’s puzzled face, and Fear went on: “He has a knife. He will pull it out soon,” but then I heard no more; I could only hear my mantra: “Fear, I am no longer yours.”

We made a drink and sat at the small table in my room and as we continued talking, there seemed to be something familiar in Hass’s dark eyes, as though—from within his eyes—I could see myself looking back out at me, but myself from somewhere back in my childhood; or perhaps it was Hass’s soul from back within his own childhood—and it seemed like an innocent, romantic, simple child who just wanted to be loved and did not care for any other worldly concerns, perhaps a child who had remained locked within him—as it had done within myself—shut inside since that child had never experienced the deep love that is the birthright of all living things.

“I’ve never been here before,” he told me, meaning the beach resort.

“No, me neither,” I said and we both laughed.

“Of course you haven’t,” he told me; “you don’t live here.”

His eyes beamed with a childish joy beneath his expressive forehead which had, just then, wrinkled and drawn my attention to the top of his nose, his cute nose, which I just wanted to reach out and playfully pinch. He smiled again as my eyes drank in the sight of his face. I thought about all the other guys I had met in the past, the English guys who all seemed to be in various stages of combat with their own personality problems, which in most of them, to my eyes, amounted to a mental illness; yes, most of them simply seemed mentally ill to me—as I am sure I did to them, since such personality features are as much a part of the average Westerner as is white skin. In contrast, there were the Asian guys I had met, and particularly the Filipino ones, who all seemed to possess a seductive humility, and also a strong connection with their own romantic desires; they all just wanted to be in love, to have one man and love him for the rest of their life. But the ones I had met in the West had been—ironically—overwhelmed with the problem of their mere survival. They were usually working as nurses or care workers and earning, what was to them, a fortune, but their native work ethic dictated that they should never refuse work and should work during every waking hour, if the work was available, which ethic had sentenced them to a life of slavery in the West, since Westerners were certainly not going to work those hours and those shifts, so the Filipino workers would carry the burden of sustaining the ailing health of the Western health institutions that had desperately imported them. Add to this the burden of sending money home to their families in the Philippines, and most such Filipino “slaves” found themselves swamped by the struggle for mere survival and certainly did not have the time for romance. But now here was a beautiful Filipino guy with all his romantic desires still intact and calling out to me to join him, to take that one short step towards him and allow some wondrous flower to blossom between us.

Hass moved his hand to his cup, and his fingers accidentally touched the side of my hand. Neither of us moved, as though this—our first physical contact—were a lifeline that had been thrown to a drowning man, and there was no way that either of us was going to release it; our hands remained in that position as we continued talking, neither of us wanting to take a sip from our drink, lest we were unable to regrasp that lifeline. I then took his hand in mine and he placed his other hand over mine as we began to lean closer to one another. He was not now smiling; he looked as though he were about to take a leap for his life across some narrow gorge, a leap that he just might not make, but was determined to take—this was it; do or die. And just before our lips met, I heard it again, that telepathic whimpering sound, and for the first time it occurred to me that perhaps I was receiving the sound from Hass himself. Again, the sound seemed to be coming from somewhere nearby, but at the same time, it seemed to be coming from within my own head, and this sensation was unlike any other I had ever experienced—there was no doubt in my mind that I was experiencing telepathy. And as I felt the softness of Hass’s lips and felt the touch of his tongue on mine, I found myself again picturing in my mind who might have made that whimpering sound. I could see a young boy stranded on a cliff face; he was afraid of falling but needed to edge his way along a thin ledge; his life could not continue unless he took that risk, risked falling, risked a fate that seemed akin to certain death, but he had to do it; some other force within him was urging him—Go on, take the risk, the reward is worth it, you cannot go on living without the reward, you have to do it—and, with his knees trembling, he was edging his way along that narrow ledge above the precipice, afraid, whimpering to himself; and that whimper seemed to be emerging from deep within him, from some animal part of him that was seldom exposed, seldom even acknowledged, but now here it was, as though expressing his fear of some monster that was driving him on as he edged along that thin ledge.

Before either of us knew it, we were lying entwined on my bed, having undressed each other as we fell—or that was how it had seemed; in one, continuous, expert set of moves, we had each undressed the other while desperately attempting to taste each other’s mouths as a starving man devours a banquet—and before long—neither of us could wait any longer—I was lying on top of him, inside him, and as our deep, animal desires met and united and danced and sang, and as our bodies moved as one and we gripped each other’s hands and the passion carried us to some place that was not of this world—as we both danced that primordial dance, I heard that whimpering sound again, but this time I was hearing it with my ears and not my mind; it was no longer telepathic; I was hearing it for real; I was listing to Hass whimpering, in a way that I had never before heard a man whimper while I made love to him, and as we danced, he whimpered louder and started saying, “I love you, I love you,” and I realized that this sound, the sound of Hass whimpering as we made love, was the exact sound that I had been hearing all along; I realized that we had experienced true telepathy, and in that moment, this all seemed to make perfect sense and was as natural as day and as certain as night—yes, there was telepathy between us, which seemed normal; telepathy existed; I now had no doubt about it because here it was; I had experienced it. And it also seemed perfectly natural that I found myself saying back, “I love you too; I love you, my baby.”

Afterwards we lay in each other’s arms and I wondered—with an inward, ironic smile—if this was what that flyer had meant by “paradise”. And I then realized that I needed to enjoy it while it lasted, that—almost with the same desperation that we had just been swept along by—I needed to savour every second, every beat of Hass’s heart which I could feel against my chest, every gentle caress of his breath on my neck, every slight movement of his body which I could feel transferring to mine and rocking mine in sympathy with his; I felt myself tasting all these sensations and wanting to drink in their flavour, the delicious, rare flavour—for soon, I knew, this moment would be over.

I knew this, for Fear was now standing over me, whispering a different message: “And here is the trap. You fell for it. Soon this joy will end and you will be left a prisoner. You will carry your prison around with you.”

As I lay there, listening to Fear’s message, I did not care; I only wanted to focus on the joy, that rare joy. And I wondered how long I could make the moment last. I started to count Hass’s breaths, as if they were coinage that I were pocketing—moments to add to my memory bank. I counted till I fell asleep. I awoke, then fell asleep again. I awoke and continued counting; I somehow knew the exact figure that I had previously ceased counting at and I continued adding to my balance, but by now the darkness outside was fading and shafts of sunlight were starting to probe their way through the blind, as if the daylight were coming for us and the real world were hot on its tail. My counting faded in my mind, like the falling hand of an exhausted man, his hand falling from some lever that had been hopelessly holding back daylight, holding back time, but now here it came; his hand could hold it back no longer; and I watched as the sun’s vibrant rays flooded into the room—vibrant even through the barrier of the blind—as though the real world had, indeed, now come to claim us both back. Its voice was too strong; its “common sense” was too undeniable. Yes—such a flower is not meant to be. The sun’s rays poured over our still-entwined bodies, as if it were lifting us each up with a thousand tiny, golden hands to transport us back out into the real world—No, no, no, stop it, such beauty is not meant to be; I’ve come to reclaim you; you both belong to me.

And under the heat of its rays, I could feel that flower wilting. At that moment, Hass seemed to wake and untangle himself from my arms, as if his unconscious mind had heard the call of the daylight.

 

14 December 2009

 

Read my sketchbook article on writing draft one of this story

And my comments on the second version

 

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