they were a part, but away and down on to a beach where flocks of many-nationed young people were playing. Not
in
the sea, no; that, alas, had become too problematical a pleasure; the waters that glittered so appropriately with moonlight held too many questions. Flesh was being withheld from it. Or almost. One or two did swim there, making their statement of confidence, or of indifference: to submit one’s body to the waters of these coasts had become a manifesto; one could deduce people’s attitudes to the future by what they chose off a menu, or by whether they decided to swim, or to let the children put their feet into the sea. In a restaurant a man would order a dish of local fish with exactly the same largeness of manner and a glance which circled the room,
I am feeling reckless tonight
, that once would have gone with an order for champagne in a restaurant that didn’t take champagne for granted. A girl who walked into the sea on a warm morning would draw glances and grimaces and shrugs:
She isn’t afraid, that one. But not for me. I wouldn’t take the risk
. But if bodies were being withheld from these warm waters where once people had swum and played half the night, now the youth of a dozen countriesdanced to guitars for hundreds of miles along their shores.
The glances of this couple were definitely wistful; he because he wished he was part of the scene, she because she was thinking of her children. She also watched the man, in the way one does watch someone else’s longing—only too ready to offer ointment and comfort, if one felt that could help.
He was a slightly built young man, good-looking but not remarkable, for his colouring classed him with the natives of this coast, brown eyes, sleek dark hair, olive skin. It did, that is, until he spoke.
The woman, older than he, was the more striking because he fitted so unobtrusively into the scene. She was category Redhead. She had dead-white skin. Her eyes were brown, like grapes or raisins. Her face was humorous and likeable, and around it her hair that was so beautifully cut and shaped and brushed lay in a solid sculpted curve, so thick that looking at it put a weight of reminiscent sensation in the palms of one’s hands. Rather, that is what the amorist might have felt; the waiters knew what that haircut had cost, what her clothes had cost, and were automatically extending their expectations to a large tip.
This couple might have been observed … this couple were indeed being observed, closely, expertly. They had been minutely observed at the airport, when they descended from the plane, and then on the little bus where they had sat side by side among their fellow passengers from the plane, and then from the moment they booked in at the hotel. Their room had been reserved by telephone from Turkey by Global Food. They had been examined, ticketed, categorised, docketed, by experts whose business during the summer months was to do nothing but observe and weigh their visitors.
Which visitors fell, roughly, into three categories. First the package tours, the groups that had been parcelled up in their home countries—Britain, France, Holland, Germany, Finland—had travelled as a unit by coach or plane, lived as a unit while here, and would return as a parcel. These were the most predictable, financially and personally. It was enough for a hotel manager or waiter to give such a group five minutes’ skilled attention to understand, and “place” each individual in it. Then came the category
international youth
, who moved up and down the coast in flocks and herds, like birds or animals, in an atmosphere of fierce self-sufficiency, of self-approval. These were decorative, always provocative of violent emotions—envy, disapproval, admiration, and so on—but on the whole pretty nonrewarding financially: they could, however, be counted on to grow older and join groups one, or three. The third and smallest class was that which once all travellers had
in
the sea, no; that, alas, had become too problematical a pleasure; the waters that glittered so appropriately with moonlight held too many questions. Flesh was being withheld from it. Or almost. One or two did swim there, making their statement of confidence, or of indifference: to submit one’s body to the waters of these coasts had become a manifesto; one could deduce people’s attitudes to the future by what they chose off a menu, or by whether they decided to swim, or to let the children put their feet into the sea. In a restaurant a man would order a dish of local fish with exactly the same largeness of manner and a glance which circled the room,
I am feeling reckless tonight
, that once would have gone with an order for champagne in a restaurant that didn’t take champagne for granted. A girl who walked into the sea on a warm morning would draw glances and grimaces and shrugs:
She isn’t afraid, that one. But not for me. I wouldn’t take the risk
. But if bodies were being withheld from these warm waters where once people had swum and played half the night, now the youth of a dozen countriesdanced to guitars for hundreds of miles along their shores.
The glances of this couple were definitely wistful; he because he wished he was part of the scene, she because she was thinking of her children. She also watched the man, in the way one does watch someone else’s longing—only too ready to offer ointment and comfort, if one felt that could help.
He was a slightly built young man, good-looking but not remarkable, for his colouring classed him with the natives of this coast, brown eyes, sleek dark hair, olive skin. It did, that is, until he spoke.
The woman, older than he, was the more striking because he fitted so unobtrusively into the scene. She was category Redhead. She had dead-white skin. Her eyes were brown, like grapes or raisins. Her face was humorous and likeable, and around it her hair that was so beautifully cut and shaped and brushed lay in a solid sculpted curve, so thick that looking at it put a weight of reminiscent sensation in the palms of one’s hands. Rather, that is what the amorist might have felt; the waiters knew what that haircut had cost, what her clothes had cost, and were automatically extending their expectations to a large tip.
This couple might have been observed … this couple were indeed being observed, closely, expertly. They had been minutely observed at the airport, when they descended from the plane, and then on the little bus where they had sat side by side among their fellow passengers from the plane, and then from the moment they booked in at the hotel. Their room had been reserved by telephone from Turkey by Global Food. They had been examined, ticketed, categorised, docketed, by experts whose business during the summer months was to do nothing but observe and weigh their visitors.
Which visitors fell, roughly, into three categories. First the package tours, the groups that had been parcelled up in their home countries—Britain, France, Holland, Germany, Finland—had travelled as a unit by coach or plane, lived as a unit while here, and would return as a parcel. These were the most predictable, financially and personally. It was enough for a hotel manager or waiter to give such a group five minutes’ skilled attention to understand, and “place” each individual in it. Then came the category
international youth
, who moved up and down the coast in flocks and herds, like birds or animals, in an atmosphere of fierce self-sufficiency, of self-approval. These were decorative, always provocative of violent emotions—envy, disapproval, admiration, and so on—but on the whole pretty nonrewarding financially: they could, however, be counted on to grow older and join groups one, or three. The third and smallest class was that which once all travellers had
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