We watched them gather off the coast, a flotilla of junks, coracles, canoes and rafts made from condensed milk packing crates. They sat there off shore, bobbing patiently on the slate-grey sea, and every day more appeared until they covered the horizon like a creeping mass of wood and rusted metal and dark skin. They didn’t draw near though. They waited.
- Why do they wait so, said Marie.
I removed my head from between her legs, turned to look at the news on TV. – Their ways are strange and alien, I said. Now, when I do this, how would you rate it, on a scale of one to ten, one being worse, ten being best.
They started calling it an Armada. Surfers flexed their bronzed muscles and rode their dagger-shaped boards out to them. Skinny old women pushed them away with long poles. The men on the boats laughed and made obscene gestures involving much grabbing of the crotch. Headlines grew more declarative.
STOP THEM
WE ARE US
THEY ARE NOT US
- Marie, I said, the penis is not just an over-large clitoris. You can be more forthright with it.
She stopped. She wanted to know about their spirituality. Did they have codes, restrictions, rules handed down from time immemorial? Were they circumcised? I admitted I did not know, but it was a good question.
I beckoned Cherie over. – Kiss her, I said. Kiss her like Aphrodite kissed Europa.