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Story
from THE AMERICAN VOICE
INTIMACY
Since our leader has forbidden us to use our flashlights,
I can't see, except as vague shadows, the people ahead
of me marching in single file, and can't tell, in this
group of strangers, if anyone else but me is veering
crazily through the dunes like a drunk. I only know
it's hard work picking each leg up only to sink knee
deep in sand, and that several times, I have bumped
into the person in front of me, and more times than
I care to admit, have lost my balance and grabbed hold
of that person's arm or whatever, which is embarassing
since I have no idea, apart from his being male -- his
hairy arm was the give-away -- who this person is, and
can only imagine that he thinks I'm a clutz . Perhaps
the person behind me, who is not someone I've bumped
into or grabbed hold of, is more inclined to be friendly
for that reason, though he doesn't speak more than a
few words of my language, which forces me to listen
extra hard when he tells me in the language of this
country, which is neither my language nor his language,
though his language is closer than mine to the one spoken
here, that he is a graphic designer, and like me, on
vacation in this country, which causes me, because I
am listening so hard, to bump into and grab hold of
the person in front of me even more than before. Nevertheless,
I'm having a better time now that I'm talking to this
man named Tisciano, who lives in Ravenna.
With all this talking, or trying to talk, and trying
to understand, I hardly notice when we are past the
dunes and walking on level sand until our leader tells
us to stop. I haven't mentioned that our leader, whose
manner is too dictatorial for my taste, doesn't speak
my language either, which is why Tisciano repeats slowly
for me what she says, otherwise I might not understand
that we are going to wait here to see one of the giant
turtles come ashore and lay her eggs. At this point,
Tisciano and I lie down on the sand which is damp. I
don't know how many of the others are doing the same
thing since I only see them as shadows though now that
my eyes are accustomed to the darkness I see more than
before, and notice for the first time since our group
assembled in the pagoda on the beach, the luminous foam
from the waves rolling toward us. Between looking at
the sea and talking, or trying to talk to Tisciano,
who says, for example, the word "hat" when
his flies off and lands on my chest, I have almost forgotten
about the turtles when our leader, turning on a red-ultraviolet
light, whispers that it's time. We follow her inland,
our backs to the sea until she stops, and we fan out
around her and the red beam of light which, looking
eerie and pornographic in the darkness, reveals a sight
more embarassing to me than if two guys in the group
were suddenly having sex with one of the girls, the
girl being the middle of the sandwich. The giant turtle
is faced away from us, her head and carapace hidden
in darkness, so all we see of the creature are eighty-four
eggs, dropping one at a time between her limbs into
the hole she has dug in the sand, a sight which is so
intimate, so much more personal and private than the
sandwich I mentioned with two guys and a girl, that
I am thinking to myself that I have never seen anything
this intimate, though perhaps if I had had a child,
which I never wanted to have in all the years when I
could have had one, I might not find this sight which
was at first so embarassing, so amazing, but since I
haven't had a child and am astonished by the intimacy
of the scene I am witnessing, I wish I knew the words
in my language, or in the language of this country,
or in any language, to convey how I feel to Tisciano
or to any other human being.
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