The Vulcan Disaster

There was a little wind blowing sand my way; I turned my back and blocked the dirt headed for the bag. She came prepared: sandwiches, salad, everything in its little plastic container; even a couple of bottles of golden Pilsner Urquell beer. “Lunch for two?” I said, puzzled, picking the bag out and setting the little knapsack down. “You were expecting me?”

“No,” she said behind my back. I dug in the canvas bag looking for a bottle opener. “I had an appointment with someone else. He did not show up.”

“The more fool him,” I said, turning. “Now me, I’m totally at your disp...”

That was one sentence I never finished. Probably I never will. There was Miss Weiner stepping daintily out of those tall clogs, those delicious breasts bared to the warm sun by the little bra she was engaged in folding and dropping softly on the blanket. As I watched, her hands went to the side-straps of her Lilliputian bikini pants and shoved them down... all the way down to her ankles.

And damned if she wasn’t a real blonde after all.

I looked up and caught her eyes on me. They were sea-green, humorous, self-assured. The red lips on the wide, witty mouth smiled mockingly at me. “Well, Mr. Archer?” she said. “This is France, you know. Surely you’re not shocked.” She sank down on the blanket, sitting crosslegged like a yogi.

“Come, join me, Mr. Archer,” she said. “And what part of the United States did you say you were from? Iowa? Kansas?”

“I didn’t say,” I said. I sat down beside her, dug into the bag again, and found the opener this time. I cracked the pilsner caps and handed her a beer. I won’t say I didn’t get an eyeful. That golden body just jumped out and socked you a good one. I don’t think even Philippe, with his distinct disinclination going for him, could have looked away from her right then. She touched her bottle to mine with a tiny clink. “Prost,” she said.

“Votre santé,” I said. “I have here one paté sandwich, I think, and one... hmmm...”

She saved me the trouble; she grabbed the second one and sank strong white teeth into it. She smiled at me, chewing. I shrugged and bit in. It was pate, and it was excellent. The sun, the cool breeze, the food, the beer, and the beautiful woman stark naked beside me on the beach blanket on this utterly deserted beach... I was beginning to like this leg of the trip, even if I didn’t have the foggiest idea where it all was leading.

“You,” she said. “You... read the stars?”

I had another sip of beer. “Well, yes. I...”

“And you believe that these little dots up in the sky affect our lives?” Her smile was mocking as ever. “That in alignment of the planets can make this man rich, this man poor?”

That wasn’t my favorite subject, really. I wanted to change it somehow. “Well,” I said, “the contemporary astrologer doesn’t tend to speak of these things in terms of cause and effect any more, you know. The concept of synchronicity...”

“Oh, no matter,” she said. “Mr. Archer, I think you are a phony. That is the word, right? Phony?”

“What do you mean?” The alarm bell went off. Quietly.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t expose you. Ah... at least not that way.” She smiled, not so mockingly this time, and reached both golden arms over to pull the zipper of my wind-breaker down slowly, all the way. Then her hands pulled it gently away from my chest.

She stopped when she saw the bandage — but only for a moment. Her lips made a sympathetic moue. “Oh, you’re hurt. Here, let me...” And this time she was a little gentler with me, taking the coat the rest of the way off.

“I see,” I said, “that I’m going to have another one of those weird suntans.”

“My... how did you do that?” she said. I’d debated doing something with body makeup about the bruises that stuck out from under the bandages all around — dark blue-black bruises on shoulders and arms and kidneys — but had given up on it An integrated excuse was best all around.

“Auto accident,” I lied. “I... ah... rolled an Aston Martin near Carmel. That’s how I lost my last job. The employer was in the back.”

“Remind me not to ride with you,” she said. “What happened? Had he found you out?”

“What makes you think I’m a phony?” I said. “You...”

“Oh, that,” she said. She waved one tanned hand at me, up and down. “Astrologers are unhealthy little men who look like night clerks at some dingy off-season hotel,” she pronounced it clark; British education, then. I was still working on the accent. Not French, German or Italian. Three down. “You, on the other hand, weigh perhaps...”

“One eighty,” I said. “That’s pounds. I wouldn’t know how many kilos offhand.”

“Yes, and you are athletic. No. I would not buy you for a star-gazer, Mr. Archer. I do not know what your game is, but...”

“I haven’t got any game,” I said, biting down hard on the sandwich again. “I’m just earning a living.”