The drink was just as disgusting as one might imagine, although Terry manfully slugged his down. Murphy seemed not to notice the temperature, but sipped his as he embarked on the required circuit of small-talk that served to identify one’s place in the world and how—not if—the two of us might be related. And indeed, eventually (though not that day) he and I did discover that we were distant and much-removed cousins, linked by various people who infested America’s tightly knit Society from Boston to Philadelphia.
That afternoon, however, I mostly sat and counted the waves while the two men performed the ritual, exclaiming at a series of links and overlaps in their worlds. They then moved to interests, seeking out common ground. Terry—who compensated for his sickly childhood with an adult passion for adventure and speed—told the dubious American about our adventures in water-skiing, how he and I had introduced the sport to the Lido set, using a pair of standard Alpine skis, and how he was looking forward to trying out the wider blades he’d had made in Venice. Murphy, intrigued, said he had a friend with a speed-boat who might like to learn.
It then being Murphy’s turn, he proceeded to tell his two politely uncomprehending English guests about the growing enthusiasm of artists and writers for the South of France during the summer. We nodded, mopping the sweat from our faces, and drank some water.
At last, the two men settled on their common interest in fast machinery, burbling happily along about speed-boats and the requirements for pulling skis, racing cars and the recently re-introduced Monte Carlo Rally, and sea-planes and the thrill of the Schneider Trophy, scheduled for another run in October.
Thinking that I ought to contribute in some minor way to the exchange, I asked about said trophy—and then had to do nothing but nod and make noises for a good twenty minutes, as the two told me all about this race for sea-planes that had begun up the coast in Monaco before the War, only to be won and taken away to Italy, followed by Britain, and now the United States.
“Hmm,” I said. “Really?” “Imagine that!” An aeroplane flew over, too high to see if it had pontoons. The tide continued to recede, the line of shadow from the hill behind us crept across the sand—and eventually, we heard voices.
Murphy’s face lit up and he scrambled to his feet.
“Here we are,” he declared, as a caravan of people spilled out onto the sand, separating into two directions as they did so. Half a dozen small, noisy individuals with sun-bleached hair raced directly down to the water, trailed by a young girl in daringly short trousers and an older woman wearing a rich blue dress and wide-brimmed hat. The others came towards us—apart from one slim young man wearing clothes ill-suited to an afternoon on the sand. This one called something at the back of the two nannies, lifted his hat in our direction, and turned to leave.
The glimpse offered by that brief salute was of a striking, even beautiful young man. His features were as perfect as a Hellenistic sculpture, with olive skin, curly hair, and startling green eyes that seemed to glow from within. I wanted him to join us—a sentiment that Gerald Murphy clearly shared.
Gerald cupped his hands to call across the intervening sand. “Niko—come and meet some new friends!”
But the figure merely sketched an apologetic gesture to the world at large, as an indication that his presence was required elsewhere, then tipped his hat again with a graceful bow and walked away.
Gerald chuckled. “He never joins us on the beach. I don’t know if he doesn’t like sand, or just doesn’t want to spoil his shoes. ’Course, he might be busy—some people do actually earn a living.”
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Greek guy named Niko Cassavetes. He’s a friend of—well, everyone, I suppose. Really nice, incredibly helpful to newcomers along the coast. He even managed to put together a fireworks display for us Yanks—but of course, the moon was so bright on the Fourth, he talked us into waiting till Bastille Day. Really impressed the locals—I think the whole population of Antibes was lined up at the harbour that night. Except for some of you Brits. Anyway, you’re sure to meet Niko, sooner or later.”
The others had continued down the beach in an attitude of triumphal procession, many of them carrying some kind of basket or crate. At their lead was a woman of quiet dignity, wearing a long dress of such timeless fabric and design it might almost be called folkloric.
“I thought for a minute Niko might actually join us,” Gerald told her, relieving her of a fabric-draped straw basket.
“He said he had an appointment, but he also has a new pair of shiny shoes, which may have been more to the point. Hello,” she said, aiming a welcome at Terry and me.
“This is my wife, Sara,” Murphy told us. “Sara, this is Mrs Russell and Terry McClintock. Terry’s the fellow Didi was talking about—remember her cousin, the Honourable? Turns out they were at that bash Cole and Linda put on last month in Venice, the ‘Come as your Hero’ one, though we’re pretty sure we didn’t meet. Oh, but Mrs Russell’s husband was Cole’s partner, the guy with the violin!”
“Oh, yes!” Sara exclaimed. “Cole loved that. Great to meet you at last, Mrs Russell.”
“And I should thank you, for allowing us to share in your shade.”
“She was polite over the warm wine I handed her,” Murphy told his wife. “But she’ll be glad for a cold one to replace it.”
Sara then held out her hand to Terry. “A pleasure to meet you, er, Sir Terry?”
“Oh f’reavens sake, I’m no more honourable than the next man. Call me Terry.”
Sara Murphy was a natural beauty with a direct, compelling gaze and a tawny mop of hair, as inviting as the warm sea waters. “And Mrs Russell—welcome to our gipsy camp.”
A man would fall in love with this woman, I thought, and fling himself at her feet. I was not unaware of the impulse, myself. “Call me Mary,” I urged, and was rewarded by a smile like a blessing.
Baskets were opened, drinks poured, fruit and biscuits distributed, gay toasts made to friends old and new. The people around us were, if not as stunning as the elusive Niko, nonetheless an extraordinarily handsome group, golden with the sun and eager to absorb Terry and me into their midst. Most were American, and most were a good ten years younger than Gerald and Sara.
Rapid-fire introductions were made, to Rafe and Zelda and John and Olga and a couple of others whose names flew past me, comprising a novelist, a dancer, two artists, an actress filming in Nice, and her lover collected along the way. Sand was shaken from straw mats and travelling rugs, seats were taken, drinks poured—for a couple of the newcomers, conspicuously not their first of the day, or even their fifth. The actress had her male escort cover her with coconut oil, then pushed down the straps of her bathing costume so as not to have unsightly pale lines, and arranged herself on a mat to bake. Down the beach, the two nannies folded the children’s discarded garments into neat piles and stood chatting, backs to the adults and eyes on what seemed like a large number of small splashing bodies.