Chapter 1

Vacation

It was the summer of my eighteenth year. The feeling of being at a threshold, on the edge of something new.

Father, Mother and I were to go on vacation. But, Father had to back out at late notice because of an unforeseen work contingency.

A faraway locale, a continent away. So, there we were, in a place we knew nobody, blissfully anonymous. Liberating, though I couldn’t really say for what.

***

It was a small cottage on a stepped mountainside. Terrace overlooking sea. White walls. Retiled roof. Door painted a deep green. A riot of bougainvilleas overgrew the low stone wall that surrounded the house. The cottage was pleasantly cool. A sitting room. A medium-sized dining room and kitchenette. The walls, white stucco, with a couple of abstract paintings. In the living room, there were a sofa and a bookshelf. Two bedrooms and a small tiled bathroom. The furniture was cosy and lived in.

***

We got up early every morning. The sky, a blast of light. Packed a bag with towels, water, sunscreen. Walked to the beach on the other side of the mountain. The shore, so beautiful. Took our breath away. The sand, pure white. There were hardly any waves.

It was a little out of the way, though. Few people went there, particularly in the morning. Everyone swam nude. We didn’t. Not that we were prudes. It just would be a little awkward. I sensed that my connection with Mother was growing day by day. Maybe toward the end of our vacation? We’ll see…

After the swim, we’d go for a natural freshwater bath. The trail wound half a mile.

The fall was not a single majestic fall. A succession of small ones. First, there were a number of foaming little torrents. They burst through the rocks about twenty yards above from where we usually were. Then came two beautiful rolls of white water, hurrying into a pool. The pool was full of the clearest water. To birds on the wing, its glassy surface reflected the light sky. There was a swirl of water round its corner into another pool below. Black as death. Seemingly of great depth.

Then a rush through a narrow outlet into yet another pool, from which the water clamoured away, down the narrow valley. I loved little brooks. Wherever I found a little running water, I was happy. A ridiculous happiness. It seemed to make me run and sing in spirit along with it.

We felt like we were in another world. I felt the urge of the seasons. The kiss of sun. The lash of weather. Even when it rained, the rain gave a gloomy grandeur to the scenery. The energy of the place was working on us. It made us feel truly free.

We’d walk back home over the mountain. Relished a simple meal. Then set off down the stone steps to the village.

We'd have tea at the harbour café, thumb through a day-old paper, then wander off to buy bread or tomatoes before heading home.

Some afternoons, I’d take a short nap on the terrace. No dreams. If anything, the nap itself seemed like a dream.

We then spent our time as we pleased until evening. In the woods, a distant bird would call. Another would answer.

I was reading a book on the terrace, and listening to Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto on the media player. There was something wonderful about Brahms playing at the edge of an ocean without a sign of anyone as far as the eye could see. Now, the cello passage that began the third movement. I was listening intently, sucking the music right out of the player.

In the evening, we’d go out to the harbour to watch the ferryboat come in. We’d have a cool drink. Watched the people getting off the boat. Odd how quiet happiness can be.

A traveler saw what she saw. The tourist saw what she had come to see. Experience was not what happened to you. It was what you did with what happened to you.

There were still many things I had not done. Like see Naples and just die, to begin with.

***

Some evenings, Mother and I would traipse to the quaint seafront tavern for a drink. There was this local girl, likely a gypsy, who could really dance.

She danced like nobody else. She could draw feelings out of her audience. Feelings they hardly ever used. Or didn’t even know they had. She’d bare these feelings to the light of day, the way you’d rip out a fish’s guts.

She danced to the music. It was as if she was letting her body absorb the music. The music was dancing her.

One evening, Mother was feeling particularly gay after imbibing more than her custom tipple. It was squarely my fault. I pushed one too many toward her.

I didn’t know what moved Mother. She got up suddenly and joined the gypsy hussy on the floor. Just swaying to begin with. Most uncharacteristic of Mother. She started dancing, following the gypsy’s rhythm. Slowly at first. But gradually faster and faster until she was dancing like a whirlwind. It appeared like her body no longer belonged to her. Her arms, her legs, her feet, all moved wildly over the dance floor as if unconnected to her thoughts. She gave herself to the dance. This was truly what it meant to dance. She stamped her feet, swung her arms, tossed her head, whirled. She was happy. Like she had never been so unaccountably happy.

When she rejoined me, I studied her with Jungian interest. “What happened there?”

“I was really happy,” she said with a sad quarter smile. Like she was sad that she would never be that happy again.

I flashed a wise pensive smile as if I understood it all. She kissed me on my lips for that because she knew I understood nothing. A smile is a curve that sets everything straight. I did just that.

***

Chapter 2

Photo For Father

It was the end of our first week.

Looking up from her shades, “Your father texted me. He asked for a photo. Something to capture the mood here, he said. Could you go to my bedroom to fetch my camera?”

When I returned to the terrace, Mother was nude on the lounger. She was holding up Proust’s Swann’s Way as if she was in the midst of reading, obscuring her bosom only just so. Her right thigh was clamped over her left, concealing her mons, again only just so, with a hint of pencil shading shadow at the juncture.

She saw my look of surprise.

“You know how your father loves his visuals."

“Close your eyes a sec.”

She was now reclined further back on the lounger. Legs slightly parted than before. Her right hand holding the book. Her left hand resting down there in a most casual demeanour, covering herself, though only just so. So coy.

I couldn’t help but take pause to study this mother specimen.

Fair complexion. Light, rosy cheeks. Fresh and delicate appearance. Soft, clear skin, except for a suggestion of freckles, like fine pollen brushed across the curve of her chest. Her lightly freckled cleavage seemed to blush beneath the summer light.

Light-coloured eyes. Brown hair. It all evoked an image of classic beauty. Natural, pure, refined, understated. The quintessential English rose.

Click.

“Would Father wonder who took this photo?”

“He’ll imagine it was self-timed.”

“Was it?”

She smiled. “Perhaps.”

“What if Father thinks I took it?”

Eyes half-lidded behind her shades, “If he does, he’ll only envy you.”

***

Chapter 3

The Parade

It was on the feast day that the village came alive. Streamers fluttered between whitewashed houses. Drums thudded. Trumpets blared. The crowd pressed thickly along the main street.

Mother was in a pale cotton blouse and a summer skirt that skimmed her thighs. She stepped onto a low parapet for a better view. I stood close on her left, while on her right a stranger, dark-haired, carrying the look of someone untroubled by consequence, perhaps a day tourist to the village, pressed equally near.

At first I noticed only the jostle of the crowd. Then I sensed the subtle writhing of her body. A glance revealed the man’s hand, slid beneath her skirt, bold and hidden by the crush of people. She didn’t cry out. She shifted, ever so slightly, as though accommodating the intrusion.

My heart hammered. Fury flared, then faded. Her face was not distressed. Lips parted faintly, as though in muted assent.

The man’s eyes met mine. He must have known that I am the son. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew his hand. His gaze lingered, sly, complicit, as if to say: Now you.

I trembled. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, I obeyed. My hand slipped beneath the same skirt. I discovered at once that Mother was bare. Was she this way all along? Or did the man remove her panties? She breathed sharply, almost imperceptibly, but did not turn.

Did she know? Did she mistake me for the man? Or did she know perfectly well?

My hand touched her buttocks. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move away nor do anything to discourage me. I cupped her left buttock. Began a gentle fondling, kneading motion. A damp feeling between her legs.

My hand drifted down a little. I began to probe forward with my fingertips. My fingers closed in on her. Her legs were together. I didn’t really have access. But, I was just an inch away from Mother’s most private place.

Her legs parted a little. Was this a signal? My fingers explored eagerly. I stroked her mons.

She parted her legs further. I read this as yet another gracious sign.

My finger glided into Mother. Played with her pubic thatch, determining the quality of its texture.

Then, I moved gently, feeling the soft ridges of her lips. Traced her tender petals and folds with slow curiosity. There was a petticoat complexity to her femininity. Layered, secret, softly scented.

Her clitoris was hooded away in secrecy, not at all prominent. Yet, I found the small, hidden bud quite easily. Delicate, unmistakable beneath my touch. Sighing, she pushed back.

My second finger slid in alongside the first. She tried to part her legs wider.

The music thundered. The parade swept by. She swayed with it, her expression unreadable, her body answering faintly to my hand. The stranger smiled, satisfied, before vanishing into the crowd.

Then, something in her stillness frightened me more than any motion could have. Mother seemed to hover in a space between sensation and surrender. Not resisting. Not yielding. Simply being.

I didn’t remember moving, but instinctively, my hand was at her side, steadying her. A small gasp fluttered through her lips before her breathing became normal again. Her gaze shifted slightly, meeting my eyes for the briefest instant. In that flicker of contact, something forbidden came to pass between us. Not language. Not recognition. But a shared, giddy awareness of trespass.

When it all ended, nothing was spoken. Yet, something sacred had been touched. And could not be untouched.

My palm was faintly moist. Mother took my hand as we drifted with the departing crowd, her fingers closing softly around mine. For an instant, she seemed to sense it, the damp warmth, the trace of something unspeakably private and hers. Her step slowed, her lashes lowered. And then she went on, wordless, as though deciding that silence was the gentler choice. Only the faintest tremor in her hand betrayed that she had known.

***

Nothing was said about this for the rest of the day. It just never happened.

***

I never had an intimate experience with Mother again. Until today, I am still figuring what happened.

Perhaps the charm is in never knowing…