idiotic investigation the 12th

[The following investigation was inspired by a reencounter with a short film by Man Ray.]

[Still from Man Ray’s L’Etoile de Mer (1928).]

0

It was a pristine stretch of coast, and the sun came down on it like ribbons of cooked oil. Wave water frothed up, and like numberless distractions, scattered the solar dazzle that was steaming on the ocean’s face. On one particularly wave-washed portion of coast: a green paddleboat, beached and thrown over onto its side with its oar speared into the earth, was hot under the sun. Leading from it, a trail of footsteps and wet-but-drying sand wound up the soft and blistering slope of sand. Along its way, a life jacket, unbuckled and sand-specked, lay like a fabric rib cage, its straps deathly still in the windless, sweltering air. She lay on her front at the trail’s end. Her brown hair was tied up, was cascading over her bare shoulders. She was running her fingers into the hot sand at the far end of the towel. Each time the same, she would dig her five fingers through the hot surface until they penetrated the cool muddy layer underneath; then she would grab a handful of moist sand, pull it out and toss it heedlessly aside, letting it bake under the sun. Around the edge of her towel was a growing arc or barricade of hardening sand, cracked like paint chips. She remained at this task like a secret soldier on her stomach, her pale cheeks and lips not moving. Her body soft and small, looking as though it were dropped from on high in the middle of this thirsty stretch of earth. She was all white except for her sandy feet and a muddy hand. The black lenses of her sunglasses reflected two glinting suns, each surrounded by three summer clouds. Her hand kept digging. The ocean steamed and she was observing something moving swiftly on the water’s surface toward her.

1

After a while, a second green paddleboat slammed onto the shore beside the first one; its rower, out of breath and baffled, scrambled out of its seat, tossing the oar forward and tearing off his life jacket. He first looked around, but when he didn’t find what he was looking for, he began to run up the slope of hot sand; behind him, small tufts coming up, marking each step, flicking higher and higher, flick … flick At the top of the slope, he finally spotted her laying on her front with her hands in the sand. He slowed down to a walk, catching his breath. He did not call out to her.

Φ

As he approached, he studied her skin, the curve of her back with its invisibly blonde hairs, and the shape of her legs. Her swimsuit sat loosely over her body, and her hair, though let down, fell in tapering strands around her head. Her brow glistened. She was still busy with the sand, and had not yet acknowledged his approach. He stepped off the hot sand onto the edge of the towel, his chest still heaving. She did not move to allow him more space on the towel. “You could have woken me up and told me you were leaving. You really scared me.” She continued to pick at the sand, but had ceased to dig very deeply; instead, she was breaking up the dried clods that were littered around her. Some sand had gotten on the towel and she seemed to be looking at that. She didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure if her eyes were open behind her sunglasses. He was going to say something else, but remained quiet. She suddenly got onto her knees and bent carefully over the area that she had been digging in. She was brushing sand away with her right hand, and with her left hand she pulled up her swimsuit, which had slipped slightly over her bottom. His eyes were on the curve of her back; her spine began to protrude oddly through the skin of her back. But her torso remained fleshy. She was brushing the sand very carefully, then she suddenly stopped. When she turned around she was screaming. He could see himself doubled in her sunglasses, and her teeth showed sharply between her lips; beneath his two reflected faces, in her four hands, were two red starfish, stiff as corks. As he shifted his gaze from her sunglasses to her hands, he became intensely aware of the starfish’s thousand spines. Her stomach seemed somewhat less fleshy suddenly. “Where did you find that?” It was sponge-dry and all death. She rubbed it with her thumbs. His eyes fell from her hands back to her face.

*

“Where are you going?” He was looking at the starfish again. But she didn’t respond; instead, she snapped the starfish in half and threw the pieces in opposite directions. Then she walked off, tufts of sand flicking up behind her, catching onto her sweat-moistened thighs. She was full again, he couldn’t see her bones, her thighs muscular. He watched her move. Then, “Nagham, wait.” He stood up and followed her, but she had moved too quickly back down the slope and appeared to be moving toward the paddleboats. “Are you going back?” But, again, she didn’t respond. He hesitated for a moment before deciding to snatch the towel––a wave of scattered sand fell upward, then he started running down the hot slope. After a moment, he turned back for the two halves of the starfish. Finding them, he started running after her once more. She was at the bottom of the slope by then. On his way after her, his feet burning, he picked up the life jacket that she had left halfway up the slope. She was already pushing her paddleboat back into the frothy water. Her oar was still speared into the earth. “Nagham! Wait, you need to wear your life jacket.” But she slipped into the paddleboat and shoved herself forward with her hands; she was already several meters from the shore riding a current that pulled her swiftly away from him––without her oar. He could hear her singing loudly, as though to block out his calls. “Nagham! Your oar! Nagham, get off the boat!” she sang and sang. He threw the towel, the split starfish, her life jacket and oar onto his paddleboat and pushed it into the water. Then he jumped into its seat and began to paddle madly after her, trying to catch the current that was pulling her so quickly. She was already very far and his paddleboat slammed against the oncoming waves, each one slowing him down, each one causing everything on the paddleboat to shake. “Look at me! You’re going too far, get off the boat!” But she was too far, even her singing faded.

*

“Where did you find it?” It was sponge-dry and all death. She rubbed it with her thumbs. His eyes fell from her hands back to her face. (She was still screaming noiselessly.) He asked again and again, “Where did you find it?,” but she could not respond. Her mouth was suddenly sealed up, stitched and unmoving, and her nose began to whittle away, snip snip. “Nagham!” again, but her ears curled beneath her hair and her hair was almost all gone, in tufts around her, falling like this and like that. “Nagham,” he held her, but her shoulders crumbled between his hands. Her body felt like the ash of a cigarette, all of it trembled in dismembered assemblage. “Nagham! Nagham!” Her nose entirely gone, the glasses slipped to the ground.

1

After a while, a second green paddleboat slammed onto the shore beside the first one; its rower, out of breath and baffled, scrambled out of its seat, tossing the oar forward and tearing off his life jacket. He first looked around, but when he didn’t find what he was looking for, he began to run up the slope of hot sand; behind him, small tufts coming up, marking each step, flicking higher and higher, flick … flick At the top of the slope, he finally spotted her laying on her front with her hands in the sand. He slowed down to a walk, catching his breath. He did not call out to her.

2

“You could have woken me up and told me you were leaving. You really scared me.” “I’m sorry, but you looked so content asleep.” “Next time, wake me up.” “I promise to.” “So what are you doing here all by yourself?” He threw himself down and palmed her lower back, stroking its invisibly blonde hairs. “Nothing,” she hummed, tossing a handful of sand on the tip of a fire-red starfish. “I’m not doing anything.”