01.3 The Silverside Club

Marina paced to leave the beach and he followed. She retorted, “At the Silverside.”

“Not far! I live nearby. I’ve been here for seventeen years,” Jamal continued with a half-truth, “I know many places in this town.”

“Excusez-moi! I am not interested.”

“What’s the rush?”

She ignored and hastened to move.

“Are you married?” he grew a nuisance, “What is the purpose of your visit?”

She stopped and dropped her shoes to put them on. “Will you please leave me alone?”

“How about that drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” she muttered.

Marina walked up the beach towards the Silverside Club. Her shirt caught under the shoulder bag leaving her buttocks bare, wiggling with every step as she hastened to walk hurriedly. Jamal captured a shot from the rear and followed her still in conversation.

Marina reached the wrought iron gate. Jamal continued to talk and she couldn’t break him off. There came Andrés.

“Buenos días!” he greeted and carried on in English, “Did you enjoy a swim?”

“No hay agua!” she replied in Spanish to make it sound they know each other. She could understand Spanish well and talk a little but preferred to speak French.

“Marea viva,” he meant spring tide.

She took that chance to slip behind the erected fence and eventually got rid of Jamal who peered over the pools.

Pink stucco walls, pillars and balustrades painted white, crystal-clear green water in the bottom of the saltwater pools. An hour-glass figure of a woman treaded hurriedly up the corridor, swinging hips. He seized a photo as she reached a door at the far end.

He paused to take some more pictures. Then Andrés chased him out. He stepped out of the gate and dropped an eye on his camera to check how many frames were exposed. He discovered that he loaded a black-and-white film. His mood turned off.

Jamal reached his lodge in his Dodge – a quarter mile from the club and ten minutes’ walk to the marina. La Rosaleda, on Sardou, was a brick house with flaked walls. Houses were tiny and empty in the area. All doors and windows secured with wrought iron bars. He rented this room at 612 two years ago. A junk shop stood facing the road directly below his balustrade. He parked his vehicle under a tree beside La Rosaleda.

Jamal opened the door to his room. It was dark inside. He turned on the light which wasn’t good enough. He drew the curtains of a window that faced Sardou, opened the fridge and took a bottle of vodka, almost depleted, and so was the packet of fresh orange juice.

He did some repairs here, fixed a new door and upgraded the bathroom. With brown tiles, it didn’t look tidy. This room was messy. His bed placed close to the window, a work desk by the entrance topped with cutting tools and an enlarger. He managed to install a telephone line. Photography equipment, trays and chemical bottles placed on the floor. A built-in closet on the wall where he’d stand inside and transfer the reel into the developing tank. Nevertheless, if the curtains were drawn, this room turned dark as a lab.

Even though with little disappointment to know he loaded a black-and-white film, he began to work on it.

Two hours later, he was holding one of the prints in his hand. Mind blown to witness his genius expressed on paper that his eyes could see more than words could speak. It was a shadowless day and the shades in black and white turned out to be a marvelling sensation. White shoes, white thong and black hair blown in the wind of a gorgeous woman caught from the backside – a cracking shot.

“Gosh! She’s damn hot!” he cried.

The photograph taken of the spa – the pavilion that walled the saltwater pools – gave a cool contrast in the perspectives of the architectural monument that looked like a castle in a desert; without a tree…too bizarre to the suburbs of los Kilme.

He made several B&W prints in 8R size. That called for a drink. He drove to the marina where he was rather known as ‘Mr Fish’.