Mikel

A rogue's tale... and mostly true.

 

Mikel

 

 

   Mikel sat on the beach with the Scandinavian woman after the party. A warm breeze from Africa rippled her thin blouse and Mikel stroked her shoulder as they smoked, took sips from the bottle of whisky, and talked.

   She was a striking woman, not so young and drinking hard, so Mikel had approached her. She had come to the party alone and found everyone boring, she said, as she was an artist and they weren't. Mikel had chosen well. He asked her a question about herself, following up her answer with another question. Every third or fourth question he inserted statements about himself which were largely untrue. Mikel was a cultured young man with very few scruples.

   He found out that she owned a small house near a beach on the other side of the island and that she painted. He also ascertained that she was not completely sane. He had suspected this when he first saw her, from her mannerisms and the way she moved her head. When he first looked into her eyes he was almost sure.

   Now on the beach, he steered the conversation with skill and caresses, and rationed the whisky expertly. It would soon be dawn and sleepiness was to be avoided.

  "You love painting, but my passion is photography," he exclaimed. "Alas I had to sell my cameras to pay the rent on my studio. The next time we meet I will show you some of my work."

  "That is terrible. You are an artist without a brush. You must show me your studio and your portfolio and I will try to help you."

   Mikel had wanted the woman herself to form part of his portfolio, but suspicion lurked under her inebriation. He saw that his anguished statement had been flawed and he would have to adjust his aim accordingly, as it would be difficult to transform his tiny hostel room into anything resembling a photographer's studio.

  "Yes, you must come to see my studio soon. Now I would like to invite you to breakfast but I am sadly without money. Tomorrow I will cook you dinner; I am an excellent chef."

  "We must have breakfast now, though,” she said. “Come along," and she led him from the beach.

   Mikel nuzzled her ear at the cash machine and she giggled and pushed him away. He steered her into the café around the corner from the taxi rank, where they made pastries, he said, almost as good as his, and they ordered some with coffee. Mikel now led the conversation and spoke of future meetings, joint exhibitions, and her talent, which he truly believed in despite still awaiting the pleasure of seeing her work. They were both happy and almost sober when she finally went to the bathroom.

 

   Mikel sat back in the taxi which he had requested to go to the next town, from where he would take the bus to the city. He borrowed a pen from the driver, wrote a four digit number on the palm of his hand, and decided that it was time to fly back to the mainland, today if possible.