«You, Baya, are my eternal summer», Pam thought, lolling in the soft leather armchair after work. «Whenever I grow melancholy amid the snows of my northern home I fly back to you. I fly, leaving all urgent business behind me; my last bills go unpaid; I say goodbye to no one. Only by letting everything go, and without thinking, can I believe that I am actually flying to you».
It was the first really cold day of autumn. Pam was staring out the window where the October branches seemed like great clusters of tropical flowers. In contrast to this image, however, was the wind. Its sharp blasts knocked the feet out from under passersby and slammed the branches against the window with enough force to break them off, or, if not this, then at least to strip them of brilliant finery. Today, when Pam returned from work, she stepped out of her car and the rain whipped her savagely in the face; her new little blue-gray Audi was plastered all over with leaves. In the time required to clear the windshield and roof of her car, Pam`s hands were frozen stiff.
Now she was warming up in her favorite armchair and had covered herself with an afghan. The windows in her living room were tall, Italian style bay windows, and the top window, a half-moon shape and the largest in the house, was the one she looked out of. If offered an open view of the sky and treetops in the garden. The rain was letting up, but the wind would not abate, and ruby clusters of soaking wet leaves continued to beat away at the glass. Juicy droplets flowed downward into a single trickle and formed a genuine little lake at the ground.
Tree years ago young woman journalist Pam O`Neal, who had just turned twenty-five at the time, was in the city of Lagos, Nigeria, conducting an interview of the well-know businesswoman Madame Komandzho. Madame Komandzho`s adopted daughter Bay was present during the interview, and Pam felt the young woman`s glance upon her the whole time. Baya was about her age. Her bright eyes were striking against the contrast of her dark skin, which made her gaze even more attentive. From time to time, Pam responded to Baya with a smile. Just forty minutes into the interview, Madame Komandzho, a woman of fifty-three years of mixed French and American heritage, had already begun to glance furtively at her watch. Her smirk contained a mixture of French joviality and American efficiency which, Pam decided, had probably been the key to her success. Immediately after the interview she excused herself and hastened off to her Chevrolet, leaving Pam in Baya`s care. The young woman seemed thrilled at the opportunity to be alone with Pam. She immediately suggested they go to the beach. It was a twenty minute walk. Alone the way, Baya told Pam a little about herself. Madam Komandzho had adopted her right after the death of the girl`s mother. She was eleven at the time, but she quickly attached to her stepmother, for Madame Komandzho had always shown her kindness. She had never known her father, which happens often within a polygamous society.
They found themselves alone on the white sand beach. Members of the club «Naturalists» usually frequented the place on weekends, but it happened to be Monday. The beach season was over for the year, and Madame Komandzho`s friends had all gone home. Small round huts with roofs made of palm branches stood empty along the cape. Everything, from the vacant sandy shore, to the ocean, to the many empty huts, seemed to be entirely at their disposal. Deftly flinging her clothing aside, Baya raced into the ocean. While Pam approached cautiously, observing the way her footprints in the sand filled up with water, Baya suddenly caught her by surprise and splashed her all over.
Now wet from head to hips, Baya was in ecstasy from the reckless casualness of her own naked flesh, and this wild unconstrained feeling was passed on to Pam. She grabbed Baya at the shoulders and tried to dunk her under, but Baya squirmed or, more accurately, slithered, out of her grasp and dove away. Pam scanned the surface for her new friend, all the while plunging deeper and deeper into the salty waves. Baya swiftly grabbed Pam`s knees from under the water and yanked her down. Pam fought her off, laughing and gulping water until she choked. After their swim they chased each other. Their legs grew heavy, bogged down in the deep, warm sand. Each would catch the other by turn and together they grappled playfully like two wrestlers. Their muscles flexed and moved under their skin, and their youthful bodies exulted in their own health and vigor. Tired at last from the play, they quietly embrased, gasping to catch their breath, and they marveled to discover that they were not the least shy around each other. It was as though they had both been born there on beach by the ocean.
On the following day they claimed one of the huts for them-selves. They chose the very farthest one, where the roof, of broad palm branches, was still intact, and were it was doubtful anyone would wander at this time of year. Inside the hut was a very crude floor made of gray, time-polished wood. No, on second thought, it was not even gray but, rather, blue-gray, like the blue wing of a dove. Tossing their beach towels onto the floor, Baya and Pam surrendered themselves to each other. They did this naturally, as though they had been doing it forever. A light breeze carried from the ocean scents of kelp, fresh fish, and shelled creatures. Baya, too, smelled of the ocean; her skin was somewhat salty, especially on the inside of her thighs. Her shoulders were sweet like papaya. Her tongue against her dark skin was like a slice of pink grapefruit.
Pam stretched herself in her comfortable chair, languishing under the afghan. No, it looked as though she wouldn`t last here until the first snow this year. She would fly earlier. Nowadays one can take a direct flight from Ottawa to Lagos. She was thirsty, but felt too lazy to crawl out from under the toasty afghan and to the refrigerator for a tonic…
«Oh, how you quenched my thirst, Baya, after the scorching sun. Your saliva is like mango nectar, and your breath is like a sea breeze. I remember how you would squat to prepare our lunch; spiny lobsters in ice and coconuts. The black curls between your legs were still moist from desire. I would kiss your fingers as they held the bulbous coconut, and could not believe my own happiness. Baya, you are my eternal summer».