Swimming Home by Deborah Levy

accident, strutted to their table carrying a large bottle of mineral water and two glasses. Joe saw this as an opportunity to pass some time and avoid talking about the poem he had kicked under his bed with the cockroaches, etc.
    He turned to Kitty. ‘Did you order this?’
    She shook her head and made a glum face at Claude. Joe heard himself bellowing at the pouting waiter.
    ‘What’s wrong with tap water?’
    Claude stared at him with blatant dislike. ‘Tap water is full of hormones.’
    ‘No, it’s not. Bottled water is a trick to get more money from tourists.’
    Joe could hear Claude laughing. The only other sound was the birds. And the nervous hum inside Kitty Finch, who was a bird or something fairyish anyway. He couldn’t look at her. Instead he fixed his eyes on Claude.
    ‘Tell me, sir. Is your country incapable of processing water that is safe to drink?’
    Claude, with the flourish of a low-rent pimp showing off his new diamond cufflinks, unscrewed the cap on the ice-cold bottle of water and walked towards his dogs, who were sleeping under the chestnut tree. He winked at Jurgen as he poured the water into the chipped ceramic bowls that lay by their paws. The dogs lapped at the water indifferently and then gave up. Claude patted their heads and strutted back into the café. When he came out again he was holding a glass of warm cloudy tap water, which he handed to the English poet.
    Joe held the glass up to the sun. ‘I assume,’ he shouted to the caretaker, who was still untangling his string, ‘that this glass of water comes from a putrid swamp.’ He gulped the water down in one go and pointed to the empty glass. ‘This is water. It can be found in oceans and polar ice caps … It can be found in clouds and rivers … it will …’
    Claude snapped his fingers under the poet’s nose. ‘Thank you, monsieur, for the geography lesson. But what we want to know is have you read the poetry of our friend here?’ He pointed to Kitty. ‘Because she tells us you are a very respected poet and she says you have so kindly offered to give her an opinion.’
    Joe had to finally look at Kitty Finch. Her grey eyes that were sometimes green seemed to shine with extra radiance in her sunburnt face. She did not seem in the least embarrassed by Claude’s intervention on her behalf. In fact she appeared to be amused, even grateful. Joe reckoned this was the worst day of his holiday so far. He was too old, too busy to have to endure a village full of idiots more fascinated with him than he was with them.
    ‘That is a private conversation between two writers,’ he said quietly to no one in particular.
    Kitty blushed and stared at her feet. ‘Do you think I’m a writer?’
    Joe frowned. ‘Yeah, I think you probably are.’
    He stared nervously at Jurgen, who appeared to be lost in the puzzle of his string. The dogs were now lapping up the expensive bottled water in their bowls. Claude danced into the café, where he had pinned up a poster of Charlie Chaplin standing white-faced in a circle of light, his walking stick between his legs. Underneath it were the words Les Temps modernes . Next to it stood the new rubber model of ET, his baby alien neck garlanded with a string of fake plastic ivy. He started to fry yesterday’s potatoes in duck fat, peering out of the window to see what the poet and Kitty Ket were up to.
     
     
    Kitty leaned forward and touched Joe’s shoulder with her hand. It was a strange gesture. As if she were testing that he was there.
    ‘I’ve got all your books in my room.’
    She sounded vaguely threatening. As if by owning his books, he in turn owed her something. The copper curls of her long unbrushed hair falling over her shoulders resembled a marvellous dream he might have invented to cheer himself up. How had she managed to hog so much beauty? She smelt of roses. She was soft and slender and supple. She was interesting and lovely. She loved plants. She had green fingers. And more