Like magnets, some places attract certain people. That's why the same thing happens to me every year when the tourist rush dries up. I go to the library and I run into her, I go to the fruit stand and she's in line, I go to the tobacconist and she's there too, buying an issue. I go to the mountains, to the outskirts, and I see him from afar, walking alone with an open black umbrella to protect himself from the sun and a bag full of bread, and he crouches down at the turns in the road and leaves wet leaves on the birds.
We're both members of a silent nation, hidden in its own country. When we meet on the street, we greet each other, but I meet them most often down at the cove. At that time, we're the only ones swimming. We wear caps and have towels draped over our backs. We talk a little and always say the same thing, every time: today is the best day for swimming. With or without sun, with wind and waves or without wind and waves, every day is the best day.
I don't know if he knows that I know that he's the one who litters the path down to the cove, who leaves it a mess, the edges littered with eggshells, bread, fruit and vegetables, mussel and clam shells that he throws to the seagulls. Feeding the animals is a vice, and he has the same addiction as my neighbors, who feed the pigeon plague in the square and can't do anything about it, even though it's prohibited.
Yes, he knows that I know, because we've talked about it, that when I reach the corner of the cove, as I undress, the fish rise from the bottom, dozens of fish come to see me, whole schools of fish that swim in circles and meander beneath me through the sea-green water, and that this is because they think I'm him and that I'll spring them. The fish act like the birds in our backyard, who at feeding time already wait for me because that's when I fill the feeder with cracked corn and sunflower seeds, peanuts, wheat, and peas. They wait for me hidden in the potted plants and act like my dog, who also spins around and wags her tail. I watch the fish and look for dry crumbs on the rock from when he passed by, I pick them up with my fingertips and throw them into the water, and the fish wriggle and jump and even splash; it's a spectacle full of life that encourages me to jump into the water. I jump and the fish flee like birds.
I dry off and head back up the path, up into the woods. The other day, on the trail, I heard some bushes rubbing against each other in a hedge between some pines. A man has a plant cave like this. I'd seen the hole before, and a bag of garbage, but it was the first time I'd encountered it in person, and I wonder if it might end up being one of us.
