I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on the sand. It could be hours, it could be years.
It’s the first time in the past few days when I truly feel like I’m leaning on something firm and solid. The sensation of constantly rising and falling hasn’t completely disappeared. My head is buzzing. I can’t even manage to sleep.
Only she, Eve, seems to have no problem at all. She has appeared and disappeared from the beach a hundred times by now. Occasionally, she comes and says something to me, but I ignore her. I’m just glad to see her leaving again.
She seems to have the devil in her. Where does she get all that energy? Now she appears again, leans over me, and presses her lips tightly against mine.
God, water!
I eagerly swallow the life flowing from her mouth into mine and open my eyes wide.
“Water? Where did you get water, Eve?”
She takes my hand and simply says:
“Come!”
Since we arrived on the shore, the only thing I’ve done is lie on the sand, as far away from the waves as possible. Only now do I realize how thirsty I am.
I follow her footsteps. The sand is hot. Here and there are broken seashells and pieces of hard rock.
Water!
I’m so eager that I bump into one of the stones and blood spurts out. I’ve ruined a nail. I stop, take off my shirt, and wrap my foot. The girl waits patiently beside me. When I’m done, she points to a small crack in the rock.
“There, water.”
I rush madly. She’s right. I put my hand into the crack, cup it, and manage to extract a bit of water. It tastes a bit strange, but it’s water. We drink in turns, and when I try again, there’s nothing there.
“Is that all?” I exclaim disappointedly.
“That’s all we found.”
“There must be more somewhere. Keep looking, Eve! Let’s search!”
I look around carefully for the first time. Oh, I was right: it’s an island. Obviously, it’s an island, and not even a big one.
When God finished writing our story, He put a period to the sentence. This island is that period. A dot thrown into the middle of the waters.
“It’s about seven hundred meters long,” the girl says.
“Aha, you had time to measure it,” I mutter. “And the width?”
“About five hundred.”
“Perfect,” I grumble. “We have enough space to starve and thirst to death.”
The girl kneels down and looks at me.
“Come,” she whispers. “We must thank God for being kind to us.”
I feel my blood boiling. Thank? Why the hell should I thank? I look around and I can’t find many reasons to be grateful. We are… a man, a girl, and a deserted island.
For this, you want me to thank You, Lord?
“You can pray if that makes you happy!” I tell the girl, stepping away.
I step over the cursed rock with my cursed foot wrapped in my cursed shirt. My toe hurts like hell.
Lord, know that I’m very angry with You!
Just so you know!
* * *
Four days have passed.
It seems our deserted island hasn’t always been so deserted. In its center, we found a steel cauldron. Attached just above it is a large steel funnel. It’s a simple solution for collecting rainwater. Simple, but effective.
On the first day, together with Eve, we managed to remove the rusty lid, but we found only a little hot water inside.
“It’s broken,” she said, pointing to a rusty hole through which light could be seen.
“Seriously?” I asked, annoyed. “Did you really expect it to be full of water?”
The day before yesterday, in the island’s green center, we found among the trees, not far from the cauldron, a few red, juicy stems. I nibbled on them while Eva watched.
“Do you want some too?”
“No. And I advise you not to eat either.”
In less than a quarter of an hour, endless bouts of vomiting followed. Now I know not to touch the red, juicy stems anymore. But what else to put in my mouth?
Clouds have been circling us for two days now. It’s a clear sign that something is coming. Rain? Ah… Lord, help!
Everything is dry on this island forgotten by men and by God.
There are plenty of empty seashells on the sand. I know they’re empty. I checked each one. I didn’t even find a single living one.
Eva doesn’t seem to feel the lack of food much. She keeps wandering around, as if she wants to spite me and show me how active and energetic she is.
“We need to gather dry pieces of wood and build an SOS on the beach,” she told me yesterday.
So we worked together for a few hours. The SOS turned out quite nicely, but besides us, no one else came to admire it.
There are no large planes or small planes in the sky. Not even birds. Not even flies. How is that possible?
On the other side of the island, we found a green-painted wooden crate. The paint is peeling, and the hinges are rusty. On the lid and on the sides, there are letters in white. Cyrillic letters, I recognize. Did the Russians make it here?
“I know this kind of green crate well,” I say, frowning. “It’s used for transporting ammunition. It was once full of cartridges packed in waxed paper.”
“How did it end up here?” she asks, surprised.
“It doesn’t necessarily have to be left here by the Russians,” I explain. “It could be from some Asians supplied by the Russians. Ivan exports weapons all over the world, starting with Africa and ending with South America.”
We checked the whole island together, palm by palm. Beyond this small forest, there’s nothing else. Just rock, white sand, and empty shells again. And our so-called forest is actually just a tangled mess of bushes and vines. About forty trees.
I’m not really interested in flowers and plants. I never have been. I don’t recognize any weeds around here, but these trees are definitely not coconut trees. I don’t see a single coconut anywhere.
“How strange,” I complain to Eve. “Usually, in movies, castaways always find coconuts, and bananas, and wild boars ready to be put on the spit. But here everything is deserted.”
“It means we need to start fishing,” she replies half-heartedly, then looks at me and… smiles.
Eva smiles?
Yes, she’s in the mood for smiling. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile. It seems so abnormal for someone in her situation to smile that I stare at her without saying a word.
I admit, she looks almost beautiful when she smiles, but that won’t satisfy my hunger.
Another secret fear of mine is that a giant wave, a tsunami, might come over us and sweep us completely off this little island. The highest point on the island is no more than five or six meters.
The trees don’t count. The tsunami is fast. There’s no time to climb a tree.
Besides the clothes we’re wearing and the two life vests, our only asset is my wallet. In it, I have only a few items: a pack of cigarettes destroyed by saltwater, a half-full lighter, my bank card (surely I won’t have problems with money), and the passport. From it, only the covers have survived in brine. The rest of the pages are compromised.
That’s a problem.
If some fat customs officer sets foot on this island, we’re in trouble.
* * *
I admit, I’ve never been much of a foodie, but now I’m starting to miss the spicy dishes from the little restaurant in Phuket.
I would even settle for a crab in spicy sauce. Anything would do. I would even eat a grilled cat sprinkled with small pieces of garlic.
Dreams! There’s nothing alive on this island. Not even a mosquito larva.
But I’m a stubborn and creative guy. After a few hours, I come up with a plan that I envision will end with me holding a big, fat fish in my hand. In my mind’s eye, I see myself cleaning it and eating it.
I dig into the sand on the beach. I want to set up a fish trap. I’m not in a hurry. Time is not a problem here.
I work diligently and manage to dig a kind of canal in the sand, then connect it to the ocean water and my little trap. I reinforce the sandy edges with dried sticks and intertwined vines. Eva watches in silence as I work.
“Do you think it will work?” she asks, shaking her head.
“Of course not! As everyone knows, fish don’t have much brain, so all we have to do is wait. You’ll be less pessimistic when you’re holding a fried fish.”
“May the Almighty hear you,” she says, smiling. “If you had some fish for dinner, I’d feel safer with you on this island. I saw how you were looking at me a few hours ago, and I didn’t like it at all.”
“Does your mind really go there?” I ask, laughing. “I admit, you have a sense of humor, but I wouldn’t have anything to satisfy myself with. You’re too small.”
The truth is, I’m starving, but I wouldn’t serve her for dinner. I find her likable.
On the contrary, I’ll fish for her, I’ll feed her, and I’ll protect her. That’s how things work between men and women since the Stone Age: the man feeds the woman! Period.
By evening, I’m even hungrier. It’s no joke. Time passes, but the fish don’t want to be fooled! I’ve seen plenty of interesting and beautifully colored specimens, but none of them have been stupid enough to get caught in my trap.
I know it takes some time to become a professional fisherman. Still, it would be encouraging to catch at least one fish, a small one. Hunger is tearing me apart, and this time, I find myself looking longingly at Eve’s small buttocks.
I wonder what petites taste like?
I sigh and try to think of something else. Since I don’t have anything else to do, I’ll look for some dry wood.
I find them and light a fire near the water cauldron. In the warmth of the flames, I melt a piece of my life vest and obtain a hot, sticky paste. I seal the rusty hole in the cauldron with it.
I look carefully. There are other holes. I plug them. When I think I’m done, I discover another one.
Damn it, this cauldron is holey like a sieve! I use the remaining paste and cover everything carefully. I hope it holds.
“We’ll find out at the first rain,” Eva says with a terribly serious face.
I look at her irritably. This girl with black eyes and hair like a wheat spike is starting to get on my nerves. There couldn’t have been a more inappropriate person to shipwreck with on an island.
The fire hasn’t gone out yet. I heat the edge of the card a bit and make a kind of knife out of it. With a lot of patience, I manage to make it serrated. Then I rub the card against a stone until I sharpen one side well.
I look at the result of my work. The card is so scratched that nothing can be understood from the writing on the back.
“Well, it’s still a knife,” I whisper to myself. “It’s functional, isn’t it? That’s what matters.”
My kind of knife would make the prehistoric man laugh until he cried, but I’m very satisfied with the result.
I’m resourceful.
I’m tough!
Thank you, MasterCard!
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