Wasserkinder
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: More reflections by the pool in Luxor.
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The German couple arrived at the pool together and they stayed close to each other for the whole week they were in the hotel. Ahmed, the pool boy, went to meet them and soon had them settled in sun-beds one row back from the prime pool-side location.
I could not hear the conversation but it was clear that they were having some difficulty making themselves understood. This was mildly surprising since Ahmed can resolve any problem linked to the pool, towels and sun-beds in at least four languages – five, if you count Egyptian Arabic!
Once they had settled, he stripped to white Bermuda shorts, stood under the shower for a minute and then stepped into the pool. She soon followed with a pair of orange shorts covering her bikini bottoms. Every day of their vacation they went through the same ritual wearing, always, the same swimwear.
Out of the water they were massive – he must have been well over six feet tall and with the build of an Olympic weightlifter. The bulk had all been muscle until recently but fat was beginning to accumulate on his tummy. She was about 5ft 10 and looked like a shot-putter who had got a bit carried away on steroids. I formed an instant picture of him in a tuxedo outside a Munich beer cellar amiably disposing of drunken tourists while she was inside in a dirndl and frothy white blouse with sweat running into her cleavage while she flitted amongst the tables with five steins in each hand.
Both of them could swim but they spent most of their time in the pool quietly playing. She would float on her back and he would gently tow her to and fro about the shallow end. She only swam, slowly and ponderously, when he left the pool to smoke while he only showed a more than competent front crawl in the few moments before she joined him.
They did not speak much to each other and never to anyone else but Ahmed. For the first few days they were surrounded by English holiday-makers and I thought that might explain their reticence but, even when several groups of Germans arrived later in the week, they did no more than pass the time of day with their fellow countrymen. They maintained their contented silence, happily lost in each other without seeing any need to widen their focus to include the rest of humanity.
Out of the pool they were less openly affectionate, content to lie side by side on their sun-beds. They did not read books or magazines and they never once looked at the river Nile gliding quietly past just a few feet behind them.
In the water they should have looked like playful whales, but with their gigantic bodies submerged you became aware of their faces which had the round, unformed look of babies. They could have been Hansel and Gretel – they looked enough alike to have passed for brother and sister – but my mind jumped to Kingsley’s little chimney sweep. They irresistibly reminded me of water babies: there was an innocence and lack of guile about their behaviour and they were as oblivious to their surroundings as children at play.
They were, in the common phrase, “made for each other” but I had the eerie thought that in their case it could be more than a cliché. You could imagine some descendant of Frankenstein completing the man and then going on to produce the only possible mate for him.
Or, perhaps, lying about idly in temperatures over 100 degrees makes a man fanciful.
Swearwords: None.
Description: More reflections by the pool in Luxor.
_____________________________________________________________________
The German couple arrived at the pool together and they stayed close to each other for the whole week they were in the hotel. Ahmed, the pool boy, went to meet them and soon had them settled in sun-beds one row back from the prime pool-side location.
I could not hear the conversation but it was clear that they were having some difficulty making themselves understood. This was mildly surprising since Ahmed can resolve any problem linked to the pool, towels and sun-beds in at least four languages – five, if you count Egyptian Arabic!
Once they had settled, he stripped to white Bermuda shorts, stood under the shower for a minute and then stepped into the pool. She soon followed with a pair of orange shorts covering her bikini bottoms. Every day of their vacation they went through the same ritual wearing, always, the same swimwear.
Out of the water they were massive – he must have been well over six feet tall and with the build of an Olympic weightlifter. The bulk had all been muscle until recently but fat was beginning to accumulate on his tummy. She was about 5ft 10 and looked like a shot-putter who had got a bit carried away on steroids. I formed an instant picture of him in a tuxedo outside a Munich beer cellar amiably disposing of drunken tourists while she was inside in a dirndl and frothy white blouse with sweat running into her cleavage while she flitted amongst the tables with five steins in each hand.
Both of them could swim but they spent most of their time in the pool quietly playing. She would float on her back and he would gently tow her to and fro about the shallow end. She only swam, slowly and ponderously, when he left the pool to smoke while he only showed a more than competent front crawl in the few moments before she joined him.
They did not speak much to each other and never to anyone else but Ahmed. For the first few days they were surrounded by English holiday-makers and I thought that might explain their reticence but, even when several groups of Germans arrived later in the week, they did no more than pass the time of day with their fellow countrymen. They maintained their contented silence, happily lost in each other without seeing any need to widen their focus to include the rest of humanity.
Out of the pool they were less openly affectionate, content to lie side by side on their sun-beds. They did not read books or magazines and they never once looked at the river Nile gliding quietly past just a few feet behind them.
In the water they should have looked like playful whales, but with their gigantic bodies submerged you became aware of their faces which had the round, unformed look of babies. They could have been Hansel and Gretel – they looked enough alike to have passed for brother and sister – but my mind jumped to Kingsley’s little chimney sweep. They irresistibly reminded me of water babies: there was an innocence and lack of guile about their behaviour and they were as oblivious to their surroundings as children at play.
They were, in the common phrase, “made for each other” but I had the eerie thought that in their case it could be more than a cliché. You could imagine some descendant of Frankenstein completing the man and then going on to produce the only possible mate for him.
Or, perhaps, lying about idly in temperatures over 100 degrees makes a man fanciful.
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned five novels and many short stories. His two latest novels, The Island and Pilgrimage of Grace, are McStorytellers publications.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned five novels and many short stories. His two latest novels, The Island and Pilgrimage of Grace, are McStorytellers publications.
You can read Alasdair's full profile on McVoices.