The Beach of Falesá (1964) by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

Author:Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) [Thomas, Dylan]
Format: epub
Tags: 20th Century, Classics, Poetry, Fiction, Literature
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

There are some opened cases of dress material on the counter in the trading-store of Wiltshire’s bungalow. Uma is wearing a bright, flowered store dress, short and cut low. There is a ribbon in her hair, a cheap bead necklace round her throat. Her cheeks are rouged, her lips painted. She has a looking glass in her hand. She is holding some of the dress material across her shoulders, admiring it in the glass.

She tries another length of material, holds it across her breast, examines its effect, head on one side, then lifts up another roll of printed cotton from the counter. She hums a song to herself and makes the little movements of a dance. And Wiltshire comes in. His face is grim, his eyes burning. He snatches the material away from her, thrusts her aside.

Wiltshire: ‘Get that dress off you. And those beads. And that doll’s ribbon. You look like a slut from Papeete. I’m no drunken sailor with a month’s pay in my pocket. Scrub that slime off your face.’

Uma is standing still and upright, looking directly at him.

Wiltshire: ‘Here’s the whole damned Colney Hatch of an island turned against me, wriggling away like I was dead and rotten to the eyes, gaping and moaning, and all you can do is daub yourself up and mince round this pigsty like a geisha girl with the itch!’

Still Uma does not move, or turn her cool, sad gaze from his.

Wiltshire: ‘Why aren’t you cooking those meals of yours? They’d make a Kanaka mongrel vomit! Why aren’t you playing tunes on your pretty sewing machine? Why can’t you speak?’

He comes nearer to her, very near, his eyes wild, his voice harsh. But she does not flinch.

Wiltshire: ‘Or don’t you speak to me either? I’m taboo. Did you know that? I’m taboo. I frighten people. Do I frighten you? I’m taboo. I’m a leper. I’m doomed, I’m damned. I give the children fits. I turn the coconut milk sour. Listen to me, my wife! Can you tell me something? Just one little thing. That’s all I want to know. One little thing. Why am I taboo?’

And now Uma’s expression changes. Through Wiltshire’s abuse and mockery she has remained outwardly unmoved, taking his temper unflinchingly, almost with pride. Now she looks at him in amazement. Her poise is forsaken. Her hands go to the low-cut top of her dress, as though she were shielding nakedness.

Uma: ‘You do not know? You do not understand?’ Softly, ‘Oh, God help me now: She looks at his eyes. Her trace of a smile is almost compassionate. ‘It is me. The taboo belongs to me.’

And she turns and goes into the room behind the trading-store. Wiltshire does not move, but stands there, lost, awaiting her. And she comes back, into the store. She has changed her store dress for the everyday white dress of the island, plain, ungarlanded. She has wiped away paint and rouge. She walks across the store to the veranda door, her head high. Wiltshire watches her, a dawning comprehension in his eyes—that, and love.

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