Gods of the Mediterranean

“But you’re from Delhi, this heat should be nothing for you,” Mrs Floretti said.

“In Delhi you melt, in Marseille you burn,” I explained. Here I was, a seasoned Marseillais of three years, attempting to explain the nuances of heat to a local.

Mrs Floretti nodded, her weathered face creased in a thoughtful frown. "We Marseillais, though," she said, "we have our own way of dealing with it." A mischievous glint returned to her eyes. "You know," she continued, leaning forward conspiratorially, "there's a saying here. They say every summer, when a Marseillais leaps into the calanques, for that moment, suspended in mid-air, they become a god.”

I raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on my lips. "A god, huh?"

"Think about it," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They defy the relentless sun, their bodies taut with anticipation. And then, the splash! A baptism in the cool, blue escape. In that moment, aren't they the most beautiful creatures you've ever seen? Suspended between fire and water, defying the heat with sheer audacity?"

I had to admit, she had a point. Every summer, the calanques became a stage for these daring dives. Tourists and locals alike, propelled by the same desperate yearning for coolness, would hurl themselves from the rocky cliffs, transforming for a moment into breathtaking silhouettes against the azure canvas.

"Maybe not a god," I conceded with a grin, "but definitely a work of art."

Mrs Floretti chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Perhaps," she said. "But a work of art forged in the fires of summer, wouldn't you agree?"

We sat silently on that bench for some time, the same bench where we had met, merely a few minutes ago, enjoying the afternoon. A faint accordion started playing at a distance. The conversation drifted to other topics as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink.

“Well then, I better head home,” I started to fidget anxiously to stroll back home. I had spent the better half of the day hiking and climbing, and I was starting to feel fatigued.

“That accordion, you know? That’s fisherman Legrand. He plays for the soul, that one,” she said, completely ignoring my queue for a goodbye.

“Yes yes, it's beautiful.” I slowly and awkwardly stood up.

Mrs Floretti closed her eyes, a serene smile gracing her weathered face.

“They say,” she whispered, “that if you listen closely enough, Legrand’s music can make you feel the cool spray of the calanques on your skin, even when you’re far away.”

As the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, the air did seem to carry a hint of coolness, a faint echo of the sea.