Excerpt from ‘Nabelichting’, Chapter 19, A Little House near the Beach
“Gawd-dammit,” I heard a woman’s voice swear, “Jack Spaniards!”
We looked up from our towels and saw the pale white face of Mick Jagger sticking out of the bushes.
“Hey Apples”, Mick said when he saw Apollonia. “That’s what I call a surprise!”
The rest of Mick appeared and a ferocious raging coming out of the bush indicated he was not alone. Before we actually saw her, it was the unmistakenly Southern drawl that told us that it was Jerry, the mother of his children, that accompanied him.
Jerry Hall, big and blonde, and, just like Mick, very pale, was a friend and colleague of Apollonia, I’d only met her once, in London, earlier that year. She now came out of the jungle too, backwards, cursing like a trooper, violently waving her arms to get rid of all sorts of flying insects.
“I hate’m, I hate’m, I hate’m!” she cried out loud.
The fierce, irritated look on her face turned into a faint smile when she found out she and Mick were not the only persons on the beach.
“Well, shut my mouth,” she said, scratching her elbows, “How ya’all doin’ ?” She jumped away from an attacking wasp and hurt her toe on a coconut shell. “Gawd-dammit!” she shouted and started to swear again, hopping through the sand on just one leg.
She was obviously in trouble.
“We’re fine, but how are you?”
“Not too bad, not too bad.” Mick answered, in highly affected, impeccable English.
He closed his eyes and turned his face towards the sun.
The concert halls and recording studios seemed endlessly far away.