Prada. Gucci. Louis Vuitton. A dozen handbags, leather and vinyl. Kojo loops them around a wooden pole, which he carries across his shoulders. He fol lows the low hard sand, moving Uke a spider with an unwieldy burden. Ciao, bella, he says, coming to rest next to a beach umbrella. Vuoi comprare? Do you buy? A topless girl with oblong brown breasts examines two or three bags. He waits on one knee, watching the reflections on the sea. No, she says, then recUnes on the towel and closes her eyes. He speaks ItaUan with a French accent. He also knows some EngUsh and Spanish, the words that a foreigner learns before being put on a plane and sent away. Hello goodbye thank you how much fuck you am sorry you are very beautiful may use the bathroom would you spend the night with me where is the train station may have a glass a water please cause no trouble. He calls every woman bellissima, young or old, beautiful or otherwise. There are shopowners from Rome tugging little mutts on short tethers, with out husbands, who haggle for ten minutes; women who sunbathe in bikini bottoms all afternoon while their aged mothers sit in beachchairs beside them, handing over prosciutto and provolone sandwiches wrapped in oil paper; girls in string bikinis walking in pairs, arm in arm, swinging their hips. Feel the leather. Smells nice, yes? Yes, but? One-fifty. It is Gucci, signorina. It goes with your hair. a beauty you are in the sun. I have no What do you mean, no money? He gestures at the neat rows of blue lounge chairs and umbrellas, the raked sand, the volleyball net. Of course you have money. Take the bag. come back tomorrow. If you don't Uke, you give it back. Do you go to the dance clubs, signorina? Do you know La Bussola? You will find me there at mid night.