had a time when he had stretched and felt free, a time between the times of a child and a man when he used his eyes so as to tire his entire body, a time when he got drunk in Spain and awoke in Sicily. As a woman she could never do the same; the most she could do was to dream, and she did, and sometimes (although she tried to shoo the thought away and get it out of her mind) she wished she were rid of him.
When Michael bought her a Kodak for Christmas, she went around taking pictures of views, and buildings, and when photographing the town she had wished that the streets had been clear of people. Her album was filled at first with shots of seascapes, and boats in a line, and ill-exposed sunsets, and angular rocks by the ocean. But after a few months she learned that people were necessary for photographs, that their faces and their bodies made the best pictures. She tried to explain that to Michael but he understood only partially, because he was a man still wed (and strongly so) to the landscapeâit had been his life. She felt this division between them the worst fact of her life. He had been slow to her innovation. She cursed at the wind and exhaled as if to express her anger, as if to say âDamn him.â She continued dreaming of places where he had been and she had not.
Michael was nearing the shore, his face set ever so strongly in an expression that made her long for him inexpressibly. It was like that of an Arab bedouin or a Tartar charging over the plain on his horse, a soldier leading his battery or regiment in close-ordered electrifying precision. His boat caught all the violence of the wind and went faster than it had ever gone, breaking for the opening trimmed with heavy deadening rocks.
She was full of love for him, and yet she had thoughts of being a widow. Her fine imagination presented to her a picture of a woman in black, so beautifully blond and tanned, walking on the beach or in a foreign city, a Mediterranean port, Strega, Ostuni, or Capri, shepherded by memories of her dead husband whom she loved more than anything in the world. She cried for him every night and turned away gentle suitors by the score until the whole world said in unison, âLook how fine she is, and how good,â and sucked in its cheeks and oceans in untrammeled delight at her tight faith to her husbandâs ashes. She tried so hard not to think that way, but the thoughts came likes waves into the bay, from some sort of sea where she had not been, and wished to go. She tensed with the love of the moment, for her husband was shooting the bar on a violent day in the bright autumn of her twentieth year.
He neared the bar and looked at the wind. His hands closed tightly on the ropes and tiller. Then a silence. She saw his face clearly Everything was still and dark, with silence except for the gentle luffing of his white sails, and the freedom of her apron in the wind.
All her life and all that she had read flashed before her as she saw her husbands frail boat crash against the huge rocks. A part of her beauty vanished, and her dreaming was done.
LIGHTNING NORTH OF PARIS
I T WAS approaching five oâclock on a cool afternoon in late October. Harry Spence sat on a stone railing in front of the Jeu de Paume, and as he waited for Shannon he looked through a maze of autumn trees stirred by a wind promising of winter and challenging in its direct cold northernness, a wind which lighted fires. Shannon was extremely tall and graceful. This, her face, and her dancerâs body were a continual proclamation that she be taken dead seriously. In fact, anyone not always alert with her would find himself left behind as if in the slipstream of a fast train which had just passed. She stared other women down like a man; they often hated her. In a café she had the same effect as music or a fireplace, quickly becoming the center. Men were drawn to her because they did not immediately fall in love. Her power put them off until they
When Michael bought her a Kodak for Christmas, she went around taking pictures of views, and buildings, and when photographing the town she had wished that the streets had been clear of people. Her album was filled at first with shots of seascapes, and boats in a line, and ill-exposed sunsets, and angular rocks by the ocean. But after a few months she learned that people were necessary for photographs, that their faces and their bodies made the best pictures. She tried to explain that to Michael but he understood only partially, because he was a man still wed (and strongly so) to the landscapeâit had been his life. She felt this division between them the worst fact of her life. He had been slow to her innovation. She cursed at the wind and exhaled as if to express her anger, as if to say âDamn him.â She continued dreaming of places where he had been and she had not.
Michael was nearing the shore, his face set ever so strongly in an expression that made her long for him inexpressibly. It was like that of an Arab bedouin or a Tartar charging over the plain on his horse, a soldier leading his battery or regiment in close-ordered electrifying precision. His boat caught all the violence of the wind and went faster than it had ever gone, breaking for the opening trimmed with heavy deadening rocks.
She was full of love for him, and yet she had thoughts of being a widow. Her fine imagination presented to her a picture of a woman in black, so beautifully blond and tanned, walking on the beach or in a foreign city, a Mediterranean port, Strega, Ostuni, or Capri, shepherded by memories of her dead husband whom she loved more than anything in the world. She cried for him every night and turned away gentle suitors by the score until the whole world said in unison, âLook how fine she is, and how good,â and sucked in its cheeks and oceans in untrammeled delight at her tight faith to her husbandâs ashes. She tried so hard not to think that way, but the thoughts came likes waves into the bay, from some sort of sea where she had not been, and wished to go. She tensed with the love of the moment, for her husband was shooting the bar on a violent day in the bright autumn of her twentieth year.
He neared the bar and looked at the wind. His hands closed tightly on the ropes and tiller. Then a silence. She saw his face clearly Everything was still and dark, with silence except for the gentle luffing of his white sails, and the freedom of her apron in the wind.
All her life and all that she had read flashed before her as she saw her husbands frail boat crash against the huge rocks. A part of her beauty vanished, and her dreaming was done.
LIGHTNING NORTH OF PARIS
I T WAS approaching five oâclock on a cool afternoon in late October. Harry Spence sat on a stone railing in front of the Jeu de Paume, and as he waited for Shannon he looked through a maze of autumn trees stirred by a wind promising of winter and challenging in its direct cold northernness, a wind which lighted fires. Shannon was extremely tall and graceful. This, her face, and her dancerâs body were a continual proclamation that she be taken dead seriously. In fact, anyone not always alert with her would find himself left behind as if in the slipstream of a fast train which had just passed. She stared other women down like a man; they often hated her. In a café she had the same effect as music or a fireplace, quickly becoming the center. Men were drawn to her because they did not immediately fall in love. Her power put them off until they
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