on her hands, she gazed at the white sand before her.
‘What do you write about?’ she asked.
‘Things.’
‘Not people?’
‘As seldom as I can.’
‘Tell me,’ she persisted.
I would say nothing. She frowned, and pushed damp hair away from her cheek with the pale soft underside of her wrist.
‘If I wrote, it would be about people.’
I shaded my eyes and looked out at the holy island on the sea.
‘Yes, I write about people too,’ I admitted. ‘But you have to be careful with them. They always want to have meanings, or be symbols, always something more than they are. They want to think, while all that matters is what happens in the little space between one person and the next.’
I bit my lip. She noticed nothing.
‘Like electricity and metal,’ she said, pleased with herself. ‘Or is it magnets? I never know. I shall buy one of your books.’
‘There is only one.’
‘Well I shall buy it, and if I do not understand it, then you can explain it to me.’
I shook my head and said solemnly,
‘That wouldn’t do at all, Mrs Kyd.’
I was eager to end the conversation. Helena sat up, and her swim suit sagged with the weight of damp sand which clung to it. Silver beads of water lay between her breasts. I left her, and went back to the table to finish my beer and curse at myself for a while, for no particular reason, apart from the eternal one of knowing myself to be a fool.
The afternoon went imperceptibly away into the enormous sky. The heatstorm raged briefly on the horizon, with lightning, and distant understated thunder. Nothing of that rage came to the beach but for a fitful murmuring of the olive tree, and a moment while the sea was alive with ghostly glimmers of phosphorescence. Helena put on her clothes, smiled at me, took up her bag, and started slowly away up the road with her head bent. The sun slipped down the sky above the headland, and the light ebbed on the beach. The old woman, sighing and nodding, came and asked me if I would take another drink, or a salad perhaps, a nice roasted fish. I thanked her, and refused, and went to the road. Purple shadows were flooding the sea. The wild reeds were clacking. There was the voice of the sea. I found her sitting on a low stone wall some distance up the hill. We said nothing, but moved away together. The sky turned through its colours, pale rose to blue, a wild soft purple shading to white on the horizon. The burnt barren fields around us were touched with gold, and the bushes gave up their shadows lingeringlyfrom among the leaves and thorns. A cloud of white glittering light exploded slowly on the sea below us, as though a huge invisible hand had smacked its quiet surface. Somewhere a cock sent up a querulous and irritated squawk. We crossed the spine of the island. A fresh breeze sprang up, and a hawk climbed the liquid air.
Well, well, a new day.
16
Noonday burned above the olive grove, in the trees among the boughs, on the ground where the little lizards stalked with their fragile and considered tread. Crazed with heat and the wild blue light, we rolled and writhed on the clay, grappling, joined at thigh and mouth, but she would not yield, and would not speak, and fought me in a savage silence. All round about us the air was singing, and through the leaves and the bitter fruits, something slowly moved. The lizards saw it and were still, transfixed by a hypnotic throbbing of the air and light, the yellow sun, the music and weird chanting high in the limitless sky. The limp leaves stirred, and the lizards watched, and the sun-drunk piping song grew loud and cried, and cried, and receded, slowly, with a dying fall, and died, into the trembling distance. I released her, and lay on my back in a silence of my own. She sat with her arms around her legs and her chin resting on her knees. With a quivering lower lip clenched in her teeth, she sifted a handful of dust through her fingers. There were leaves in her yellow hair. I got to my feet and
‘What do you write about?’ she asked.
‘Things.’
‘Not people?’
‘As seldom as I can.’
‘Tell me,’ she persisted.
I would say nothing. She frowned, and pushed damp hair away from her cheek with the pale soft underside of her wrist.
‘If I wrote, it would be about people.’
I shaded my eyes and looked out at the holy island on the sea.
‘Yes, I write about people too,’ I admitted. ‘But you have to be careful with them. They always want to have meanings, or be symbols, always something more than they are. They want to think, while all that matters is what happens in the little space between one person and the next.’
I bit my lip. She noticed nothing.
‘Like electricity and metal,’ she said, pleased with herself. ‘Or is it magnets? I never know. I shall buy one of your books.’
‘There is only one.’
‘Well I shall buy it, and if I do not understand it, then you can explain it to me.’
I shook my head and said solemnly,
‘That wouldn’t do at all, Mrs Kyd.’
I was eager to end the conversation. Helena sat up, and her swim suit sagged with the weight of damp sand which clung to it. Silver beads of water lay between her breasts. I left her, and went back to the table to finish my beer and curse at myself for a while, for no particular reason, apart from the eternal one of knowing myself to be a fool.
The afternoon went imperceptibly away into the enormous sky. The heatstorm raged briefly on the horizon, with lightning, and distant understated thunder. Nothing of that rage came to the beach but for a fitful murmuring of the olive tree, and a moment while the sea was alive with ghostly glimmers of phosphorescence. Helena put on her clothes, smiled at me, took up her bag, and started slowly away up the road with her head bent. The sun slipped down the sky above the headland, and the light ebbed on the beach. The old woman, sighing and nodding, came and asked me if I would take another drink, or a salad perhaps, a nice roasted fish. I thanked her, and refused, and went to the road. Purple shadows were flooding the sea. The wild reeds were clacking. There was the voice of the sea. I found her sitting on a low stone wall some distance up the hill. We said nothing, but moved away together. The sky turned through its colours, pale rose to blue, a wild soft purple shading to white on the horizon. The burnt barren fields around us were touched with gold, and the bushes gave up their shadows lingeringlyfrom among the leaves and thorns. A cloud of white glittering light exploded slowly on the sea below us, as though a huge invisible hand had smacked its quiet surface. Somewhere a cock sent up a querulous and irritated squawk. We crossed the spine of the island. A fresh breeze sprang up, and a hawk climbed the liquid air.
Well, well, a new day.
16
Noonday burned above the olive grove, in the trees among the boughs, on the ground where the little lizards stalked with their fragile and considered tread. Crazed with heat and the wild blue light, we rolled and writhed on the clay, grappling, joined at thigh and mouth, but she would not yield, and would not speak, and fought me in a savage silence. All round about us the air was singing, and through the leaves and the bitter fruits, something slowly moved. The lizards saw it and were still, transfixed by a hypnotic throbbing of the air and light, the yellow sun, the music and weird chanting high in the limitless sky. The limp leaves stirred, and the lizards watched, and the sun-drunk piping song grew loud and cried, and cried, and receded, slowly, with a dying fall, and died, into the trembling distance. I released her, and lay on my back in a silence of my own. She sat with her arms around her legs and her chin resting on her knees. With a quivering lower lip clenched in her teeth, she sifted a handful of dust through her fingers. There were leaves in her yellow hair. I got to my feet and
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