blue whale that had been stranded on the shore—and several aquariums full of parrotfish and corals and little rosefish. You had particularly liked—and I couldn’t help grinning when I read this bit—a couple of king crabs eating a filleted herring. You called them the most lethargic feeders in all creation; it was a real test of patience to watch them having their dinner. You mentioned the sea horses as well, and how they looked to you like contented little creatures. In the end I couldn’t think of anywhere better to hide Stella’s letter than in my English grammartextbook. As I folded it and put it inside, I thought ahead, without knowing what would happen I thought of some indefinite day, and imagined ourselves looking back and asking, “Do you remember?” Then, sitting side by side, we would read her letter together, perhaps surprised to find how much cause for cheerfulness it gave us.
It was at this time that I first dreamed of Stella, a dream that made me think. In the dream I arrived late at school, the others were already sitting there, and turned to me grinning, smirking and expectant; when I was sitting down they made me look at the board. There were printed words in block letters, in English: P LEASE COME BACK, DEAR S TELLA , C HRISTIAN IS WAITING FOR YOU. I rushed to the board and wiped the words away. The smug pleasure on their faces told me that they thought they had won a game.
Waiting, waiting for your return; although I sometimes thought I was doomed to wait, and I was used to it by now, it seemed to me particularly difficult in Stella’s absence. I took guests at the Seaview Hotel out in the afternoons in our Katarina , almost always to Bird Island, where a small landing stage had been built. I guided my passengers around the island, showed themthe bird warden’s hut, told them about the old man who liked his solitary life and sometimes shared it with a domesticated seagull that had once been injured by a shot and couldn’t fly anymore.
Even as the man got in and paid for the trip, he seemed familiar to me, and later—he found himself a seat in the stern—I was almost sure of it: he was that Colin whose photo I’d seen in Stella’s room. He was wearing a linen jacket over a checkered shirt, he bore a remarkable similarity to Colin, and only when he spoke, turning to the stout lady sitting next to him and explaining something to her with a wealth of gestures—probably what to do when a ship capsizes—did I begin to doubt it, although only fleetingly, because as soon as he looked keenly at me in a rather self-conscious way I was sure he was Colin, and he had turned up here in the hope of seeing Stella. “Stella with love, Colin.” He helped the older passengers to get out on the landing stage, and during our tour of the island he asked more questions than anyone else. He told us he collected gulls’ eggs, and would have liked to find a few here, but it wasn’t the season.
It was not in the hut but on the tree trunk that had been washed up, where we were sitting watching thewaves coming in on the beach, that he began to suffer from breathlessness; first he cleared his throat, then he put his head back and gasped for air, clutching his neck, and fighting for breath with violent swallowing movements. He was looking at me now not keenly, but in need of help, and he searched his pockets, patting them to find something.
“Aren’t you well?” I asked.
“My spray,” he said, adding, “Sanastmax, I left my spray in the hotel.”
I asked the passengers, but not many of them wanted to return yet, so I got him on board and took him back to the hotel. The concierge led the man, who was still breathing heavily, to a sofa and asked what he needed. “It’s on the bedside table, my inhaler is on the bedside table.” The concierge took a key from the board and quickly climbed the stairs. Alone with the man who looked like Colin, and whom I had momentarily taken for Colin, I decided to find
It was at this time that I first dreamed of Stella, a dream that made me think. In the dream I arrived late at school, the others were already sitting there, and turned to me grinning, smirking and expectant; when I was sitting down they made me look at the board. There were printed words in block letters, in English: P LEASE COME BACK, DEAR S TELLA , C HRISTIAN IS WAITING FOR YOU. I rushed to the board and wiped the words away. The smug pleasure on their faces told me that they thought they had won a game.
Waiting, waiting for your return; although I sometimes thought I was doomed to wait, and I was used to it by now, it seemed to me particularly difficult in Stella’s absence. I took guests at the Seaview Hotel out in the afternoons in our Katarina , almost always to Bird Island, where a small landing stage had been built. I guided my passengers around the island, showed themthe bird warden’s hut, told them about the old man who liked his solitary life and sometimes shared it with a domesticated seagull that had once been injured by a shot and couldn’t fly anymore.
Even as the man got in and paid for the trip, he seemed familiar to me, and later—he found himself a seat in the stern—I was almost sure of it: he was that Colin whose photo I’d seen in Stella’s room. He was wearing a linen jacket over a checkered shirt, he bore a remarkable similarity to Colin, and only when he spoke, turning to the stout lady sitting next to him and explaining something to her with a wealth of gestures—probably what to do when a ship capsizes—did I begin to doubt it, although only fleetingly, because as soon as he looked keenly at me in a rather self-conscious way I was sure he was Colin, and he had turned up here in the hope of seeing Stella. “Stella with love, Colin.” He helped the older passengers to get out on the landing stage, and during our tour of the island he asked more questions than anyone else. He told us he collected gulls’ eggs, and would have liked to find a few here, but it wasn’t the season.
It was not in the hut but on the tree trunk that had been washed up, where we were sitting watching thewaves coming in on the beach, that he began to suffer from breathlessness; first he cleared his throat, then he put his head back and gasped for air, clutching his neck, and fighting for breath with violent swallowing movements. He was looking at me now not keenly, but in need of help, and he searched his pockets, patting them to find something.
“Aren’t you well?” I asked.
“My spray,” he said, adding, “Sanastmax, I left my spray in the hotel.”
I asked the passengers, but not many of them wanted to return yet, so I got him on board and took him back to the hotel. The concierge led the man, who was still breathing heavily, to a sofa and asked what he needed. “It’s on the bedside table, my inhaler is on the bedside table.” The concierge took a key from the board and quickly climbed the stairs. Alone with the man who looked like Colin, and whom I had momentarily taken for Colin, I decided to find
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