He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him. Strange shapes before him in the shadows of the stairs. For a while he walked about the house, treading carefully on the ancient boards. All was quiet but for the small sounds of his sister’s weeping. On the top landing a black, square thing lay precariously balanced on the banister. Tantey’s missal. As he passed he casually pushed it over the edge. The heavy book tumbled down the stairs, its pages fluttering.
He went into the bathroom and locked the door. On the handbasin he knelt and pushed open the small window of frosted glass set high in the wall. Darkness was approaching. Black clouds, their edges touched with red, were gathering out over the sea, and shadows were lowering on the ugly waters. A cold damp breath touched his face. In the distance a long peal of thunder rumbled. He closed the window and climbed down from the basin. He scrubbed his hands and dried them carefully, finger by finger. For a moment he was still, listening. No sounds. Then he went and stood before the mirror and gazed into it at his face for a long time.
Island
He sat in the garden under the olive tree, looking past the headland toward Delos, the holy island, where it trembled on the mist. In the night the fierce wind had died, and today the sea was calm. He lit a cigarette, and the blue threads of smoke curled away into the burnished leaves above him. Cicadas sang about the scorched fields, and now and then there came the plop of a pomegranate bursting in the sun. The day would be hot.
Anna came from the cottage, a wooden tray in her hands. He watched her idly as she laid the table of rough olive wood before him, two cups, bread and white butter, grapes. She would not look at him, and her mouth was set in a tight line. From the taverna below the hill came faintly the gobbling of the turkeys. With his eyes on the road he said:
— Ever think that those birds can talk? Listen to them. You haven’t you haven’t you haven’t. That’s what they say.
She did not answer, and he glanced at her.
— Are you still angry? he asked.
— I’m not angry. Who said I was angry?
She hacked a lump of bread from the loaf and slapped it down on the plate. He laughed, and grinding the cigarette under his heel he said:
— You were angry last night.
— Well, that was last night.
— Don’t shout.
— I’m not shouting.
She stood with her hands on her hips and glared at him, and with a shrug he turned away and looked again down the road. She said:
— Why do you sit here every morning staring like that?
— No reason.
— You’re waiting for someone to come with a message or something, aren’t you, so you’ll have an excuse to go away and leave me.
He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. Patiently he said:
— No, Anna, I’m not waiting for anything. I just like to sit here in the morning. It’s pleasant.
— While you sit here your life is going away and my life too. Why don’t you write? Wasting your time like that. You’re bored. You want to leave me.
— For the love of Christ, Anna.
He took her hands and pulled her down to sit in his lap. For a moment he gazed at her, watching the sun through the leaves set fire in her hair. She bit her lip, and he kissed her, pressing his mouth roughly on hers.
— Now, he said. I love you and I’m not going to leave you. Do you believe me?
She held him tightly and murmured in his ear:
— I believe you.
— Good. So let’s eat.
While she poured his coffee he fingered absently the bread on his plate, tearing the soft white flesh. She watched him from the corner of her eye and said:
— We could always go on, you know.
— What?
— We could go on somewhere else. I mean if you’re bored we could go, say, to Alexandria. You’re always saying you’d like to go to Alexandria.
With his lips pursed he looked at her a moment, his face empty, then he turned his eyes to the road that led down to the beach and the still sea. The light was changing now as the climbing sun burned away the morning’s mist, Delos was advancing and the farther islands were faintly visible. A small breeze came up from the bay and stirred the leaves of the olive tree.
— Why should I want to leave here? he murmured. It’s peaceful.
She nodded sadly and took one of his cigarettes. She said:
— Why did you change so much?
— Change? Did I change?
— When we left Ireland you were full of plans and things. The first few months you were happy.
— And now?
— I don’t know. You just sit around all day. You haven’t worked on your book in weeks. You don’t even talk any more. Sometimes I get frightened and I think that you don’t see the point of anything any longer.
She broke off and gave a small high-pitched laugh.
— Isn’t that ridiculous? she said, and sat very still, watching the smoke from her cigarette, waiting. He pushed the hair away from her forehead, and she looked at him, smiling awkwardly.
— It’s ridiculous, he said. I enjoy this life. You know it.
— Yes. But I mean all I meant was that maybe you’re bored here and maybe we could move on somewhere else. We haven’t even started to use the money from your award yet so there’s no problem there. I mean I … Ben, I don’t want to lose you, she finished weakly.
His patience at an end, he sighed and turned away from her. She looked down at the table where the shadows from the tree stirred on the wood. Soft sunlight touched the cups and plates, the bread and the small green grapes, extracting from each thing it touched a sense of the thing itself, a sense of the fragility of its existence. Then the leaves stirred, and the shadows changed, a new pattern formed, one that seemed held in place by a force from within the wood itself. Something came back to her of their life together, and she smiled. She turned to him to speak, beginning to laugh, when from behind them on the road came a voice:
— Good morning.
They turned. On the broken pillar of the gate a woman leaned, smiling at them. Neither answered her, and the woman said:
— Can you help me? I am looking for someone.
She was dressed in a black faded shirt and black trousers. Her hair, long and straight, hung down about a narrow, bony face. Her mouth was small, and painted an ugly red. The flesh of her face was burned and dry from long years under this southern sun. On the bridge of her nose a pale spot glowed where the skin was stretched tight over the bone. Her eyes were large and black.
Ben stood up uncertainly and took a step toward her, halted. He said:
— Who is it you’re looking for?
The woman pushed a lank strand of hair away from her face with long, delicate fingers.
— A man, she said. He must have passed this way.
— We’ve seen no one. Anna spoke abruptly, and her eyes widened as though she had surprised herself. The woman glanced at her without interest and went on:
— They said in the village he came this way. Is there another road to the beach down there?
— No, Ben said. This is the only way and no one passed this morning.
The woman gazed at him, shading her eyes against the light.
— You could not miss him, she said. He is a dark man. A negro. Very tall with a red shirt open so at the neck.
Ben said nothing, and the woman’s eyes grew troubled and wandered over the road down to the bay.
— I must find him, she murmured. He is … how would you say? His mind is gone. This morning in the village he attacked a man and almost killed him with a wine bottle. I am worried.