And he felt suddenly on the thin edge of realizing something very important about life. Here in this dusty town, in this town gone awkwardly silent in the presence of death, here where he did not know why they were closing the doors of the shops, or who the man in the coffin was, here he felt something start in the pit of his stomach and burn there with ferocious intensity and then work its way into his blood stream like a narcotic, rushing for his brain. He tried to channel it, tried to organize it into something he could grasp, something that would have meaning. He knew there was profundity in what was happening, something very deep and very meaningful, something about values and goals, about the incompleteness and startling brevity of life, something about clinging, living, building, something about the finality of death, but he could not think, he could only feel, and his inability to make this feeling coherent, to lay it out like a floor plan, to put it into meaningful symbols and ciphers he could manipulate frustrated him so that he stood silent and thoughtful, wracked with agonizingly elusive thought as the coffin passed and the shop doors closed and the dust rose on the street washed with sunlight.
“They close the doors because a friend is passing,” Hebbery said at his elbow. “They won’t do business while a dead friend goes by. It’s respect.”
He nodded, but he was not listening to Hebbery, did not know how long Hebbery had been standing by his side. The procession had passed, and behind it was the cloud of dust. He could no longer see the little girls in white. There were only the backs of the mourners now, spread across the street like a solid wall of sorrow. He had the feeling that once they were gone, if he allowed them to go, he would never be able to understand what he’d almost grasped, what was still within reach of his grasp, if only he could organize it, hold it.
A bell was tolling somewhere in the distance. The procession was turning a corner at the end of the street, and Hebbery said, “They’re heading for the church. It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”
He nodded. He wanted to say, Yes, yes, it’s a beautiful thing, but that isn’t it, help me, Hebbery, this is the whole meaning of life here if you’ll only help me put it into words.
The last of the mourners turned the corner, following the coffin. The dust settled, the shop doors opened again. The men replaced their hats. Slowly the street came back to lethargic life.
In the distance he could hear the steady, unrelenting toll of the church bell.
The plane left Isla Verde, the island’s international airport, two days later at dusk. They sat side by side, and they could see condensed moisture rising from the island’s greenery as evening set in with its cool sea winds.
Eve took his hand when the wheels left the ground, and she did not let go of it until the tension inside her relaxed an hour later, and then she fell asleep.
10
He walked with Chris rapidly.
He had shaved and put on his favorite woolen sports shirt. He wore it open at the throat, a sports jacket thrown over it, even though it was much too cold for such light attire. When he saw her, he smiled and then quickly pulled the smile from his face. He saw the recognition in her eyes, and he studied her face and then the ash-blonde hair and then the dangling earrings. Her eyes avoided his. Again she seemed embarrassed in his presence, and he wondered what caused the embarrassment.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
They stood in silence. He was beginning to feel the cold. He should have worn a coat.
“You have a nice tan,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“It makes your eyes...” She stopped.
“Yes?”
“Brown. Browner.”
He didn’t know what to answer. He nodded, and they were silent again, and he began to anticipate the appearance of the other neighborhood women, and found himself consciously willing their late arrival.
“Did you have a nice time?” she asked,
“Yes, very nice.”
The silence closed in again. He had the feeling that the conversation was completely undirected, that neither knew where it was leading. But at the same time he felt it would run its course without conscious direction from either of them. He could not think of a single thing to say. He realized abruptly that Margaret Gault was only a passing stranger, and he wondered why he had come to the bus stop this morning.
And then he said, “Are you going shopping again?”
“No,” she said. “Why?”
“You looked dressed up.”
“No.”
The words sprang from his mouth. “When are you going again?”
He did not expect the suspicious narrowing of her eyes, or the sudden coldness in her voice. He felt instant panic and doubt when she said simply, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, backing down.
She would not allow him to retreat. The coldness was growing in her voice. Her eyes told him he was pinned to a slide, and she was going to dissect him dispassionately. “What’s so important about my going shopping?”
But he sensed, too, that the subject could have been closed by her instantly — and it had not been. The thought came to him full blown, giving him a sudden feeling of power.
“Will you be going tomorrow?” he asked.
“Maybe.” Her answer told him he had not been wrong. She did not want to close the subject. He grinned slightly, surprised by the feeling of power which was growing within him.
“What time?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Why not?” he answered quickly. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
She started to nibble at her lower lip and then stopped. Falteringly she said, “I don’t know if I’ll be going shopping tomorrow.”
“In the morning?”
“I don’t know if I have any shopping to do.”
“The afternoon?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?” he asked, his eyes full on her face. Her eyes locked with his. They stood silent, staring at each other.
And then as if she were leaping a hurdle in slow motion, she very slowly and cautiously said, “Tomorrow’s Saturday. If I do any shopping, Don’ll be with me.” She kept staring at him steadily, as if struggling to keep his complete attention, as if trying to make certain he would not miss a word she was saying. “My husband.”
“Oh.” He paused. Somehow the hurdle had been leaped, and he felt an almost immediate relaxation of tension. “When will you go again?” he asked easily.
“I don’t know.” He thought he detected an archness in her voice, a coquettish quality which had not been there before. She smiled flirtatiously. “I hear you’re an architect.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“One of the women. You won a prize.”
“That’s right.”
“You must be good.”
“I am,” he said. “How about Monday?”
“Monday’s a school holiday. My son is home.”
“Tuesday?”
“I don’t know. Are any of your houses in magazines or anything?”
“Yes. Is Tuesday—”
“Which magazines?”
“A lot of them. One was in September’s House and Garden.” He looked at her curiously. “Why?”