I closed my eyes, turning away from her again. How could I ever forget that obsessive writing and rewriting, the warm summer, the hillside view of Jethra? I particularly remembered being on the verandah of the villa I had borrowed from Colan the evening I made my most exciting discovery: that recollection was only partial, that the artistic recreation of the past constituted a higher truth than mere memory. Life could be rendered in metaphorical terms; these were the patterns I mentioned to Lareen. The actual details of, for instance, my years at school were only of incidental interest, yet considered metaphorically, as an experience of learning and growing, they became a larger, higher event. I related to them directly, because they had been my own experiences, but they were also related to the larger body of human experience because they dealt with the verities. Had I merely recounted the humdrum narrative, the catalogue of anecdotal details in literal memory, I should have been telling only half the story.
I could not separate myself from my context, and in this my manuscript became a wholeness, describing my living, describing my life.
I therefore knew that to answer Lareen's questionnaire would produce only half-truths. There was no room for elaboration in literal answers, no capacity for metaphor, or for _story_.
Lareen was glancing at her wristwatch.
'Do you know it's after three?' she said. 'You missed lunch, and you're not allowed food after four.'
'Can I get a meal at this time?'
'At the refectory. Tell the staff you're starting treatment tomorrow, and they'll know what to give you.'
'Where's Seri? Shouldn't she he back by now?'
'I told her not to be back before five.'
'I want her with me tonight,' I said.
'That's up to you and her. She mustn't be here when you go up to the clinic.'
I said: 'But afterwards, can I see her then?'
'Of course you can. We'll both need her.' Lareen had tucked my manuscript under her arm, ready to take it away, but now she pulled it out again. 'How much does Seri know about you, about your background?'
'We've talked a bit while we were travelling. We both talked about ourselves.'
'Look, I've had an idea.' Lareen held out the manuscript for me to take.
'I'll read this later, while you're in the clinic. Tonight, let Seri read this, and talk to her about it. The more she knows about you the better. It could be very important.'
I took the manuscript back, thinking of the way my life and privacy were being invaded. In writing of myself I had exposed myself; in the manuscript I was naked. I had not written to promote or excuse myself; I had just been honest, and in the process had found myself frequently unlikable. For this reason, the very idea of someone else reading the manuscript would have been unthinkable a few weeks before. Yet two women I hardly knew were now to read my work, and presumably would know me as well as I knew myself.
Even as I resented the intrusion a part of me rushed towards them, urging them to close scrutiny of m identity. In their interpretation, passed back to me, I would become myself again.
After Lareen had left I walked across the sloping lawns to the refectory, and was given the authorized pre- treatment meal. The condemned man ate a light salad, and afterwards was still hungry.
Seri reappeared in the evening, tired from being in the sun all day and walking too far. She had eaten before returning, and again I glimpsed the effect of what was happening. Already our temporary liaison was disrupted: we spent a day apart, ate meals at different times. Afterwards our lives would proceed at different paces. I talked to her about what had happened during the day, what I had learned.
'Do you believe them?' she said.
'I do now.'
Seri placed her hands on the sides of my face, touching my temples with light fingertips. 'They think you will die.'
'They're hoping it won't happen tonight,' I said. 'Very bad for publicity.'
'You mustn't excite yourself.'
'What does that mean?'
'Separate beds tonight.'
'The doctor said nothing about sex.'
'No, but I did.'
The energy had gone out of her teasing, and I sensed a growing silence within her. She was acting like a concerned relative before an operation, making bad-taste jokes about bedpans and enemas, covering up a darker fear.
I said: 'Lareen wants you to help with the rehabilitation.'
'Do you want me to?'
'I can't imagine it without you. That's why you came, isn't it?'
'You know why I'm here, Peter.' She hugged me then, but turned away after a few seconds, looking down.
'I want you to read something this evening,' I said. 'Lareen suggested it.'
'What is it?'
'I haven't enough time to answer her questionnaire,' I said, fudging the answer. 'But before I left home I wrote a manuscript. My life story. Lareen's seen it, and she's going to use it for the rehabilitation. If you read it this
