'You know you're going to destroy her again?'
'I don't think so.'
What I had done to hurt Gracia most of all was to take refuge in my fantasies. I had to reject them.
Seri said: 'You think I don't exist, because you think you created me.
But I've got a life of my own, Peter, and if you found me in that you'd know it isn't true. So far you've only seen a part of me.'
'I know,' I said, but she was only a part of myself. She was my embodiment of the urge to run, to hide from others. She represented the idea that my misfortunes came from outside, whereas I was learning that they came from within. I wanted to be strong, but Seri weakened me.
Seri said, and I heard bitterness--'Then do whatever you want.'
I sensed she was receding from me, and I stretched out to take her hand.
She moved it adroitly away.
'Please don't go,' I said.
Seri said--I know you're going to forget me, Peter, and perhaps it's as well. I'll be wherever you find me.
She walked away, her white shirt luminous in the city lights. I watched her, thinking of the islands, thinking of the falsehoods in me she represented. Her slim figure, erect and lithe, the short hair that swung slightly as she walked. She left me, and before she had reached the corner of the street I could see her no more.
Alone with the parked cars I felt a sudden and exhilarating sense of relief. However Seri had intended it, she had released me from my own self-fulfilling escapes. I was free of the definition I had made for myself, and at last I felt able to be strong.
22
Beyond the parked Australian minibus, Gracia's window shone orange-hued behind palings. I walked forward, determined to reconcile our difficulties.
When I reached the edge of the pavement I could see down into the room, and I saw Gracia for the first time.
She was sitting on the bed in full view of the road. She was upright, with her legs crossed beneath her. She held a cigarette in one hand and was gesticulating with the other as she spoke. It was a pose I had seen her in many times; she was active in conversation, was talking about something that interested her. Surprised, because I had assumed she would be alone, I backed away before she noticed me. I moved to a place from where I could see the rest of the room.
A young woman was there with her, curled up in the only chair in the room. I had no idea who she was. She was about Gracia's age, dressed conventionally, weaning spectacles. She was listening to what Gracia was saying, nodding from time to time, speaking infrequently.
When I was sure neither of them had seen me I moved in a little closer.
An ashtray full of cigarette ends was on the floor by the bed. Two empty coffee mugs were beside it. The room looked as if it had been recently tidied: the books on the shelves were upright and in neat rows, there were no clothes in the usual corner and the drawers of the chest were closed. Any remaining signs of Gracia's attempted suicide had long since vanished: the furniture had been repositioned, the damage to the door repaired.
Then I noticed there was a small sticking plaster on the underside of Gracia's wrist. She seemed totally unaware of it, using that arm as freely as she used the other.
She was talking a lot, but more important she seemed happy. I saw her smile several times, and once she laughed aloud with that sideways tilt to the head that I had seen so often, in the old days.
I wanted to hurry in and see her, but the presence of the other woman held me back. I was gladdened by Gracia's appearance. She was as thin as ever, but that aside she radiated good health and mental animation: she reminded me of Greece and sunbathing and retsina, where we began. She looked five years younger than she had the last time I saw her, her clothes seemed clean and freshly pressed, and her hair had been cut and restyled.
I watched the two women for a few minutes, then, to my relief, the stranger stood up. Gracia smiled, said something, and they both laughed. The woman went to the door.
Not wishing to be seen lurking around, I walked a short distance down the road and stood on the other side. After a minute on two, the woman came up to the road and let herself into one of the parked cars. As soon as she had driven away I walked quickly across the road and slipped my key into the lock.
The lights were on in the hall, and the air smelled of furniture polish.
'Gracia? Where are you?' The bedroom door was open, but she was not there. I heard the lavatory being flushed, and the door was opened.
'Gracia, I'm back!'
I heard her say: 'Jean, is that you?' Then she appeared, and saw me.
'Hello, Gracia,' I said.
'I thought--Oh my God, it's you! Where have you been?'
'I had to go away for a few--'
'What have you been doing? You look like a tramp!'
'I've been. . . sleeping rough,' I said. 'I had to get away.'
We were standing a few paces apart, not smiling, not moving to embrace each other. I had an inexplicable thought, that this was Gracia, the real Gracia, and I could hardly believe it. She had assumed an unearthly, _ideal_
