Now a dark road opens up before me where I wait, I spy, I survey, I start, I feel my way, I surmise, I lose my temper, I speculate, I become convinced, I lie to myself, I’m in denial, I fall over, I get up again, I presume, I act, I undo, I curse, I beg, I pray, I supplicate, I yell, I weep, and when, on the following Tuesday at 10:30, the police officer informs me that two bodies have been found in a white Fiat at the foot of the cliff near the lighthouse I start to picture things.
Their car on the old bumpy road. The solitary houses here and there, the cane fields, the tall eucalyptuses, the peacock trees, the cactuses, a doughnut stall, a stall selling yellow and red fruits. Instead of turning off to the left to go down to the sea, they take the right fork toward the lighthouse. Since we’re here, why not take a look at this relic from the nineteenth century? Why not tell his son about the days long ago when they fired cannon balls, when ships sank in the open sea, when a man lived at the top of that staircase with its two hundred and twenty-three steps? It’s a dreary dirt road flanked by thorn bushes. It had been raining all week and there’s heavy, oozing mud that sticks to the wheels.
“Are we going to get there soon?”
“Yes, we’re nearly there. It’s just around the next bend. Can you hear the waves?”
I imagine it’s some tiny thing that decides it. A glance at the little boy who’s beginning to find the wait too long. A bend taken too sharply to the right. A steering wheel not responding quickly enough. The earth giving way and the white car sliding into the void. The waves cover up the shouts and the noise of the metal crashing onto the rocks. A wall of rain hurtles down now and rapidly erases their tracks. Sometimes I think back over all that. Not without grief. Not without tears. I’m on my bed and I can see the pine trees silhouetted against the dusk. The sky becomes tinged with pink, with orange, and sometimes there’s a kind of rush of purple before the darkness envelops everything. Now I can offer Melody a calm welcome, as I now welcome the night [as this new family welcomes me]. When I remember that cigarette Ben bought and tucked behind his ear, I just hope he had time to smoke it. I like to think that on the very day of his death he wanted to try something new, as living people do.
PART THREE
The first day of winter
CHRISTMAS IS ONLY A FEW DAYS AWAY but winter has not yet arrived. The weather is gray, damp, and autumnal. Only the main streets and the boulevard beside the sea are decorated with garlands and electric snowflakes. On some afternoons there are still people surfing, and a few cafés have kept tables out on their terraces. This Wednesday morning the people getting off the buses and out of their cars are all hoping for something to happen at last; a touch of frost, a snowstorm, carol singing in the town square, a Christmas market with people selling mulled wine and toffee apples.
Adam’s office is located in one of the little streets sloping down into the town center. It is early still but he has a full day ahead. He has just left a painting carefully wrapped in brown paper for room 218 at the big hotel on the seafront. He asked for a receipt. At 10:00 he is due to visit the site for what will be the biggest aquatic center in the region with the director of conurbation planning services and the project manager. The project jointly submitted by Adam’s firm and another local one had been accepted scarcely a month before—a site three thousand yards square, wood heating, sauna, steam baths, Olympic pool, outdoor pool, giant chutes. The work is due to start next March and will take three years. The site is half an hour’s drive from the city center, straddling a former industrial wasteland and a piece of farmland where only a few months ago there were fields of corn that reached to Adam’s shoulder. If he has lunch on the way he should be back by 2:00 p.m. at the latest.
At 3:00 he is due to meet David Schtourm, the gallery owner, in the bar of the hotel. At 6:00 he has a training session with Imran. After that they will both go back to the house for a bite to eat and drink. Adèle will provide samosas. Anita has already bought the champagne.
Adam stops and takes a deep breath. That’s better, he’s no longer shaking at the idea of his meeting with David Schtourm, he no longer feels sick, his face is no longer plagued with nervous twitches. The gallery owner is a man who looks astonishingly like Ralph Lauren: small, gray hair, piercing blue eyes, checked shirts, his hands often in the pockets of his jeans, leather shoes with pointed toes. The list of artists he has discovered and supported is dizzying and his reputation is that of a formidable, respected, and exacting man. He has galleries in Paris, London, New York, Dubai, and Hong Kong. During the past few years he has devoted himself a great deal to contemporary art but he continues to
