Her eyes glued to a ceiling that meant nothing to her anymore, Hana was edging toward sleep when a noise made her jump. Something had hit the window pane, softly.
The curtains were trembling in the open window. All that could be heard was the noise of the wind in the branches of the jacaranda and the distant echo of the TV downstairs. There came another noise, more muffled this time.
She switched on the bedside lamp and saw the stone that had ricocheted against the open window and was now lying on the floor. She got out of bed and kneeled. The stone was wrapped in a piece of paper held on by elastic bands. The note said: 11 A.M. Sunday. At the ferry terminal.
She couldn’t help smiling.
Paul. Paul Osborne.
Out at sea, the gray petrels were flying, the birds were chasing the daylight, skimming the foam. The icy rays barely touched the surface of the water. Tonight, as every night, Hana had gone for a swim, naked.
She had already been swimming for an hour.
In the dawn light, the shore was nothing more than a destitute stretch of sand behind her. She had hoped once again that the mere fact of floating could silence the anger and melancholy that were tearing her apart, slowly killing her, the darkness that had fallen over her at the age of thirty and would never lift, because there was no star to light it. The star had gone, departed for other universes. Hana had forgotten about the sun and the birds, which even this morning were doing all they could to save her beautiful, bronze, grief-stricken body from the shipwreck planned for her so far from the shore.
No way to laugh it off. No way to forget. Hana swam like someone going on the run and uncertain of returning, alone among these flaccid waves carried away by the currents, without a cry. She would soon fade from the world, like paint diluted on a palette. Her despair was a ripe fruit. Hana swam because she couldn’t just faint and melt into the sun-flecked foam, imprisoned by a nature that did not want her anymore. To sink, to surrender to the call of the deep sea, that was the idea . . .
Day was encroaching on the horizon, covering the foam with a green mist. Hana suddenly stopped swimming.
Was it fear of the void below or mere survival instinct? She looked around her, at first saw nothing but the ocean languishing in the dawn light, then her heart contracted. A fin was splitting the waves. A scimitar-shaped fin heading straight for her.
Another fin appeared, then a third, only a few yards from her. Sharks. They often prowled in this area. Hana thought of her legs, beating vertically, keeping her on the surface, then dismissed these stupid thoughts—they were only small blue sharks, supposedly harmless. And, in fact, the sharks dived, circled her a few times in what seemed a threatening manner, then must have judged her too large for them, and went on their way.
Dawn was rising at the other end of the earth. It was time to go back.
A small colony of kororas—pygmy penguins with blue backs
—was pecking at shells. Hana reached the shore, exhausted.
The waves pushed her toward the beach, where, after an hour’s struggle, she at last landed, swaying in the breakers. Out of breath, she collapsed on the sand and rolled over. The penguins shook themselves when they saw her, uncovering their white bellies. Disturbed in the middle of their meal, they waddled off in search of other food, manhandling the innocent breeze as if it was responsible.
Kneeling exhausted in the foam, Hana coughed up her lungs. Salty drops fell from her black hair, leaving on her lips a taste of something unfinished.
Having set off at night toward the horizon, she had returned, once again. One time too many? Overwhelmed with weariness, she didn’t see the man coming out of the nearby wood. Her muscles like iron, Hana was finding it hard to recover.
The man nodded at her naked body on all fours in the foam. “You’re crazy to go that far out,” he said.
Hana didn’t reply. It wasn’t just a question of lung power. Her heart couldn’t take it either.
4.
See you tomorrow, big boy.”
Jon Timu ruffled his son’s hair. Mark’s response was a gesture of irritation. He was watching television. ER, his favorite show. Mark didn’t like being disturbed during his favorite show. He would say it all day long to anyone within hearing distance: ER was his favorite show.
Not even looking at his father, he said, “Bye,” twiddling with the blue scarf that was his comfort, engrossed by the TV screen.
Timu’s tense smile vanished as soon as he left the room. His bladder was stabbing at his stomach. Mark was almost a teenager, and yet he still refused to give up that scarf, which had become threadbare from so much handling. It had been his mother’s scarf. The smell had long faded but he wouldn’t let it out of his sight. Jon understood, even though it hurt him.
Josie, the tutor who had been with his son for nearly ten years, was waiting in the corridor. She was a short woman with a nose like a proboscis monkey’s, her ugliness equaled only by her kindness. Jon didn’t know how she always managed to be so cheerful. Maybe it was just a shell, or maybe this altruism, this giving of herself, was her reason for living. That was something he and his wife had never been able to do, or accept. The important thing was that Mark loved her. To him, Josie was like a second mother. Which didn’t, of course, entirely make up for an absent father.
“Something wrong, Mr. Timu?” Josie asked. “You look tired.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” he said, forcing himself to laugh. “And how’s Mark?”
As she usually did, Josie painted an almost idyllic picture of the situation. Mark was very sociable, always the first to have fun and talk to the others. Of course he was a bit greedy, you had to watch him, as he got older the little rascal had a tendency to put on weight, but anyway, with exercise it wouldn’t show. By the way, she’d arranged an outing to the seaside in a few days’ time, maybe he could join them? If he had time of course. Outings always needed supervision, and Mark would surely be delighted to have his father with him, wouldn’t he? As for his relationship to the female boarders at the school, no problem, they were closely supervised! Josie laughed heartily. Listen to them—you’d think they were making children in the corners!
“Anyway,” she concluded with an infectious smile, “the nice thing about Down’s syndrome sufferers is that they’re really happy to be alive! Don’t you think so?”
“Of course.”
Timu went through the gates of the school, his heart like crumpled paper. He felt sick. Worse: he felt ready for the scrap heap.
5.
I wanted to say . . . about yesterday . . . ”
“What?”
“Well . . . ”
“Well what?”
“As it was the first time since . . . ”
