I looked out to sea and, now I realize, I was trying to work out my coordinates. I thought a lot about the water and the sand as I sat there watching them meet and flirt and touch. I tried to understand that I was on the edge, the very edge of Africa; that the vastness ahead was nothing compared to what lay behind me. But even though I’d been there and seen for myself its never-ending dusty green interior, its mountains, the big sky, my mind could not grasp a world that was not present to my senses. I could see the beach, the waves, the blue beyond, and cradling them all, my baby.
*
Time passed as I hung on, waiting for something to happen while the evening slowly crumbled away and the stars went out one by one. I knew now there was no hidden world, no secret society from which I was barred. There was just—nothing.
*
In the Meridien, all those years ago, with the Nile shining behind you, I said, “But you’ve been married nine years. Can one trust passion, romance? Can one really trust being in love?” A shadow passed across your face. “Well,” you said after a moment, “of course things change. Yes, they do. But I think now, perhaps, sympathy—yes, sympathy and tenderness and goodwill. They can last, if we’re wise. Maybe they are the lasting part of love.