When I was a child I believed I could fall off the edge of the sea…
I sit on the stone balcony of my hotel room, listening to the cryptic whispers of the waves at the foot of the cliff. A small fishing boat sparkles on the horizon and disappears. Today I will go to the sea. Maria has said she will show me the way. She has been kind, doing more than her maid's duties, taking care of me like an anxious parent even although I am old enough to be her mother. But I am not a mother. You didn't want children, did you? And I was willing to put my own longing aside. I was a fool.
Every day, as Maria cleans my room, she speaks to me in broken English about her life and family. She is nineteen and hopes to go to university after the summer to study medicine. Her elder sister got married a couple of weeks ago. There was a big family wedding.
We went to a wedding last spring, didn't we? You said it made you feel like marrying me all over again.
* * *
You were cutting the grass the day the wedding photographs arrived. I was standing at the kitchen window as I opened the package, watching you march up and down, shards of grass rising towards you before falling around your feet.
I felt good. Things between us finally seemed to be going well. I'd persuaded myself that all marriages have their difficult times, believed you when you said that the affair was over, that you'd been a fool.
Your parents would be arriving soon for lunch.
“What are we celebrating?” you'd said, watching me put champagne in the fridge after breakfast.
“Us,” I'd said and you'd smiled. A smile I hadn't seen in a long while. The smile you kept for me.
Standing at the window, looking through the photographs. A good wedding, a good day. She was there of course. You would choose to have an affair with one of our mutual friends, wouldn't you? But you ignored her completely and I finally began to believe that she'd meant nothing to you.
A photograph of the wedding guests dancing. Your arms loosely round my waist, head resting on my shoulder. That smile. The smile you kept for me.
I looked out of the window. You saw me and waved. You have beautiful eyes. I stared at the photograph, following your gaze…
A photograph. A moment in time. Frozen.
I followed your gaze again, desperately hoping I was wrong. But I wasn't. You were looking straight at her. She was dancing with the father of the bride. You were smiling at her. That smile. The one you kept for me.
The noise of the mower ceased. I looked out of the window. You were on your mobile phone. You glanced towards me and turned away.
Later that day, as we drank champagne, your father proposed a toast “to happy times ahead.” You tried to take my hand but I pulled away.
Walking on the beach after your parents had gone, the sun beginning to cool as we trudged through sand. A breeze was picking up and the sea was getting restless. I stumbled over a rock. You didn't reach out to help me. Ahead of us a little boy was crying, inconsolable as he watched his balloon drift off into the darkening sky. Finally you spoke.
“You know, don't you?'”
I said nothing.
“We did try to stop seeing each other. But we can't. We love each other.”
You had to shout to be heard above the roar of the waves. Salt water stung my cheeks.
We walked home in silence. The phone started ringing as you opened the front door. I reached it first. The caller hung up without speaking. You were standing behind me. I couldn't look at you.
“Go,” I said.
You packed a few things in a suitcase and left.
 |
A bell rings in the cobbled street below the balcony. One of the monks from the monastery near the hotel rides past, bicycle wavering slightly as he turns to raise his hand to me in greeting. I smile and wave back. Later he will return, bicycle basket full of provisions for the monastery, and he will wave again. I want to tell him that I won't be here. But he is too far away.
* * *
A “For Sale” notice outside our empty home. I moved into a flat near work. Searing heat of a long, dry summer. The tiny window in the living room wouldn't open. I worked late at the office day after day, returning to the flat only to sleep. Exhausting sleep. Dreams of you and me, you and her.
We had no contact except through solicitors.
Waking at 3:00 a.m., aching for your touch. Needing you. Hating you. Wanting you.
Sometimes I'd follow a stranger in the street, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette. You never did manage to give up the habit. ß
Then one Friday evening near the end of summer, I saw you. I was on my way home from work and you were walking towards me, hand in hand with her. We couldn't pretend we hadn't seen each other and, anyway, you seemed keen to stop and talk.
“I'm glad we've bumped into each other,” you said. “I've got something to tell you that I didn't want you to hear through the solicitor.”
I said nothing.
“Kathy and me - we're engaged. We'll be getting married after the…”
You stopped. Kathy finished the sentence.
“After the divorce comes through. Come on darling, we'll be late.”
I stared at her. You told her to go on ahead. She went, dismissing me with a nod.
“You've lost weight,” you said. “Are you all right?”
Standing so close to me. Wanting you. Hating you.
“Fine,” I said.
“Good.”
We stood in silence. You glanced down the street to where Kathy was waiting.
“Look, there's something else. Something you'll find out sooner or later. It's not easy. Kathy's expecting a baby.”
I wanted to hit you. I said nothing.
“Well, I'm glad we've had a chance to see each other. Maybe one day we can be friends?”
Somewhere from deep inside me a laugh erupted. Your hand trembled as you lit a cigarette.
“Yes, well, anyway. Have a good weekend.”
I watched you walk towards Kathy, mother of your child.
Later that evening a desperate woman with a hollow stomach stared back at me from my bedroom mirror. You told me you didn't want children.
A sleepless night. Early on Saturday morning, I grabbed my coat and went out in the rain, walking for miles until I reached the sea. Sitting on the shore, listening to the waves crashing hopelessly over each other, I closed my eyes…
I was a small child. About six. My father and mother had taken me to the seaside. It was a beautiful day. Sea and sky were an almost identical azure blue. My father had tight hold of my hand as we ran towards the sea. We were going so fast I was almost flying. When we reached the water, my father lifted me high above the waves. I looked out to the point where sea and sky met, watching as a small boat shimmered and disappeared, and imagined the fall…
The rain was getting heavier, the sea wilder. I opened my eyes. No one else was around.
I stood up and walked towards the waves. It would be cold at first, noisy, terrifying. But eventually stillness would come. The water rose to my ankles, then my knees. I closed my eyes. The sea roared.
“I don't understand!” I shouted.
Another roar. I didn't understand. I only knew that I could go no further. I turned towards the shore and walked home in the rain.
* * *
Last night, I burned the photograph. Sitting on the balcony, watching your face turn red, yellow, black. Ashes drowning in a vase of white lilies.
* * *
Shivering as I tried to unlock the door to my flat, numb fingers dropping the key. Mrs. Brown, my elderly neighbour, was just going out.
“Are you all right, dear?”
I nodded, trying not to cry.
“But you're soaked through! Here let me help you.”
She unlocked my front door, placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and went without saying anything more.
Later there was a knock on my door.
“I won't keep you, dear,” said Mrs. Brown, handing me a thick glossy brochure. “I wanted you to have this. I go here whenever I need a rest.”
The brochure told me of a small Italian village and of a hotel on a cliff overlooking the sea.
I knew I must go…
* * *
I have been here for four weeks now. Most days I sit on the balcony listening to the sea, watching fishing boats sparkle on the horizon.
Every morning Maria runs me a bath, adding sweet-smelling oils to the warm, soothing water. Later she brings a basket of fresh flowers—white lilies, blood-red tulips, yellow roses— which she places in the many vases in my room and on the balcony. She brings me food. Orange-scented biscuits, thin slices of ham, lightly poached fish, tiny handmade chocolates…
At first I ate out of politeness but now I look forward to what will be brought to me and eat greedily.
The flame of the red candle on the balcony table flickers long into the evening as I sit and watch the people below me going about their lives. Sometimes I see Maria going off-duty. A beautiful young man waits for her - they link hands and walk off together, both of them turning to wave up at me before disappearing out of view.
My pillow is scented with lavender oil and the sea sings me to sleep.
Sometimes a woman in the mirror smiles at me.
It's been a long time…
A knock on the door.
“You ready?” Maria asks gently.
I nod.
The descent to the foot of the cliff is steep. I have not left the hotel for a month. Everything seems brighter, larger. Maria holds out a steadying hand as the path unwinds before us. We arrive at the shore and Maria returns to the hotel.
The waves speak softly to me.
I understand.
I have come here to say goodbye.
The sea and sky are an almost identical azure blue. I look out to that edge where the sea seems to join the sky and the eye can see no further. When I was a child, I believed that beyond the edge lay a terrifying tumble into eternal oblivion. When my father eventually told me that there was no edge but just more sea, it seemed incredible, impossible. Now I can see that it is quite possible. And I am glad.
Maria brings me lunch and smiles as she leaves.
“All right?” she asks.
I nod.
“All right,” I confirm.
Tomorrow I will return to London.
The ancient wisdom of the sea whispers all around us. There is as far as the eye can see and then there is… More.
