hatred not only of me, but of all he had decided I stood for; something passive, abdicating, English, in life. He was like a man who wanted to change all; and could not; so burned with his impotence; and had only me, an infinitely small microcosm, to convert or detest. For the first time he seemed naked, without any masks; as if all that had gone before had been to bring me to this point, this last confrontation with the black summit of his life. We remained staring at each other. He could say no more to me, and I could mean no more to him. He stood and picked up the file. "To bed." I stood as well. "I'll wait a little." "Very well. But no one will come." "Good night, Mr. Conchis." "Good night, Nicholas." He gave me a last look, grave and penetrating, the eyes of a mathdor after the _estocado_, then disappeared indoors. I smoked one cigarette, another. There was a great stewing stillness, an oppressiveness, a silence. The gibbous moon hung over the earth, a dead thing over a dying thing. I got up and walked to the seat where we had sat before dinner. I had not expected such a finale; the statue of stone in the laughing door. I thought again, in the grey silences of the night, not of Julie, but of Alison. Staring out to sea, I forced myself to think of her not as someone doing something at that moment, sleeping or breathing or working, somewhere, but as a shovelful of ashes, a futility, a descent out of reality, a dropping object that dwindled, dwindled, left nothing behind except a smudge like a fallen speck of soot on paper. As something too small to mourn; the very word "mourn" was archaic and superstitious, of the age of Browne, or Hervey; yet Donne was right, her death detracted, would for ever detract, from my life. Each death laid a dreadful charge of complicity on the living; each death was incongenerous, its guilt irreducible, its sadness immortal; a bracelet of bright hair about the bone. I did not pray for her, because prayer has no efficacy; I did not cry for her, because only extroverts cry twice; I sat in the silence of that night, that infinite hostility to man, to permanence, to love, remembering her, remembering her.
55
Ten o'clock. A bright wind, a Dufy day. I woke, jumped out of bed, shaved with extra care, and went down to the colonnade. I caught Maria sitting at the table, as if waiting for me. When I appeared she stood up and bobbed and started to go. "Mr. Conchis?" "_Kanei banjo. Tha elthi_." He's having a swim. He's coming. By the wall I saw four wooden crates; it was obvious that three of them had paintings inside. I looked into the music room. The Modigliani had gone; so had the little Rodin and the Giacornetti; and I guessed, with a tinge of sadness, that the Bonnards had also come down. The decor was being dismantled. In a minute or two Maria reappeared with coffee for me. I was drinking the first cup when Conchis appeared in his swimming trunks and water-polo cap. He stood by me, hairs on the dark brown skin still curlicued wet from the water. I saw his scars again; white puckers of flesh. He smiled. The mask was back in place. "You have slept well?" "Thank you." "I will put on my clothes. Then I will join you for coffee." He did not return for some twenty minutes. And when he did, it was in clothes that were somehow as incongruous as if he had been wearing fancy dress. He looked exactly like a slightly intellectual businessman; a black leather briefcase; a dark blue summer suit, a cream shirt, a discreetly polka-dotted bow tie. It was perfect for Athens; but ridiculous on Phraxos. He looked at a wristwatch--I had never seen him wear one before--and sat down. Smiled at me; and delivered the line like a grenade. "We have one last hour together." "One last hour?" "At this time tomorrow I shall be in London." He poured himself a cup of coffee from the new pot Maria had brought. "And wishing I was still here." I began to smile. The wind rattled the shimmering vegetal glass of the palm fronds. The last act was to be played _presto_. "I didn't expect the curtain quite so soon." "No good play has a