Волны

           Bywhatparticularnamearewetocallit?LetRhodaspeak,whosefaceIseereflectedmistilyinthelooking-glassopposite;RhodawhomIinterruptedwhensherockedherpetalsinabrownbasin,askingforthepocket-knifethatBernardhadstolen.Loveisnotawhirlpooltoher.Sheisnotgiddywhenshelooksdown.Shelooksfarawayoverourheads,beyondIndia.’

           ’Yes,betweenyourshoulders,overyourheads,toalandscape,’saidRhoda,’toahollowwherethemany-backedsteephillscomedownlikebirds’wingsfolded.There,ontheshort,firmturf,arebushes,darkleaved,andagainsttheirdarknessIseeashape,white,butnotofstone,moving,perhapsalive.Butitisnotyou,itisnotyou,itisnotyou;notPercival,Susan,Jinny,NevilleorLouis.Whenthewhitearmrestsuponthekneeitisatriangle;nowitisupright--acolumn;nowafountain,falling.Itmakesnosign,itdoesnotbeckon,itdoesnotseeus.Behinditroarsthesea.Itisbeyondourreach.YetthereIventure.ThereIgotoreplenishmyemptiness,tostretchmynightsandfillthemfullerandfullerwithdreams.Andforasecondevennow,evenhere,Ireachmyobjectandsay,"Wandernomore.Allelseistrialandmake-believe.Hereistheend."Butthesepilgrimages,thesemomentsofdeparture,startalwaysinyourpresence,fromthistable,theselightsfromPercivalandSusan,hereandnow.AlwaysIseethegroveoveryourheads,betweenyourshoulders,orfromawindowwhenIhavecrossedtheroomatapartyandstandlookingdownintothestreet.’

           ’Buthisslippers?’saidNeville.