is conscious that his life had reached a pivotal moment, one of those moments in which things can go one way or another and are in no hurry. When he left New York it had been a while since he had found meaning in anything he did. Was that all there was to life? Nothing more? Just a series of anecdotes related to money, culture, work relations, and personal success? Was it possible that life was only this waiting to see if something happened? Could it not consist of making something happen? What could provoke someone to wish to return to a place that theyâd wanted to leave? Nostalgia for comfort? Fear? Habit? The only thing that worries him is his father. Mathew remembers the last time he visited him in Georgetown he had helped him to paint the fence. The man seemed sad and tired. Heâd said to Mathew, in that voiceless voice that was all he had left: âWhat I want is that you donât leave me to die alone, Mathew. Your mother wouldnât have wanted it either. Your mother was lucky that we stayed with her. Remember, Matt, the way your mother used to laugh, even at the end?â He always asked Matt about his motherâs laugh, so characteristic and contagious, rising in a crescendo. His father would die still in love with her; heâd had the luck of finding love.
He also thinks that he has not yet despaired and that maybe it has been thanks to the building of the hut. He thinks that perhaps now the anguish will begin. There is no shipwreck until someone realizes you are shipwrecked. There is no drowning in the water until the air is gone.
Or perhaps the tragedies one imagines at a distance turn into nothing more than adverse situations when they come closer. We never know what we will be capable of; thatâs unknowable.
* * *
Prendel is under the shade, opposite his shelter. He knows it is impossible to do anything before the sun goes down; the heat will dehydrate him. He has learned to stay still and wait for the day to pass. Strange what one learns when one must be still. Sometimes he feels he is a sick person, immobilized in bed, in a hospital, in front of a window. And then, despite everything, he prefers being shipwrecked, He imagines he is sailing, he remembers the dead hours he spent on the windless sea, so many times, waiting for the slightest breeze to get the feeling of moving. The island is a sailboat without sails, a sailboat with its keel caught, a sailboat with a permanent invisible anchor.
âI see youâve managed to drive stakes in the sand, youâve had to bury them deep, right? If not, they donât last.â
Souza has suddenly appeared, heâs come out of the woods. He is wearing a cap and has another in his hand.
âTake it,â he tells him.
Prendel grabs the cap, sees that it bears the brand of an alcoholic beverage, thanks him, and puts it on. It has a good visor. What a rest for his eyes. He misses his sunglasses.
âI thought maybe youâd died,â Prendel says to him. âI was about to come to see you. I climbed all the way up there,â and he points to the mountaintop, âbut the rock juts out so far it is impossible to see whatâs beneath. All you can see is the sea.â
âYou were right not to come. We were clear on that.â
âJust one thingâwill it be long before we can leave here? Try to, I mean.â
Mathew wonders what system Nelson Souza must have come up with to keep watch over his movements. He also thinks that Souza does not need to watch him. He represents no danger, and if he approaches his area, he kills him and thatâs that.
âEnough time has to pass for them to forget me.â
âBut thatâs absurd!â Prendel stands up, goes over to Nelson, who puts his hand on his revolver, a gesture that doesnât go unnoticed by Mathew. âWe could try to build a kind of raft and go look for the oil tankersâ shipping lanes.â
âYouâve seen a lot of
Liz Wiseman, Greg McKeown