Something to Tell You (41 page)

Not that she grasped much of it, but it made us both laugh, lying there happily misunderstanding each other.

I am no longer young, and not yet old. I have reached the age of wondering how I will live, and what I will do, with my remaining time and desire. I know at least that I need to work, that I want to read and think and write, and to eat and talk with friends and colleagues.

Rafi will soon be an adult; I want to travel with him and his mother—if I can raise their interest—to the places I have loved, showing them Italian churches, and having dinner in Rome. We could see Indian cities, bookshops in Paris, canals in Hertfordshire, waterfalls in Brazil, museums in Barcelona.

I am not, I feel certain, finished with love, either in its benign or its disorderly form, nor it with me.

I shake myself and get up. I have been sitting dreamily in my chair for a long time. The bell has rung at least twice. Maria must have gone to the market.

I go to the door and let the patient in. He takes off his coat and shoes, and lies down on the couch. I sit just behind his head, where I can hear him without being seen. For a while he says nothing.

I empty my mind, aware only of my breathing and of his, as we both wait for the stranger inside him to begin speaking.