What an island! The straggling branches and peeling bark of the eucalyptuses in the dusty village square belong far further south than a short ferry ride. Outside the village, unmetalled roads turn into rocky paths. Shillings of light fall through the branches onto the wings of golden-tailed pheasants as they strut among the crunching leaves. Gulls lift from the sea spray and slice the salty sky. And the black sea, turned milky turquoise by the coast, heaves itself slowly onto the rocks and rushes down, pure white, in fleeting streams and cataracts. This is the southern coast, the wild side, looking out towards invisible land: Corsica, Sardinia, Africa.
Spring is too articulate to let winter ramble on. Vine shoots burst from its impatient mouth. Valleys that have never seen a bulldozer, thick with different greens – pine green, sage green, olive green, laurel green – are all tilted by the same wind and dazzled by the same sun.
I must bring my daughter here. However frightened I am of our love blossoming too late, I picture the two of us standing in this sickle bay, watching the clear ripples sift the black and gold sand at our feet. If we meet here, perhaps love will count for more than loss; perhaps she will always remember that I love her and hold the confidence in her heart.
I am not the person who was playing dead on a hotel bed yesterday, I am transfigured by beauty. I don’t love these hills because they remind me of a woman’s breasts, or love the sea because it recalls my piscean ancestry, or love this landscape because I’ve been taught to by Cézanne. The beauty is given, it is the order of things on which my suffering is imposed. Today I can see that clearly.
How do I know? Because if you jump out of a window, you can always tell when you’ve reached the ground.