They waited for the last one in silence, on the thirty-sixth day of that strange experiment. At eight o’clock, it seemed to be taken for granted that they would wait together, because the only time that counted anymore was written into the copper filaments produced by the mad talent of the old man in Camden Town.
In the light of the last two bulbs, the studio was already a black sack, kept alive by two pupils of light. When the last remained, it was a whisper.
They looked at it from a distance, without approaching, so as not to defile it.
It was night, and it went out.
Through the darkened windows came just enough light to mark the edges of things, and not right away, but only to eyes accustomed to the darkness.
Every object appeared finished, and only the two of them still living.
Rebecca had never known such intensity. She thought that at that moment any movement would be unsuitable, but she understood that the opposite was also true, that it was impossible, at that moment, to make a wrong movement. So she imagined many things; some she had begun to imagine long before. Until she heard the voice of Jasper Gwyn.
“I think I’ll wait for the morning light in here. But you can go, of course, Rebecca.”
He said it with a kind of tenderness that might also seem to be regret, so Rebecca came over to him and when she found the right words she said that she would like to stay and wait there with him—just that.
But Jasper Gwyn said nothing and she understood.
She got dressed slowly, for the last time, and when she was at the door she stopped.
“I’m sure I should say something special, but, truthfully, nothing really occurs to me.”
Jasper Gwyn smiled in the darkness.
“Don’t worry, it’s a phenomenon I’m very well acquainted with.”
They shook hands as they said goodbye, and the gesture seemed to them both to have a memorable precision and foolishness.