Breakfast is served at the Sea Lounge. We walk down two flights of stairs, stop at a gate that separates the first floor from the guests. A man in uniform unlocks it and lets us through. The gate is a memorial. It couldn’t possibly bar people who’d decided to invade the upper floors. The pause we make before it opens is symbolic. In the Sea Lounge, Western and Indian breakfasts alike are steaming. Croissants, Danishes, crowd the plates. Not only is every detail restored – the food reminds you that nothing is stale or old: it’s genuinely new. There’s no question of going back. But the painstaking joining up of fragments is clear too. The vase is unbroken. And the bun is uneaten. I lift one with a tong.
I bargain persistently for a table by the window. I’m unsuccessful at first. But, from the second morning, the manager ensures good fortune for us. I don’t know how he does it. My daughter and wife sit face to face. I drag a chair up and look at them and the sea.
