If they did not arrive too soon at the secret cove known only to Doctor Hernandez, she would have time to make inevitable deductions. She and Larry had selected each other and each had played the role which kept their fears from overwhelming them. How could they pass judgment on each other for playing the role they had assigned to each other? You, Larry, must not change, or move, must represent fixed, unalterable love. You, Lillian, must change and move for both to sustain the myth of freedom.

Fred was afraid of the night, afraid of Diana who was cooling her body by pulling her dress out away from her breasts, waving it before her like a fan. He was afraid of Lillian who was fanning her face with the edge of her cotton dress, exposing the lacy petticoat.

The taxi left them at the top of the hill, and Doctor Hernandez guided them through brambles and rocks, downhill, to his secret cove.

Fred was afraid of the night, afraid his body would slip away from him, dissolve in that purple velvet with diamond eyes, the tropical night. The tropical night did not lie inert like a painted movie backdrop, but was filled with whisperings, and seemed to have arms like the foliage.

Beauty was a drug. The small beach shone like mercury at their feet. They undressed in the rocks which formed a cavern. The waves absorbed the words; one only heard the laughter, or a name. Diana, painted by the moonlight, walked like a phosphorescent Venus into the waves. The oil lamps on the fishermen's small boats trembled like candlelight. The neon lights softened by the haze threw beams on the bay like miniature searchlights.

Fred was as troubled as if he had encountered the singing mermaids. He did not undress. Doctor Hernandez swam far out; he was familiar with every rock. Lillian and Edward stayed near the shore. The fatigue and the heat of the dance were washed away. The sea swung like a hammock. One could grow a new skin over the body. The undulations of the sea were like their breathing, as if the sea and the swimmers had but one lung.

Out of the full beauty of the tropical night, the full moon, the full bloom of the stars, the full velvet of the night, a full woman might be born. No more scattered fragments of herself living separate cellular lives, living at times in the temporary homes of others' lives.

Fred stood further away, clinging to his locks and his clocks, to peripheries, islands, bridges. The taxi driver smoked a cigarette and was singing the melopée of love.