There was a slight pain just then in my stomach, in the right place for the first time. I had a vision of it growing bigger and bigger, becoming lacerated and bleeding, covering my whole inside.

“Who knows why I got that,” I said, trying to brush aside the self-pity that came over me.

“Last week I dreamed of a letter that you had sent to me. There was something in the letter that made me cry. When I didn’t actually get it the next day I went to the post office to inquire about it.” He paused, looked at me intently and added, “The post office had burnt down. All the letters, all the packages people had sent to each other were destroyed.” His eyes darted around nervously as if he were watching the flames.

“Well, I didn’t send you a letter,” I said.

He seemed not to be listening to me. “And now you’ll be disappearing once again into that tunnel you’ve dug for yourself.” He looked stricken, even afraid. I reached out and touched his arm. This was the first time since I came that I had touched him voluntarily. The contact reverberated with some of the love I had for him as a child.

At my touch he reached forward and kissed me quickly on the cheek.

“Go to sleep now,” he said, looking up at the sky. “Soon it will be dawn.”

There was a soft, moist quality to the air. We walked together for a few feet and then we each went to our rooms.

I crept back into bed, not even trying to sleep. I rolled my head from side to side on the pillow, aching with irresolution, as I used to when I was frustrated or angry as a child. Now, as then, this thrashing of the head solved nothing.

I understood what provoked suicide—people taking overdoses of sleeping pills or jumping out of windows. Perhaps they too lay awake in the middle of the night, with their identity and sense of belonging suddenly reversed or blurred.

19

Darius seemed to be in a good mood the next morning. He was whistling a sentimental tune as he squatted near the doorway to his room, polishing his shoes.

I watched him from my room and then went into the courtyard, leaving Tony behind. I could hear the clatter of dishes, and water running in the kitchen.

“Come here and look at something,” Darius called to me. He had on a saffron-colored shirt and blue jeans, both tight-fitting. His hair was combed and oiled, and stood in a high pompadour.

He pointed to a framed picture on his wall. “If you like it I’ll give it to you as a going-away present.”

I looked at the painting. It was a miniature I had seen once before of a man and a woman lying together in an embrace under a sheet on a mattress, their heads on a plump, oval-shaped pillow. Their shoes lay neatly side by side next to the bed. It was all done in exquisite colors of gold, red, and violet. Underneath the painting was a gramaphone. Some records—a few of them with bright yellow covers—were stacked beside it. On the floor there was a rug with paisley designs. I had not seen Darius’s room since I had returned home.