My insides began to hollow out. ‘Oh, “relationship” …’ I said.

‘What is the relationship?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘No.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘What should I write?’

‘Whatever you like. Or leave it, don’t write anything. Never mind the surgery.’

Did I want to cry? Was I trying to cling to you purely for the sake of having someone, anyone, who could sign the bond? Did I grasp the helplessness – the danger, at times – of lacking anyone with whom I could be said to have a relationship? Did I desire recovery despite all this? Had I previously been aware that, in this world, every relationship is an existential matter – that relationships are necessary for one’s very survival? That not even a dead body can do without them? Was I scanning the marble floor and white walls of the nursing home in search of a ‘relationship’, just in case I found one lying around? Was my faith renewed in a relationship of real weight and solidity, a relationship which could not be explained – a relationship strong enough to bear responsibility for the risk of death? That could welcome death with open arms? Did I need to put a name on a personal relationship – like a sound that is born in the mountains and echoes around those same peaks? I sat with my head bowed in shame, defeated. I had no relationship to claim, so there was nothing else for it but for me to leave. And yet, as it turned out, I didn’t have to. On the form you wrote, ‘I love this woman. And she loves me. Out of love she has given me her heart and her body. So her body is mine, her heart is mine. This means that whatever she needs, before or after the surgery, is my responsibility. The risk of the surgery is mine to bear. If, for some unfortunate reason, she dies during this surgery, I shall take her body and carry it away. In addition to my address and phone number given below, please find attached some documents which can act as proof of address …’

9

The rain starts in the afternoon. And lasts until evening. From evening until morning, through afternoon and evening again – and still it does not stop. It falls continuously. In the early hours of the morning it turns torrential – by dawn it is evident that the entire city is submerged.

I see all the family’s things being swept away in the water. The lid of the wooden packing box in which they store their belongings is floating away. As are their plastic sheets, glasses and plates. They keep falling on their faces as they try to chase after them, splashing and laughing riotously. I lean over the railing to try and get a better look, but cannot spot the two children anywhere. I go back out to the balcony several times that day. Much later, the young woman appears below, the water now up to her waist. ‘Where are your children?’ I ask.