The work I had to do at the Center was hard. My body was uncomplaining—it liked being stretched and exerted—but my mind kicked up a fuss. In a life devoted to myself, it had been years since I’d been forced to do anything against my will. I’d always been reasonably successful at getting women to look after me. Now I helped with the cooking; it was good to learn to cook. I emptied the bins and carried heavy sacks of food from the vans; I was taught how to build a wall. I swept, cleaned, and painted the rooms. I guessed that this was what the world was like for most people, and it didn’t harm me to be reminded of it.

I came to appreciate the simplest things. I grew a beard and learned t’ai chi, yoga, and how to play a drum. I swam long distances, sunbathed, read, and listened to the women at mealtimes and at night, just hanging around them, as I had my mother as a child. I cultivated a reputation for shyness and silence. I might have been a beauty, but direct attention was the last thing I craved. Sometimes I would massage the women, singing to myself. One time, I saw one of the group lying under a tree reading my last play, which was produced five years ago. As I walked past her, I said, “Any good?”

“The play’s not as good as the film.”

I had begun to love the beauty of the island and the peace it gave me. I was almost free of the desire to understand. Agitation and passion seemed less necessary as proofs of life. I wondered whether, when I returned to my old body, my values would be different. I had been certain that I wanted to go back, but it was a question that wouldn’t leave me alone now. There were decent arguments on both sides. What could have been worse? I would put it off for as long as possible.

Patricia usually appeared at breakfast and made a speech about the purpose and aims of the Center. Once, she told us one of her dreams; then she interpreted it, to prevent any misunderstanding. There was an impressed silence before she swept away. She uttered few words in my direction but she always looked hard at me as if we were connected in some way, as if she were about to speak. I supposed she looked at everyone like this, now and again, to make them feel part of her community. I no longer believed she understood me, but did I make her particularly curious? She seemed to say: What do you really want? It agitated me. I kept away from her but she remained in my mind, like a question.

Patricia’s workshops were the most popular and intense, and always full. However, as Alicia told me in confidence, they were known more for the quantity of tears shed than for the quality of wisdom transmitted. But I was only a kitchen skivvy and took no part. Taking my father’s advice, I was on a working holiday.