*

The dog’s panting.

The quiet squeak of the ceiling fan.

There’s no murmur from the sea. The murmur comes from the road on the other side of the hill.

The murmur.

The squeak.

The panting.

The white sky.

The white room.

They burst in, smelling of the sea. Fred tears off his T-­shirt and does press-­ups on the floor. With each one his belly slaps on the tiles. His back is bright red, and sand trickles from his hair. He crawls towards the bed, then back towards the door, making gurgling, bubbling sounds. He doesn’t see the little puddle left by the dog’s tongue. He’s a crab now. So is Maya. We’re crabs, and we’ve brought you the sea, she shouts, pouring a bucketful of wet shells and pebbles onto the sheet. I pretend to be pleased. Haha, I shout, haha!

I’m woken in the night by the creaking and slapping of the fishing boats in the harbour. The wind has picked up, presaging bad weather. Fred is breathing deeply and quietly. His mouth is half open. He looks like before. I creep into Maya’s room, lean over her bed and look at her face. It’s so beautiful I could cry. I don’t know why everything I do quietly always feels like farewell.

Only two more days until we go home. The storm was bad. The force of the waves pushed one of the tourist boats up against the quay wall and ripped a big hole in the wood. Umberto says there’s nothing to be done about it, but it’s their own fault: the boat’s at least fifty years old and held together by nothing but paint and the owner’s prayers. Fuel for the bonfire at the harbour festival. Maia cries. She sobs uncontrollably in my arms and can’t explain why. Later she says she’s sad about the harbour festival, that we won’t be here to see it. And she feels sorry for the boat. The hole looks as if it was made by an underwater creature. It’s sure to die now. In the bathroom I take off her blouse and press my face against the damp patch of her tears.