During the day she remained in control of her bodily functions, but she feared what would happen at night. I knew by now where the bed linens and towels were, and I remembered how my wife had changed our babies, picking out a terry-cloth towel that had worn thin over time, tearing off a strip to make the towel a square, folding the square into a triangle, laying it out underneath her and wrapping it around her.

“It’s like riding a bike.” She tried to make light of it.

I shrugged. She did not need to know that I hadn’t been particularly devoted to looking after my children, not the way modern fathers do. But then I said it anyway. “I was an old-fashioned father. My wife changed all the diapers.”

She nodded. “In any case, you watched her do it sometimes. Did you say good night to your children?” She looked at me, ashamed again, almost like she had in the morning. But at the same time she looked secure, as if she felt good in the freshly made bed.

“Good night, Irene.” I bent over her and pulled up the blanket. She put her arms around my neck, as she had a couple days before, and once again I was touched by this gesture of trust. I stood up and hurried out, otherwise, I do not know why, the tears would have flowed.

6

And so went the days. Irene slept late, then I put her to bed on the balcony. Some days she managed the stairs herself, some days I would carry her. Some days she could even manage the stairs from the balcony to the beach and went to the boulders at the end of the cove, feeling joy at the sand under her bare feet and the water washing around her naked calves.

At first she did not want to, but in the end she let me drive to Meredene alone. Meredene and I drove along a washed-out, overgrown road to the point where it had joined the motorway, drove around the barrier, and after half an hour, reached a town with a supermarket. Our extravagant shopping trip, paid for with my credit card, was perhaps not wholly compatible with the ethos of living in nature; Meredene swore me to secrecy with her people and advised me to not tell Irene. She filled her shopping cart with great enthusiasm and a guilty conscience.

I didn’t have a guilty conscience. But I felt forlorn in town, among the shops, adverts, restaurants, cars; and I was annoyed by the bright, cold light in the supermarket, the wide, empty aisles, the sheer range of goods. I calculated: fourteen days ago I had come upon Irene’s painting in the Art Gallery, eight days ago I had arrived at Irene’s. It felt like weeks had passed.