The beginning and the end of time is what came into his mind. Not that ancient land he had lived in for so many years but stories of Armageddon and the final reckoning. A man on a ledge sobs into the sky, a mother keens by the body of her child. What has this to do with the ending of things between two lovers? The parting of the old and the new? But what then of the years that lie between them consigned now and forever, if she does not come back, to a fog of nothingness (or the years of his loveless marriage, or the isolation of his soul in a featureless country?) And yet and yet, I am in the land of my birth and time is slipping away, great chasms open up and each day the newspapers report the dead in the streets. What does the ending of things have to do with garlands of flaming tires or bodies flying out of train windows? Dear God, he thought, someone has pulled the plug out of the bath.
Her body is spread out on the blanket, one leg pulled up, her hand between her thighs. They stare at each other watching, watching.
The most difficult memory to kill is the one of …
Stop right here.
Stop right here because this is where it begins. Joseph is walking towards the house. Roses are in bloom each side of the pathway. The apple tree is bright with red. Sophie thumps her tail on the porch. Gregory takes short steps towards him, his hand outstretched. Hanna, he calls, come and meet our guest.
Joseph is about to come face to face with a woman who was born on the day that he left the country of his birth and whose age in years is the time of his exile.
This is the heart of my story.
Six months later he is writing her a goodbye note..
He moves his hand across her breasts as he breathes her breath and feels her hands touching him. The tape plays backwards and forwards. There is no end to it because there is no beginning.
But what has a love story that cannot end to do with dead bodies in the street or, for that matter, the way the light reflected off the mountains that day Joseph drove to the village? Gregory had noticed something going on between them the moment they met - before that even - but how can that be? We are living in strange times. If I can get this story right, I might yet change my destiny.
A few days later they are gathered around the fire. Hanna is sitting next to Joseph. Sophie is lying at her feet. Sparks rise up joining them to the mass of stars above. What is this trip you're going on? Hanna asks. There is a sudden quiet. The others seem caught in their positions, as though something has changed to allow just the two of them to be alone together, and now she lies next to him on the carpet, her body lit by the moonlight streaming in through the window. We had never met, yet when I saw you I recognised you, he says. I had to stop myself from touching you, she says. Bach fugues and toccatas crash through the walls. We will both die here tonight stabbed through the heart.
