386
PARTISAN REVIEW
he crossed the invisible boundary of the dark world where the amphora
glowed and flickered, the smells of decay crept stealthily from corner to
corner, and the woman was combing through the girl's matted hair, say–
ing in her singsong voice, "So, Kadma, tell me about that dolphin."
For a long moment he stood, lost, before the cave. The sun was drip–
ping its melting red fire into the sea, and seagulls swooped our of
nowhere, dipping and rising, calling out shrilly. Suddenly he realized that
he was still clutching the conch. He looked down at his whitened knuck–
les, hesitated, and then, with a sense of rushing blindly along a precipice,
raised it to his ear. At first he thought he could hear only his heartbeat,
but soon another sound grew inside the spiral-an even hum of a far-off
wind, the pulsating blood of the sea. Strangely relieved, he let his fingers
uncurl. The seashell fell onto the damp sand with a dull thud.
WHEN CONSTANTINE STEPPED INSIDE the house, he found the parlor
plunged into darkness. Maria sat on a sofa, rocking slowly from side to
side, humming tunelessly to herself. He could barely make out her shape
in the smoky glare of the thin candles that were lit in a corner before a
few icons whose pained eyes leapt out at him with mysterious intensity.
He let go of the door and it banged loudly, bur Maria did not stir. For
a moment he stood indecisively in the dark hallway, feeling like an
intruder, and then began to tiptoe carefully across the room; but his
head bumped against a low corner and his leg caught in a chair, and all
at once the lights went on behind him. He blinked, momentarily
blinded, then turned to Maria.
"I
didn't hear you come in," she said in a stranded voice. "Forgive
me." The furrows of her cheeks glistened with tears.
"Are you all right, Madame Passano? " he asked haltingly.
She heaved herself up and slowly went to blow Ollt the candles. She
wore her finest black dress, which was shiny with age and taut at the
seams, and thin black stockings instead of the usual woolen ones. The
heels of her old-fashioned, barely worn shoes thudded oddly, disjoint–
edly, against the wooden floor.
"Many years ago on this day," she said with her back toward him,
shifting the icons slightly on their shelf, "my only son Beppe perished at
sea. Did YOll know
I
once had a son, Costas?"
She glanced at him over her shoulder, and mutely he nodded.
"I
always take this day to remember him," she went on expression–
lessly, turning away again. "He was twenty-three. They never found him
or his boat.... The whole village looked for two weeks."
