“If by eternity we understand not an infinite duration in time but timelessness, then whoever lives in the present lives eternally. Our life is as infinite as our visual field is boundless.”
Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
It is summer, and it is hot, very hot. The sky is clear. Beneath it, the sea spreads a turquoise so transparent that the ripples in the sand are visible even where the bottom begins to fade from sight. A melody drifts through the place. No one could say where it comes from: it can be heard over the water, among the palm leaves, and in the breeze that cools the skin of two people holding each other.
The palm trees grow on a sandbank that barely qualifies as an island. Only around their trunks does a little dry land show; the rest lies beneath a few inches of water. Between the two hangs a wide hammock, woven from a thread that lets the air through.
She rests her face against his neck. One arm is wrapped around him; her other hand has come to rest, open, on his chest. He strokes her back. Each time the hammock sways, their feet almost brush the surface of the sea. They have no need to change position. The shade covers them, the breeze reaches them from below, and the sun, high overhead, seems prepared to stay there.
She raises her head. She finds him looking at her and smiles before asking what is wrong.
“Nothing,” he replies.
She waits a moment, her fingers resting on his cheek. Then she settles against his neck again. He has been on the verge of saying it. It seems strange to feel that fear while she is so close. He can kiss her, slip a hand around her waist, hold her until she laughs and asks him to let her breathe. Yet when he imagines those words in his own voice, he stops. Afterward, he would have to look at her and wait.
With her eyes closed, she listens to his breathing. She has raised her head to speak to him. On discovering that he too wants to say something, she prefers to give him time. The hammock rocks over the water. Far away, a white speck appears on the horizon. It grows until several decks can be made out, rows of windows and tiny swimming pools in the sun. An enormous cruise ship is heading straight for the sandbank.
From its bow, the two palm trees must look like a green brushstroke in the middle of the ocean. The ship maintains its speed even as the water becomes so clear that the bottom can be seen. The hull grazes the sand, tilts, and keeps moving. Something gives way below the waterline. A thunderous crash tears through the decks; glass bursts outward into the sea.
For an instant the cruise ship keeps sliding forward, as though it could leave its own rupture behind. Then, little by little, it begins to sink.
Far away in the hammock, she runs her fingers through his hair and brushes a lock from his forehead. He kisses her palm. They hear neither the impact nor the alarms, nor the voices calling to one another among the wreckage. The melody reaches them as clearly as before.
The sinking takes several hours. Some people jump while there are still dry places to jump from; others are trapped in lounges beginning to fill with water. The waves tear tables, suitcases, and bodies from the decks. At last, the funnel disappears amid foam and smoke. Those who manage to escape swim until their feet find sand. They stand up in water that reaches their knees. There are thousands of them.
Some are barefoot; others still have one shoe. Someone is still clutching a cabin towel to their chest. A woman points to the palm trees. A man shades his eyes for a better look. They seem close: a few hundred paces, shade, perhaps coconuts. They help those still sitting in the water to their feet and begin to walk.
A flock of birds passes between their legs. They swim with their wings outstretched. Their feathers retain their sheen and look dry beneath the water; their little bodies change direction all at once, drift with a current, and vanish beneath the ripples in the sand. One of the men stares after them. He crouches, puts his face underwater, then moves toward the place where the sandbank slopes away. The others call to him. A woman takes him by the arm.
“It’s deeper that way. Come with us.”
He tries to pull free. They point to the palm trees, speak to him of food and waiting for rescue. He scarcely seems to hear them. He opens his mouth and lets out a harsh, unexpected croak. The woman releases him. The man dives. His back remains beneath the surface for a moment; then those watching him can see only sand. Another croak answers from the crowd. Then another. Hundreds of people crouch and disappear into water that, moments earlier, barely reached their knees. The others try to hold on to some of them; they are left empty-handed.
When those sounds cease, only a few hundred castaways remain. For a while, none of them moves forward. They look down, searching for those who have gone. The current stirs their clothes around their legs. Someone points to the palm trees again.
In the hammock, she props herself up on one elbow.
“What do you like most about me?”
He studies her with a seriousness that makes her laugh.
“Is it that difficult?”
“I’m trying to choose.”
She nudges him with the tip of her nose.
“Then choose.”
He keeps one hand spread against her back.
“I like it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You laugh before you’ve finished the question. As though you already knew what I was going to say.”
Her smile grows smaller. She lowers her eyes to his chest and traces a circle there with her finger.
“I don’t always know.”
He is about to ask what she means. She looks at him again, and the impulse turns into a caress.
“I always dreamed of being somewhere like this,” she says.
“I would have gone anywhere with you.”
They kiss. Beneath the hammock, a shimmer of light passes over the sand and vanishes where the water begins to darken. The sun remains motionless.
The castaways have walked with it always on their right. Some look back to gauge the distance they have covered, though nothing remains of the cruise ship that had served as their landmark. The palm trees are still ahead, the same distance apart, their leaves barely moving. A man counts three hundred paces. He stops, looks, and counts another three hundred. Someone asks him how much farther. He keeps walking without answering.
A gray cloud begins to spread along the horizon. Darkness advances like ink spilled across the sky. The wind lifts water and flings it into the faces of the walkers. Soon it begins to rain. The castaways open their mouths, run their hands over their cheeks, and drink what they can before the drops mix with salt. Only around the palm trees does a circle of sky remain blue.
A school of fish crosses the clouds. They fly close together, their backs lit with green and silver reflections. As they enter the rain, they scatter. Their mouths open rapidly; they flick their tails, searching for a clearing, but the drops reach them everywhere. The first falls near a woman. It tries to take flight from the water, strikes the surface, and falls again. She catches it with both hands.
The other fish begin to plummet around the castaways. They have been walking for five hundred and seventy-seven years. Hunger has hollowed their faces. Their skin is pale, broken in places by the friction of cloth and water. Even so, they still have the strength to hurl themselves at the fish and press them to their mouths. Some share them. Others turn their backs to eat.
Then they look up. For the first time in centuries, the palm trees seem closer.
She feels a change in the air and draws a little away from his chest.
“Do you think it will rain?”
He opens his eyes. A palm leaf lets a thread of sunlight fall between them.
“I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps later.”
He stroked her shoulder.
“It has never rained here.”
She tries to remember how long they have been there. The thought dissolves as she feels his fingers tracing her back. She closes her eyes again. Outside the circle of light, waves begin to break over the sandbank. The castaways huddle together to withstand them. A woman loses her footing, and two others hold her until she can stand again. The water has snatched away the fish she was keeping against her chest.
She turns her head.
“Do you hear those voices?”
His hand goes still.
“The men’s?”
“I can hear women.”
They fall silent. The voices come from somewhere neither can locate. There are familiar inflections in them; at times, one seems on the verge of saying their names. She clings a little more tightly to him.
“I think I know who they are.”
“So do I.”
“I don’t want to hear them.”
He brings his lips to her forehead. There is something in those voices that makes him clench his teeth, a warning repeated for so long that he no longer needs to make out the words.
“Stay with me,” she says.
“I’m here.”
As she lifts her face to kiss him, she brushes his lips with hers and stops. She waits. The hand stroking her hair becomes still. He recognizes the waiting. He opens his mouth, but she kisses him before he can speak. She too has felt afraid at coming so close to hearing the answer. The melody grows fainter. A gust reaches the hammock and withdraws.
An enormous shadow passes over the castaways. A blue whale descends among the clouds. It moves its tail slowly, each stroke propelling it over the ocean. Around it fly schools of fish that vanish for moments behind its body. When it opens its mouth, hundreds of fish enter. The men and women follow it with their eyes. Some have begun to shiver with cold. The whale seems to carry enough food for everyone, but it remains beyond their reach, tilting whenever a gust strikes its flank.
Then great white sharks appear. Their bellies pass over the people’s heads. They circle the straggling fish, disappear into the clouds, and reappear lower down. One passes so close that the castaways duck into the water. Its fin slices through the rain and goes on. The crowd presses together. The palm trees are still there, beneath their patch of clear sky. He draws his lips away from hers.
“Do you know something?”
She opens her eyes. She has been waiting for that tone, that way of leaning close to say something meant only for her.
“Tell me.”
He looks at her. She stops stroking him to give him her full attention, and that small movement is enough to make him hesitate again.
“Better later.”
She lowers her hand. Against his cheek he feels cool air where her fingers had been.
“You can tell me,” she murmurs.
He smiles, but she does not immediately smile back. For the first time, he saw her make an effort to return his smile.
“Later,” he repeats, no longer so sure.
She nods. She settles beside him and lays a hand on his chest. He holds her carefully. They kiss again. Several more years pass.
The rain draws closer to the edge of the shade. The drops make little circles in the water, a short distance from their feet. The wind bends the outer palm leaves; within, where their two bodies rest, a warm breeze still blows. He keeps tracing circles on her back. He feels her relax beneath his hand, feels her seek him even in sleep. He has wanted to wait for the moment when the words would come of their own accord. Meanwhile, she has had to wait with him. When they draw apart, decades later, he brushes the hair from her face.
“You’re beautiful.”
She smiles and holds his hand against her cheek.
“Was that what you wanted to tell me?”
He slowly shakes his head.
“Then tell me.”
The whale dips so low that its belly almost touches the wave crests. A castaway raises his arms; another holds him by the waist so the wind will not carry him away. The animal rises again with a stroke of its tail. Beneath it remain falling fish, open hands, and upturned faces.
In the hammock, he draws breath. She feels the movement beneath her palm. She wants to help him, to be the first to say what they have both been putting off. This time, she leaves her hand where it is. If he falls silent again, she would speak.
“I’m afraid you’ll say nothing afterward,” he confesses.
She looks at him for a moment. She brings her forehead to his.
“I’ve been waiting too.”
He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, she is still there, her warm hand on his chest.
“I love you.”
He says it almost in a whisper. She begins to smile, but her lip trembles before she can answer. He brushes his thumb along her cheek.
“I love you,” he repeats.
“I love you too.”
This time, he is the one who takes a while to find his voice. He holds her close and feels her laughter against his neck. The light begins between their hands. It spreads across their skin, passes through the weave of the hammock, and reaches the water. The two palm trees turn white for an instant. The castaways cover their eyes. The clouds retreat. The rain weakens to a few drops that gleam as they fall.
Beyond the sandbank, a band of blue sky opens from horizon to horizon. The fish take flight again. The whale tries to follow, but its body descends slowly, no longer able to stay aloft. The castaways cling to one another as they watch it fall. Its belly touches the ocean and raises a wave that runs toward them.
Before the water settles again, the animal’s skin has become smooth and white. Its belly takes on the curve of a hull; its jaws close into a bow; its tail widens to form a stern. Decks, railings, and windows appear along its back. Where the whale has fallen, a cruise ship floats. The sharks turn gray, lose their outlines, and hang suspended like little clouds. The wind stretches them until they vanish.
A woman is the first to turn toward the ship. She is still shielding her eyes with one hand. With the other, she reaches for the person beside her and tugs at their clothing. The others begin to turn. For centuries they have kept their eyes fixed on the palm trees; now, behind them, a ladder descends from the cruise ship’s deck until it brushes the sea. One person takes a step, then another.
A young woman starts running, trips, and gets up with the help of two men. Those in front stop to support the ones who can barely walk. The whale’s wave reaches their knees and passes among their bodies without knocking them down. By the time the couple’s light goes out, five thousand five hundred and seventy-seven years have passed.
She lifts her face from his neck. Her smile is the same as before, though now she can go on looking at him without waiting for anything.
“I love you,” she says.
He kisses her fingers, one by one.
“I love you.”
Far from the palm trees, the last castaways climb the ladder. The cruise ship waits until everyone is aboard. Once they are, it begins to move away across a sea that deepens in its wake. From the deck, a woman raises her hand toward the little sandbank. She keeps it raised until the palm trees merge into a single green speck again. The couple does not see the ship depart.
She has settled against his chest again and listens to the melody borne on the breeze. He gently strokes her back. From then on there are other clouds, rain somewhere far away. Their shadows pass across the ocean without reaching the hammock. The two learn to say those words on waking, between one caress and the next, or simply because, though they do not always say them with the urgency that anxious feelings proclaim.
Once, she sits up to kiss him, and he welcomes her with open arms. The hammock sways. Their feet almost brush the water.
This time the kiss lasts a whole happy eternity, in this eternal paradise.
THE END