It was our last morning in Split - Ivo arrived a few minutes early, surprising us as we were getting ready - I'd just zipped up my black grip, cramming in my white collarless shirts - Anne folded her clothes with spooky precision and grace - sometimes I thought she'd fold me away, arranging my body so that it vanished -
Ivo led us through the network of alleyways which were now familiar to us - we passed the huge graffito depicting a Hadjuk fan, cigarette dangling from his mouth like a monstrous clarinet - we passed the man with the swollen neck, sitting upon his bench, even now, before seven in the morning -
We sank into Ivo's car, preparing ourselves for his inspired driving - I tried to avoid showing my anxiety - we were soon accelerating towards the airport, zig zagging through the crazed early morning traffic - we passed the high rises on the outskirts of the city - their windows were like glittering semaphore flags - I wondered what messages they were signalling, and to whom -
Inevitably, Ivo took both of his hands off the quivering steering wheel - he rummaged around, and passed Anne a small plastic egg - she opened it up, pressing upon its central seam - inside were some exquisite silver earrings - when she wore them she would become a beautiful disordered gypsy - is gift - my friend made it for you -
Soon we were in the jet, flying above the clouds - below me were the islands, with their mysterious shapes - I remembered how we'd sailed amongst them - I imagined the white yachts, racing over the turquoise channels -
I longed to feel, once more, how I'd felt upon the deck of Indian Wizard - the wonderful sensation conjured out of joy and fear, as our yacht heeled over, spray gushing along the silver stanchions -
How marvellous life was at such times - but every moment, I told myself, had within it a secret door to marvels -
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