Long Lankin: Stories by John Banville

angry? he asked.
    —I’m not angry. Who said I was angry?
    She hacked a lump of bread from the loaf and slapped it down on the plate. He laughed, and grinding the cigarette under his heel he said:
    —You were angry last night.
    —Well, that was last night.
    —Don’t shout.
    —I’m not shouting.
    She stood with her hands on her hips and glared at him, and with a shrug he turned away and looked again down the road. She said:
    —Why do you sit here every morning staring like that?
    —No reason.
    —You’re waiting for someone to come with a message or something, aren’t you, so you’ll have an excuse to go away and leave me.
    He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. Patiently he said:
    —No, Anna, I’m not waiting for anything. I just like to sit here in the morning. It’s pleasant.
    —While you sit here your life is going away and my life too. Why don’t you write? Wasting your time like that. You’re bored. You want to leave me.
    —For the love of Christ, Anna.
    He took her hands and pulled her down to sit in his lap. For a moment he gazed at her, watching the sun through the leaves set fire in her hair. She bit her lip, and he kissed her, pressing his mouth roughly on hers.
    —Now, he said. I love you and I’m not going to leave you. Do you believe me?
    She held him tightly and murmured in his ear:
    —I believe you.
    —Good. So let’s eat.
    While she poured his coffee he fingered absently the bread on his plate, tearing the soft white flesh. She watched him from the corner of her eye and said:
    —We could always go on, you know.
    —What?
    —We could go on somewhere else. I mean if you’re bored we could go, say, to Alexandria. You’re always saying you’d like to go to Alexandria.
    With his lips pursed he looked at her a moment, his face empty, then he turned his eyes to the road that led down to the beach and the still sea. The light was changing now as the climbing sun burned away the morning’s mist, Delos was advancing and the farther islands were faintly visible. A small breeze came up from the bay and stirred the leaves of the olive tree.
    —Why should I want to leave here? he murmured. It’s peaceful.
    She nodded sadly and took one of his cigarettes. She said:
    —Why did you change so much?
    —Change? Did I change?
    —When we left Ireland you were full of plans and things. The first few months you were happy.
    —And now?
    —I don’t know. You just sit around all day. You haven’t worked on your book in weeks. You don’t even talk any more. Sometimes I get frightened and I think that you don’t see the point of anything any longer.
    She broke off and gave a small high-pitched laugh.
    —Isn’t that ridiculous? she said, and sat very still, watching the smoke from her cigarette, waiting. He pushed the hair away from her forehead, and she looked at him, smiling awkwardly.
    —It’s ridiculous, he said. I enjoy this life. You know it.
    —Yes. But I mean all I meant was that maybe you’re bored here and maybe we could move on somewhere else. We haven’t even started to use the money from your award yet so there’s no problem there. I mean I … Ben, I don’t want to lose you, she finished weakly.
    His patience at an end, he sighed and turned away from her. She looked down at the table where the shadows from the tree stirred on the wood. Soft sunlight touched the cups and plates, the bread and the small green grapes, extracting from each thing it touched a sense of the thing itself, a sense of the fragility of its existence. Then the leaves stirred, and the shadows changed, a new pattern formed, one that seemed held in place by a force from within the wood itself. Something came back to her of their life together, and she smiled. She turned to him to speak, beginning to laugh, when from behind them on the road came a voice:
    —Good morning.
    They turned. On the broken pillar of the gate a woman leaned, smiling at them. Neither answered her, and the woman said:
    —Can you help me? I