The Bay of Foxes by Sheila Kohler

they park the car on a steep incline in the garden under a straw awning and walk down the stone steps to the front door. Blue plumbago, pink hibiscus, and orange
amanti del sole
grow along the path. In the distance Dawit sees the sweep of the vast, tranquil bay with the sparkling blue sea lit up with the sun’s dying rays. The scent of the mysterious herb M. has spoken of is in the air, the scent that will always mean Sardinia to him.
    She opens the front door, and across the entrance hall he sees the grand living room, a wide terrace, and the scintillant sea. After the tiring drive along narrow streets and winding roads, listening to M. tell him not to drive so fast, grinding her teeth as he took the curves, he is suddenly filled with a surge of joy and gratitude. He sweeps her up in his arms to carry her inside this beautiful home. “My bride,” he says extravagantly, laughing. Her body feels heavy, as she drops her head back over his arm, her long hair hanging down. She throws out her arm in a dramatic gesture. He has still not gained back all his strength, and he staggers a little, panting and laying her down on the white linen couch with its bright hand-embroidered orange cushions.
    There is a shiny black grand piano in one corner, angled so that the player can see the spectacular view of the sea. He gets up and plays Debussy’s “La Mer” for her, as she lies there on the sofa looking across the sea.
    “I’m so happy you are here with me,” she says. She adds, “Come, you must see your room. I hope you like it,” and rises. She takes him down the whitewashed corridor with its arched ceiling to a room on one side of the L-shaped house. From the window there he can still see the sea and part of the steep garden with its olive trees, vines, and bright hibiscus bushes. His canopied iron bed is painted red. The white-and-red-striped flounces that hang from it, as well as the curtains, were all chosen by M.’s French decorator, who decorated the whole house, she tells him. “She did a good job,” Dawit says. “What a beautiful room.”
    “Come and see mine,” M. says. She leads him by the hand to the master suite. In the middle of its large bedroom is a wide bed, with a blue bedspread, hand-embroidered in bright colors, and a blue iron bed-head that spreads like a peacock’s tail. A polished wooden desk runs all the way beneath the wide window, which looks over the sparkling bay. The bathroom has a tub the size of a small pool, tiled in gray, that takes, she says, hours to fill.
    He thanks her profusely for bringing him to this beautiful place as they sit out on the wide terrace in the warm, soft breeze. He brings her vodka and tonic with the olives he has found in a jar on the kitchen table with a note saying, “
Benvenuto
.”
    She says the olives are a gift from the couple who take care of the house for her, Michelino and Adrianna. He will meet them.
    She is too good to him, he says, sitting on the footstool at her feet, feeling the warm air, and listening to the quiet of the evening. How still it is here, how calm. What a relief to have left the gray and rain of Paris and to find himself again in a warm, bright landscape, surrounded by the familiar vegetation of his youth. It is M. who has given him this opportunity to escape to the sun. She gives him a generous monthly allowance and, above all, the security he needs. She has somehow obtained a passport with a temporary travel visa for Italy for him. And now she has brought him to this place.
    She tells him a little about its history, how the Aga Khan had seen the island from his yacht and fallen in love with the clear water, the wild, unspoiled land. He had bought up the territory in the area from the local farmers and developed it, keeping it as pristine as possible, preserving much of the local vegetation, ensuring that the houses were low and inconspicuous, nestled into the side of the coast, not allowing any high-rises or garish neon signs. There