He was there. that was him in the back...that scarcely visible shape...that made no movement crushed. She was leaning on the railing...like the first time on the ferry. She knew he was watching her. She was watching him, too. She couldn't 't see him anymore, but she still looked...towards the shape of the black car. In the end, she didn't see it any more. The harbor had faded away...and then the land.
One night, during the crossing of the Indian Ocean...in the main room on the big deck...there had been a sudden burst...of a Waltz by Chopin...there wasn't a breath of wind. ..and that night...the music had spread all over the black liner...like an injunction from heaven...related to something unknown...like an order from god...whose meaning was inscrutable...She had wept...because she had thought of that man from Cholon...her lover...and suddenly, she wasn't sure...of not having loved him...with a love she hadn't seen. ..becausu it had lost itself in the story...like water in the sand...and she was rediscovering it now...in this moment of music flung across the sea.
Years after the war...after the marriages, the children...the divorces, the books...he had come to paris with his wife. He had phoned her. He was intimidated...his voice trembled... and with trembling...it had found the accent of China again. He knew she'd begun writing books. He had also heard about the younger brother's death. He had been sad for her...and then he hadn't know what to tell her...and then he'd told her...he had told her that it was as before...that he still loved her...that he would never stop loving her...that he would love her until his death...
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