Listening to arias, with a bowlful of local ruby strawberries—like plump marbles—and half a glass of cold pomegranate juice. “Ave Maria,” the woman on the recording sings with impassioned vibrato. There is a peacefulness about this place that approaches the religious. Sacred sea. Holy heat. Some kind of Heaven, maybe.

Full moon. The coastline disappears, lights wink out, behind a curtain of haze. It moves in slowly and claims both land and sea. I am sure it is nothing but the dense dewy fog I am so accustomed to—breath come down from the mountains—but we soon learn its truce source: the Sahara. It is a wide outstretched palm of fine Egyptian sand, sent by wind to settle over us all. There will be telltale footprints in the morning.

***

I remember reading in The Hours about a character who suddenly had the inclination to leave everything behind (her child, her comfortable existence) and drive into the distance. How easy it would be, she thought, to keep driving and never look back. I think something similar happens in a Milan Kundera novel I read a few weeks ago; it’s a theme I’ve repeatedly encountered recently, the temptation of total disappearance. At first, I couldn’t understand that urge. I’d already left so much behind when I came to London, why would I willingly relinquish more? But here in Cyprus, the feeling finds me. The desire to be swallowed by this hillside overlooking the sea. To spend my days in this chair, skin turning as leathery as the locals, sipping fresh juices while black and white finches skim the pool with their long tails. Waking up to the bing-bong bells around the necks of lazy goats, their slow bellows echoing among the carob trees.

My thoughts of the people and places back home and in London are missiles missing their target. They fall short and cannot take root. I feel unaffected by the claws of the past, so content am I to embody this present. Rarely do I feel this free, this at peace.

Aagot brings me an apricot plucked straight from its branch, and the dream goes on.