and return, and the

the baize and all its moving bodies, in reassuring clarity. I

think that while we were still converging, before we made

contact, we were in a state of mathematical grace. I linger

on our dispositions, the relative distances and the compass

point- because as far as these occurrences were concerned

this was the last time 1 understood anything clearly at all

What were we running towards? I don't think any of us

would ever know fully. But superficially the answer was,

a balloon. Not the nominal space that encloses a cartoon

character's speech or thought, or, by analogy, the kind that'

driven by mere hot air. It was an enormous balloon filled

with helium, that elemental gas forged from hydrogen in

the nuclear furnace of the stars, first step along the way in

the generation of multiplicity and variety of matter in the

universe, including our selves and all our thoughts

m we were running towards a catastrophe, which itself was

a kind of furnace in whose heat identities and fates would

buckle into new shapes. At the base of the balloon was a

basket in which there was a boy, and by the basket, clinging

to a rope, was a man in need of help. baman rs, s

ni sm te l

Even without the balloon the day would have been marked

for memory, though in the most pleasurable of ways, for this

was a reunion after a separation of six weeks, the longest

Clarissa and I had spent apart in our seven years. On the

way out to Heathrow I had made a detour into Covent Garden

and found a semi legal place to park, close to Carluccio's I

went in and put together a picnic whose centre-piece was

a great ball of mozzarella which the assistant fished out

of an earthenware vat with a wooden claw. I also bought

black olives, mixed salad and focaccia. Then I hurried up

Long Acre to Bertram Rota's to take delivery of Clarissa's

birthday present. Apart from the flat and our car, it was

the most expensive single item I had ever bought. The rarity

of this little book seemed to give off a heat I could feel