Tours of the Black Clock

15

ON THE LAST RUN of the day, he was searching the edge of the island for her as soon as it came within sight. But she wasn’t there; patiently he sat on deck staring at the island, rather than away from it, the noise of the nightcrowd coming from town. At this point in his life he’d become too locked in with the rhythms of resignation and instinct to think profoundly upon the impact of this girl. He contemplated the frequency of destiny she transmitted and what its exact nature might be; he mused that she might be his daughter, or his future wife. But he didn’t muse on such things for long. He knew by now these frequencies were unnamable, in a century that tried to name everything that was particularly unfathomable. Time passed and the rest of the tourists found their way back; of course they were always drunker on the evening run. He kept looking for her. There wasn’t any doubt she’d appear; there was no other way off the island, after all, and there was nothing to do other than leave it. In fifteen years there hadn’t been a single instance when someone stayed, or had been left behind. So there just wasn’t any doubt she’d appear. But when they were all back, and waiting to leave, and she still wasn’t there, he delayed five, ten, fifteen minutes. “The buses are waiting for us,” someone said, “when are we going back?” We’ll go back when I say we go back, he said. Twenty minutes passed. The passengers became incensed. When he couldn’t delay any longer, he took them back without her. After returning everyone to mainland, he did what he’d never done before — sailed back to the island and spent the night there, on the boat.