Longing

“My father never went back there,” said Mrs. Dobrovsky bitterly. Outside the window of her room danced the boundless blue ocean flowing into the endless blue sky. The clouds, scattered here and there, reminded me of that other wonderful phenomenon I had already witnessed several times in Camps Bay: the morning breezes pushing a dense mass of clouds across the waves of the ocean. This was a magnificent performance of nature: the clouds forming a wall that became the mirror image of the Apostles – the monumental cliffs that stretched along the shore. The wind would mercilessly drive the clouds to their fateful meeting with the cliffs. Soon the clouds would collide with the Apostles and disintegrate into formless pieces dispersed among the indifferent peaks.

“It became the tragedy of his life,” Mrs. Dobrovsky continued. She was lying on the covered bed under an exotic multicoloured embroidered blanket, while I sat opposite her in an old-fashioned armchair with carved armrests. On the walls hung unusual Impressionist paintings. Behind me, without so much as a squeak, the door opened, and a black servant girl, with a charming smile and wearing a white apron, carried in a Chinese tea service on a tray. Mrs. Dobrovsky nodded her beautiful grey head, and the girl put the tray down on a small table near the bed.

“Pour yourself some tea,” Mrs. Dobrovsky said. “My father always liked tea, not coffee. He still made himself – what’s it called? Tshifir, yes?” She smiled. “They taught him that over there. You have to...