Lovesong by Alex Miller Page A

hide and tease each other. ‘Your eyes are the colour of Tolstoy’s eyes,’ she said.
    He laughed at this and took her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. ‘So how do you know what colour Tolstoy’s eyes were?’
    ‘You can take a look for yourself later,’ she said. ‘He’s our landlord’s old wolfhound. His eyes have seen into vast distances, like yours. His ancestors hunted wolves on the steppes of Russia.’ She kissed him quickly on the cheek and said, ‘Is that one of the things you can turn your hand to, Monsieur Patterner—hunting wolves on the steppes of Australia?’
    He bent his head to her and their lips met in a long, gentle kiss. Afterwards they lay side by side on the grass holding hands.
    She removed her hand from his and raised herself on her elbow and looked down at him. ‘You didn’t tell me yet why you wanted to go to Scotland?’ Would he still go? she wondered. Or had he really changed all his plans now?
    He opened his eyes. The hanging willows moved in the breeze above her head, back and forth, like the emerald weed in the river. ‘We could stay here forever,’ he said. ‘We could disappear from our old lives and live here together. Just you and me, till the end of our days.’
    ‘Houria would be upset. She’d miss me.’ She stroked his cheek. It was rough and unshaved. ‘You didn’t shave this morning before you came to see me,’ she said, playfully reproving him.
    ‘I was in a hurry. Do you mind?’
    ‘I like it. Isn’t there someone who’d be upset if you disappeared?’
    He thought about it. ‘My mother. Dad too, for sure. And I suppose my sister. And one particular friend. I don’t think anyone else would notice.’
    ‘You are so serious,’ she said. ‘So why did you leave your home and go so far away if they miss you?Why did you want to go to Scotland? You haven’t told me anything yet.’
    He laughed. How could he tell her of his need to get away from Australia? His feeling of being stifled by everything. His French wasn’t good enough for it. His longing just to
be
somewhere else. How could he make sense of that for her? Taking himself halfway around the world. ‘Everybody does it,’ he said. ‘It’s what Australians do.’ He had been getting away from himself as much as going to Scotland. She might think he was subject to sudden irrational changes of heart if he told her this. ‘I’ve got a good friend who was born in Glasgow,’ he said. ‘Harold Robinson. Harold was the librarian at my school. He’s an old man. Harold’s always been an old man. Ever since I met him. He collects books on Scotland and lives in Melbourne these days. He’s been retired for ages. He told me all about Scotland when I was a boy. We’ve been friends since I was thirteen. I wanted to see the place he came from.’
    She ran her fingers lightly over his lips, then leaned down and brushed her own lips against his, then withdrew, teasing him. ‘I wish we could just stay here all night. Not forever. Just for tonight. And watch the moon come up.’ She touched his lips with her fingers, then his unshaved cheeks and his forehead, and ranher forefinger along the bridge of his nose. ‘You’ve got a beautiful nose, John Patterner,’ she said. ‘It’s strong and confident. Are you sure you’re not one of us?’
    He took her in his arms and kissed her.
    There was a fluttering in her belly and she thought of the child waiting inside her. She gasped and, suddenly, she could not hold back her tears.
    He drew away. ‘What is it? What’s wrong? What did I do? I’m sorry, Sabiha.’
    She shook her head. ‘It’s not you. It’s nothing.’ She wiped at her tears. ‘I’m just happy. I often cry. Mostly I don’t know why I cry.’ Was this man to be the father of her child? Did her body know something already? She felt a sudden sharp fear that she would lose him. A shift of his desire, a failure of the mood between them, and he would be gone, off on his travelling, and they