Waves curled and relapsed. He was alone. Bernardo busied himself with recoiling the little that remained of the rope. Only minutes before, Salvestro had plunged overboard and sunk beneath the waters’ crawling surface. It seemed like hours. Years. Another age, already the day he would remember as the “the day when …” Too distant. He began uncoiling the rope, then sat in the center of the boat, the boat itself surrounded by sea: a pointless speck in the expanse of gray. The signal line tautened and slackened with the boat’s motions. Pull, he silently urged his sunken partner. He felt very faintly sick, from the boat or hunger he could not tell. Possibly Salvestro had drifted directly to the richest of the promised temples. He would be counting the treasure they would raise. Estimating weights and loads, like their rehearsals in the pond. Organizing matters properly. That was still possible. But it was growing less and less possible with the passing minutes. Salvestro had discussed the matter of air with him; he had forgotten the exact nature of the problem.
