IN WHICH DAWN IS MERELY AN ILLUSION THAT THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL 6. IN WHICH DAWN IS MERELY AN ILLUSION THAT THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL The aroma of coffee woke me. That was something that hadn’t happened in years. Since long before Rosa. Getting her out of bed in the morning was no easy matter. Seeing her get up to make coffee was little short of a miracle. Carmen maybe? I couldn’t remember. I smelled toast, and decided to get up. Babette hadn’t gone home. She’d lain down next to me. I’d rested my head on her shoulder. She’d put her arm around me. I’d fallen asleep, without another word. I’d said everything there was to say. My despair, my hates, my solitude. On the terrace, breakfast was ready. Bob Marley was singing Stir It Up. It suited the day. Blue sky, glassy sea, sun already up. Babette had put on my bathrobe. She had a cigarette in her mouth, and was buttering bread, her body moving almost imperceptibly to the rhythm of the music. For a fraction of a second, happiness existed.
