Page 236 - tender-is-the-night

‘Good-by, Blue Grotte,’ sang the boatman, ‘come again soo-
oon.’ And afterward tracing down the hot sinister shin of
the Italian boot with the wind soughing around those eerie
castles, the dead watching from up on those hills.
... This ship is nice, with our heels hitting the deck to-
gether. This is the blowy corner and each time we turn it I
slant forward against the wind and pull my coat together
without losing step with Dick. We are chanting nonsense:

“Oh—oh—oh—oh
Other flamingoes than me,
Oh—oh—oh—oh
Other flamingoes than me—‘

Life is fun with Dick—the people in deck chairs look at
us, and a woman is trying to hear what we are singing. Dick
is tired of singing it, so go on alone, Dick. You will walk dif-
ferently alone, dear, through a thicker atmosphere, forcing
your way through the shadows of chairs, through the drip-
ping smoke of the funnels. You will feel your own reflection
sliding along the eyes of those who look at you. You are no
longer insulated; but I suppose you must touch life in order
to spring from it.
Sitting on the stanchion of this life-boat I look seaward
and let my hair blow and shine. I am motionless against the
sky and the boat is made to carry my form onward into the
blue obscurity of the future, I am Pallas Athene carved rev-
erently on the front of a galley. The waters are lapping in the
public toilets and the agate green foliage of spray changes

236 Tender is the Night