Baraka [antikvár]

1 That night, Martin Laing dreamt of Cosima for the first time since leaving New York. In colder weather he dreamt often and vividly. This time, lying naked, uncovered, enclosed as much by the walls of his hotel as by the oppressive heat of Hanoi, the story was confused. He was in the heart of the city, walking across the water of the Central Lake towards the pagoda on the island. The colonial buildings around the shore were dripping with green mould after twenty-five years of neglect. Mr Ngo was at his side, shorter and slighter even than in real life, and he was saying something Laing could not hear, something whispered, when a war canoe pulled up between them and Cosima rose from among the young oarsmen. She was clad in water and as she rose the water slipped away from her. For an endless moment he saw her wonderful neck revealed as he had seen it revealed when they first met, like a porcelain river tinted soft brown, with her tiny collar bone invisible. The water slipped farther from around her shoulders down towards her breasts. Her shoulders were the most beautiful things he had ever seen and he had fallen in love with them before he loved her. He remembered wondering, when he had seen her for the first time, whether the light olive colour could possibly continue without change over her body. That was eleven years ago, long before he knew that he might have her. As her breasts became clear, she leapt into the air, revealing the small waist and then her sex, scarcely covered by a few dark hairs. She landed between himself and Ngo. Laing reached out to stop her being touched by the Vietnamese, and found himself naked, on top of her, on the long wooden table in the meeting room, where the air was hke a wet, tepid sponge. Down one side sat the seven Vietnamese. Down the 11