11
The rain welcomed N., too, as he walked out of the house. The house which, at least for a time, had been no home to him, no protector of his anonymity. The rain surprised him by its inevitability, its confidence in its own rectitude.
“I don’t know where to go, but the rain does,” N. said to the sound of the rain. “The rain trusts its own gravity.”
Evening came. Lilac mists rose from the river. It would soon be September. Autumn. Hard to imagine.
“Will that autumn be within me?” N. wondered. “And will I be within that autumn?”
Closing his eyes, N. saw the moon-faced tree of death, glazed in blue rubbery dampness. Its sharp tip pierced the night silver, its branches shed their lustrous leaves patterned with milky veins, its roots ensnared the planet, quivering like an egg in a fowler
