The first scene was nearly untranslatable. Velocity and the little ache at the very back of the throat. Were we seeing a design in the narrative when all that was really there was the hand on the waist, the movement of a white dress in the middle distance:
And for once they traveled to a country that spoke another language entirely, without so much as a miniature dictionary to lessen the shock. To lose that thread the moment the wind picks up, to no longer be able to trace the progress of an idea, or the line that reason makes in the hot white sand, was to somehow always be on holiday. Still, they both had to wonder what the gatekeeper thought of them, their mouths that empty, not even a cough to break the silence.