Somerset House. Why are we heading for Somerset House?, I ask W. We don't belong in Somerset House! But W. won't be deterred from going to Somerset House. He wants to see the fountain, he says. He wants to see the jets of water rising and falling. And he wants to see me caper among those jets like an idiot child.
The bottle of wine I ordered arrives, with two glasses. – 'To us!', says W. 'To idiocy!' How do I think our lecture tour is going?, he asks me. Well? Badly? Have we come through with our reputations intact? Our dignity? Have we increased in stature in the eyes of our contemporaries? Ah, there's no need to answer.
This is our last tour, W. says. He feels that strongly. Something's going to happen. Something's about to happen … Why does he feel such a sense of dread?
In his dream, we're on the beach, and the sea's out, sucked out, as it is before a great wave comes. And only W. knows the tsunami's coming. Only he knows, but no one will listen to him. And there I am, inflatable around my midriff, running down the beach …
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