170 DAHLAK 



out of petrol. There was another mile to go, so we should 

 have to row it. Gigi took the oars without enthusiasm. It was 

 already late. We could go to bed without eating and sleep 

 on the misfortunes of this life. 



The stars were wonderful. 'If you half close your eyes, 

 Cecco, and look up, imagining the sound of a mandolin, you 

 might be at Santa Lucia. Now I'll sing it to you.' 



'Crikey, you're tone deaf.' 



The boat went slowly on, zigzagging through the corridors 

 of submerged coral. A lone bird screeched overhead without 

 our seeing it. 



'Look at the sea, Cecco.' 



Gigi stopped rowing. The sea was black, except where the 

 boat and the oars cut into it. There it was a miracle of 

 phosphorescence. Gigi lifted the oars and a shower of light 

 dropped from them. I dipped my hand in and on taking it 

 out the light remained under my finger-nails. We were in the 

 phosphorescent bank of plankton. As soon as the micro- 

 organisms are disturbed they make this luminous discharge 

 and then become invisible again. The bows went forward in 

 the neon soup, and slightly speeding up, we could see each 

 other in the light. All the islands, all the rocks far and near 

 were bordered with this light. Down below deep-sea lamps 

 glowed and expired a second later — big fish passing through 

 the plankton. Shoals of small fish turned on shimmering 

 fountains of light while the barracudas and sharks sent 

 meteors and comet's trails spinning across each other. Down 

 in the channel and in the lagoon we could hear the boom of 

 leaping monsters, of giant mantas. The great sea was alive. 

 A skipping needle-fish darted through the air in the distance, 

 beating the water with its tail and leaving a stream of light. 

 It coursed like a fire serpent across the sea towards us and 

 avoided us with an impressive Catherine Wheel. 



