Kees was also taking photographs. “Explain it to me again, will you? I’m still not sure I understand completely.” Kees was the youngest of the team, a twenty-five-year-old Dutchman from the University of Amsterdam who had yet to complete his Ph.D., but he had already been on several digs, making him considerably more experienced than Natalie, if less qualified, formally speaking.
“Sure,” said Christopher. He leaned against the bonnet of the Land Rover. “This being a flat plain, the winds can be quite strong, with very little to impede them. Notice that the edge of the dune that is facing the wind is fairly steep, whereas the trailing edge—on the lee side if you like—is quite shallow. When the wind blows, what happens is that grains of sand on the leading edge, the steep edge, are blown up into the air, and then fall and settle on the trailing edge. When the wind is very strong, like it is now, that process is magnified, it happens much more quickly, with the result that, over a matter of days, the entire sand dune can move, maybe as much as five feet a day. Over the months, the dune can move miles—and then, when the wind changes, move back again. Because it moves so much, the local Maasai think the dune is mysteriously alive, which is why they worship it.”
He slid into the driving seat of the Land Rover, the others finished taking their photos, and then Natalie got in alongside him and Kees climbed in the back.
The light was fading fast as they headed home. They looked about them, as the animals began to appear.
“Have you ever been to Italy?” Kees asked.
Christopher shook his head.
“No,” said Natalie. “I’d love to go, but why do you ask?”
“They have this thing called a passeggiato when, in the early evening, everyone walks up and down the main street of town, looking at everyone else, who they are with, what they are wearing … it’s just like that here in the bush. The animals come out and are on a sort of parade.”
“Hmm,” growled Christopher. “With one big difference. Here, one half of the animals are trying to eat the other half.”
As he said this half a dozen zebra ran across their line of sight, obviously fleeing from something.
“Do you miss Amsterdam, Kees?” said Natalie. “I’ve only been once. I loved it. The trees, the canals, the narrow houses …”
Kees smiled. “I don’t miss it because I know I’m going back. If I couldn’t go back I’d be very unhappy. The best thing about Amsterdam are the bicycles. Because of all the canals, the streets are narrow, so the traffic is slow, and everyone uses bicycles. The city is small so nowhere is more than fifteen minutes’ ride from anywhere else. That means you see more of your friends in Amsterdam than in other major cities. And because of that you have more friends than in other major cities.” He leaned forward and tapped Natalie on the shoulder. “Were you on holiday when you visited?”
“Yes and no. My parents were singing in a choir, in a choir competition, and they had reached the final. I was just a girl and was taken along. Their choir lost but I loved the city. The contest was part of a flower festival.”
Kees nodded. “Yes, I was going to say that, after the bicycles, the next best thing about Amsterdam are the flowers. There are endless flower festivals of one sort or another, and flower sellers at every corner. Do you sing, now you’re older?”
Natalie made a face. “Sore point. I do sing, yes, and not badly. My parents wanted me to have a musical career but I preferred science. We fought like mad about that, but they eventually gave way, when I got my place at Cambridge.”
“I went to a geological conference in Cambridge. Lots of bicycles there too. Do you live in college?”
“Yes, I do. You?”
“We don’t have colleges. I share one of those narrow houses you admired, with someone else, a wine merchant who plays the cello.”
Natalie colored. It was silly. Kees couldn’t know about her complicated relationship with the cello, but she couldn’t help herself. Would she ever be able to hear the cello again without thinking of Dominic, without rerunning rapidly the entire course of the affair, itself not unlike a piece of music, with a rousing opening, a serene middle, and a sad coda. How she fought with herself to prevent that loop in