Hmla sa za ňou zatvára

Posledné popoludnie vystúpala Polly ešte raz vysoko nad pobrežie, nad čajové terasy, nad kráter s dvoma jazerami a nad tichý les, kde priolo stále volá z hlbín vavrínov. Odtiaľ zhora vyzeral ostrov presne ako to, čím naozaj je: jeden dlhý reťazec starých sopiek, stále slabo teplých, stále pomaly chladnúcich do zelena.

On her last afternoon, Polly climbed high above the coast one more time, above the tea terraces, the crater with its two lakes, and the quiet forest where the priolo still calls from deep in the laurel trees. From up there the island looked exactly like what it is: one long chain of old volcanoes, still faintly warm, still slowly cooling into green.

Rybárske člny sa vracali dole do prístavu, malé biele tvary ťahajúce tenké brázdy cez tmavnúce more, a pozdĺž pobrežnej cesty sa jedno po druhom rozsvecovali svetlá. Odkiaľsi od brehu stúpala vôňa dymu z dreva a miešala sa s posledným zvyškom slaného vzduchu.

Fishing boats were heading back into the harbor below, small white shapes trailing thin wakes across a darkening sea, and lights were coming on one by one along the coast road. The smell of woodsmoke drifted up from somewhere near the shore, mixing with the last of the salt air.

Od oceánu sa privalil pás hmly, presne ako po celý týždeň, prekĺzol najprv cez kráter, potom cez čajové polia a napokon cez samotný prístav, až zložil celý ostrov pod ňou z dohľadu. Polly ho už videla robiť to isté, trpezlivo a bez zhonu, akoby ostrov radšej mizol pomaly než naraz.

A bank of fog rolled in off the ocean the way it had all week, sliding first over the crater, then the tea fields, then the harbor itself, folding the whole island out of sight beneath her. Polly had watched it do this before, patient and unhurried, as if the island preferred to disappear slowly rather than all at once.

Zamierila von nad otvorenú vodu, kým sa na obzore držali posledné zvyšky svetla, a nechala za sebou ostrov, ktorý si stále varí večeru pod zemou, stále pestuje svoj čaj lístok po lístku a stále kdesi hlboko v starom lese chráni malého sivého vtáka.

She turned out over open water while the last of the light held on the horizon, leaving behind an island still cooking its dinner underground, still growing its tea one careful leaf at a time, and still, somewhere deep in an old forest, keeping a small grey bird safe.