6. The Dream. The fire dwindled as I slept, fitfully in the chair. My dreams were whirling pictures of snow-covered mountain slopes, endless flights across the world, deep green ocean depths and my recurring nightmare: the faceless girl in the diving mask staring up at me through the water. ................................ We touched down in Baden, Austria, at night, a slight haze fogging the windows of the little Italian Piaggio eight-seater turboprop. The darkness and the apprehension reminded me of another landing in the middle of Europe. In 1969 we had glided silently into a grass strip balanced on the side of a mountain. In 1993 we slid onto the concrete Baden runway with a squeal of tyres and the roar of the props being feathered into braking mode. The pilot wore a well-pressed uniform. The plane was clean and polished. No oily overalls or corroded aluminium on this flight. In the distance the lights of the terminal buildings sparkled through the mist. Here were no forests gently caressed by snow to greet me. I was well fed and well rested but I think the sick feeling in my stomach was worse than in '69. Hours earlier, I had arrived in Rome by Boeing 747 direct from Australia. Charlie was waiting with a very impressive hire-car which took us to Naples. His greeting seemed warm and genuine. Hardship and danger form a peculiar bond, not broken by time or distance. He was more smartly dressed than when I had first seen him in the hut on the mountain, but his nationality was still well concealed. His skin seemed more sallow, his eyes deeper set with more wrinkles. He looked older. Twenty-two years older. A vodka bottle and glasses appeared from the sumptuous little liquor compartment in the back seat of the limousine. We drank to old times, to the girl. I couldn't say her name. In hours I would hold her again. Hold her and hear again her soft European voice struggling with my native tongue. Charlie gripped my arm as my tears and the vodka mixed a potent brew of sadness and joy and hope for the future. We drank in silence and boarded the Piaggio at Naples for the short hop to Baden. At Baden we taxied to a remote corner of the airfield. Charlie had somehow gained us privileged treatment. As I climbed down from the plane, a car pulled up in front of me. The lump in my throat threatened to be terminal. She stepped out of the car and came to my arms in one flowing motion. I dropped my suitcases. We held each other close and as the whine of the Piaggio's props died away she lifted her face to me and spoke, her voice quiet and trembling, "My Tony, it is so good that you have come to me again." My tears started and as I looked into her eyes she too was crying. Freya was finally crying in my arms, after twenty-two years. ......................................................... I woke with a start as the fire collapsed into itself with a crash and a shower of sparks. The images were clear in my mind, asleep or awake. The fire was reduced to a pile of hot ashes in the grate and the room dim in the fading dusk, when I reached out for the small black book on the coffee table. I thumbed listlessly, back and forth through the pages of names and phone numbers. Listed under "F" was the single name "Freya" followed by the name and address of a bookshop. There was no telephone number. I flicked forward a few pages. One of the entries under "J" was "Jemma", simply "Jemma", no surname. There was no address, just a list of phone numbers. She was unattached, perhaps too dedicated to her job, and we had known each other for twenty- five years. I needed company, a meal, I dialled the first number in the list..... ................................... Epilogue: Freya died in a car accident in 1993 the day after she wrote that one last letter to Tony from the office near her flat in a town in Europe. Tony still wonders if they made the right choice in 1974. THE END: ------------------------------------------------