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angry with him, as critical as I might have been, perhaps was, of myself. I accepted the gun, the mask, the fins, each with careful politeness. I suppose I was responsible for the competitive mood that developed. I was the strongest swimmer of the four, but I knew nothing about spearfishing. It is so easy to misjudge distance and size in the reflecting clarity of that water. More or less by accident I caught the first fish. You did not want to be bested, were always willing to test yourself against whatever I had achieved, but you expected to lose, and losing always increased your admiration of your opponent rather than your uncertainty about yourself. Peter, on the other hand, needed to put me in my place, and he could not. When Andrew snagged a small octopus by mistake and brought it to me with mock ceremony, he was content, but Peter went down again and again until his lips were gray. It was time for lunch, but he would not stop.
    “Pete, come on,” Andrew shouted.
    “I’m not hungry,” he answered. “Go on in if you want to.”
    It did not seem sensible to leave him, but after a few minutes we swam back to the boat to wait. Finally Andrew decided we must go into lunch. We had not eaten in five hours, and breakfast had been the usual tea and toast. Andrew shouted again and got no answer; so he pulled on the anchor. It was snagged in coral, thirty feet below. Each of us had a turn, but it would not budge.
    “Pete, could you come give us a hand?” you called, and for you he came.
    After we had all pulled together, the anchor seemed more firmly lodged than ever.
    “We’d better go down the rope,” I said.
    “It’s too deep,” Andrew said.
    “Why don’t I try?” I said.
    “I’ll go down,” Peter said and disappeared before anyone could protest.
    He surfaced once, gasping, and went down again. We could see him, working his way down hand over hand on the rope. It was hard to judge whether he had reached the anchor or simply paused a few feet above it.
    “I think he’s in trouble,” I said.
    Andrew went down ahead of me, but he had not waited for breath and let go at twenty feet, Peter hanging in the water just five feet below him. I kept to the rope and, gripping it with one hand, reached an arm around Peter’s waist. Then you were there, helping, and Andrew again. When we surfaced, Andrew rolled into the boat; and, while we lifted from the water, he pulled. Then Andrew had his mouth against Peter’s, breathing his breath into Peter’s lungs. I cut the anchor rope, and we were moving toward shore.
    Peter began to breathe almost at once and was conscious and able to stand by the time we reached the shore. We took him down to his room, wrapped him in blankets and gave him some brandy. He slept most of the afternoon while we sat, Andrew reading with determination, you sketching, I trying to reason myself out of rage. I did not want to suffer either for or with Peter. I wanted to get out.
    “Cocktail time,” Peter said, standing at the top of the steps looking not much grayer than he always did.
    We all turned to look at the vine that grew up over the wall and onto the roof of the hotel. The first moon flower was open. The second trembled suddenly; then the petals sprang wide and white. As each flower opened, giant hummingbird moths came across the terrace to hover about them. A moment later the owner of the hotel appeared with a tray of cocktails. It was a ritual we were now familiar with. As we sat drinking, the darkness closed in. There was no moon.
    “How can I love you all?” Peter asked with quiet drama. “But I do… even you, Kate.”
    “We’re going to eat the octopus,” you said.
    Andrew and I said nothing. I wondered if he felt as tempted to crude retort as I did, but I did not want to be even that curious.
    I was reluctant the next morning when Andrew suggested that he and I walk into San Telmo for cigarettes. I was tired and wanted to be alone. But, if I had stayed, you would have kept