It was in one of those godawful airport lounges where he was trying to kill the time till he could board his connecting flight. Way too awake to sleep, but too tired to actually read the magazines he was leafing through.
The first thing he saw was the photo. A dark silhouette against the sun. Unmistakable posture. He didn't have to read the headlines to know who it was. There were other pictures, too. All shot in Morocco. Viggo sprawled on the sand, Viggo walking up a sand dune, Viggo watching the sand seep through his fingers.
He'd been to Morocco himself. Knew how the sand felt under your feet or how the desert sun burnt on your face. Tracing the face on the photo, he realized he no longer knew how that face had felt under his hands. Sure, there had been cheekbones, rough stubble, that dimple on Viggo's chin. Remembering all these features was like trying to reconstruct sentences in some long forgotten language. It was the same with the colour of Viggo's eyes. Was it aquamarine? Or rather grey? With a tinge of jade perhaps? On none of the pictures Viggo's eyes could be seen clearly.
The picture with the sun coming up from behind seemed to sum it all up. Viggo had become a shadow against the light. The memory of an image made translucent, ready to dissolve before his eyes any minute.
And to his great surprise Orlando felt nothing when thinking about all this. Or almost nothing. Just a faint echo of pain, more imaginary than real, like when you touch a scar that has meanwhile become a thin white line on your skin.
