It was Sunday， the street empty， the canal black under a lour-<br >ing sky. My footsteps sounded solitary on the cobbles and the<br >years rolled back to childhood， every detail clear-etched on the<br >retina of memory--the house barges moored by the bridge，<br >the flowers set out in pots on the pavement， the newsvendor<br >on the corner. And then the house itself， shabbier than when<br >I had seen it last. That had been two years ago when my ship<br >had put into Rotterdam and some strange urge--a desire for<br >reconciliation-had brought me here. The front door and all<br >the windows had been freshly painted then， green like the<br >linden trees. It had been summer; now it was March and the<br >trees were bare.<br > My footsteps slowed as I neared the door， a reluctance， a<br >sense of dread almost. Last time I had had a shipboard world<br >behind me， a job and the companionship of men I knew. Now<br >it was different. I could feel myself beginning ~o tremble as I<br >felt once again the pull of the old man s pers~ality.<br ><br ><br >
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