My most memorable ending of a book is from The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje:
While recuperating in Italy, on the aftermath of World War II, a couple meet and fall in love. The man returns to his native India, the woman to Canada.
At the end of the book, Kirpal is cycling home to his wife, son and daughter. Inexplicably, he remembers his parting days in Italy.. and Hana. He wonders how she is.
Sitting at dinner, he watches his daughter struggling with her cutlery, trying to hold the large weapons in her small hands.
Meanwhile, Hana is at a party. She too falls into remembering the man who read her poems in Italy. She wonders how he is.
Her shoulder touches the edge of a cupboard and a glass dislodges.
Kirpal’s left hand swoops down and catches the dropped fork an inch from the floor and gently passes it into the fingers of his daughter, a wrinkle at the edge of his eyes behind his spectacles.
A few days ago, I received an email from Anne in England. She was part of my English foster family, whom I had left forty years ago to emigrate to Canada.
“Emil, it was brilliant to find you again. We think of you always.”
“I’ve thought of you too, constantly.”
At that moment I couldn’t help but wonder if, at any time, she too had dislodged a glass at the same instant I retrieved a fork dropped by my child at dinner.
