Section Four

Notebook

She opens the door a chink.
Peers out.
No chain on the door, no eyepiece.
Yet not prepared to open it wide.
Big Sis. Quite grey. Shouldn't be that surprised, I suppose. A squint through the rhinestones.
"Hi. I'm Janey. You must be Samantha."
And all of a sudden, a disengaging smile. Relaxed. All hospitality. "Hello. Glad you could make it. You're early."
"Yes, well those who travel by the bus arrive early by the bus or arrive late by the bus. I chose early. I hope it's not inconvenient."
"Not at all. Not at all. Please come in."
She stands to one side. Gestures me in. The hall is dark and maroon and somehow spicy, redolent of the image of a gypsy caravan.
"In here."
I'm ushered in to the left.
A conventional room. A conventional tweed-look sofa. A conventional glass coffee table; on it, a neat pile of manuscripts. Some comfortable chairs. All neat and tidy.
A partition to another space.
A word processor. An office chair. Paper all over the place.
"Jesus, is that all his stuff?" She winces slightly. I make a vow to moderate my language.
"Oh no, I do all sorts of things in my spare time. It helps me to make ends meet. No, all his stuff is here." A gesture to the table. "That's everything I've received and it's all been processed."
But now I notice something new. On the other side of the neat folder, hidden when I came in, is a bundle of scruffy, curling bits of paper and a small pile of cassettes.
"Those are the originals. Apart from that sealed envelope, I've transcribed them all, though I can't say it was pleasant experience."
"Why not?"
"Well, the language. He seems to have such a - a worried tone throughout, and he was such a happy-go-lucky boy. And the things he describes - he must be in trouble. There's also that sealed envelope - I'm not allowed to look at it, but it seems you are, if you want to."
"Oh. Right."
"So, feel free."
"Are you jealous?"
"No, I don't think so. Well, perhaps a little. But that's not important. What concerns me is what's in it. Does it reveal anything? Is he in worse trouble? I don't know. But one keeps on hoping. I used to write to that address there" - she gestures to a scrap of paper - "but there was never any reply from him or anyone else. He just keeps sending me things out of the blue. And he never leaves another address, so I can't contact him and I don't think he stays in one place for more than a few days. And not only that, but the latest thing - that tape - arrived from an unknown source in Naples. It's addressed to you. I haven't opened it, of course. I don't know how they got your name, let alone my address. I'm a little bit scared about that, I suppose. In fact, quite frankly, Janey, I'm really worried about him."
She used my name! Her eyes are misty behind the thick-rimmed glasses. I try to reassure. "Yes, but if he's writing regularly, he must be in a pretty OK sort of condition. He must be getting insulin and he must be getting food. Otherwise..." I let it trail off.
"Yes." She stares at me rather oddly. "Sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. Can I take your coat, get you a cup of coffee?"

She looked up. The Italian woman was still asleep. She gazed out of the window. Cloud. The smell of food lingered. Mashed potato and grape and gravy and after-dinner mint and coffee. She turned back to her notebook. She brings me coffee. I place it on the glass. She lays her own cup beside it and brings a plate of biscuits. I refuse one, then feel churlish. She tucks into a chocolate digestive. Plain. Plain chocolate, that is.
I ask her, "Do you know why he's doing this?"
"No. Do you know why you're doing this?"
"Well, you summoned me really, didn't you? So that's why I'm here. But I suppose I didn't take a lot of persuading. So. I guess I want to tie up some loose ends. Find an explanation. Work things out. See how the little shit's doing. Sorry. I should watch my tongue."
"That's all right. I may not approve of the language, but I do approve of the sentiments. Do you want to look at the manuscripts now or wait until you take them home?"
"No let's have a quick butcher's."
We look at the three neat piles on the coffee table. They daunt me suddenly. "So, you want me to proof-read these."
"No, not proof-read - they're all proof-read - no, I think you're expected to sort of test-drive them."
"Sort of proof-live them."
"Yes, if you like. If you want to. Since you're going there, I believe."
"Yeah, tomorrow."
"Well, see if they fit the bill. Though, if you don't mind my saying so, there seem to be a lot of places where a young woman shouldn't go on her own."
"Yes, well, no doubt I'll find that out when I get there. If he's right."
"As you wish."
"Sorry, I didn't mean to insult you. Or to ignore your advice. It's just that I've got to..."
"Do your own thing?"
"If you like. But no, it's more than that - it's - it's sort of education still, I guess - you know, find out for yourself what things are really like. So, what have we here, anyway? What are the tapes?"
"Everything you see here is everything he's sent. It isn't differentiated but there are passages which are a sort of guide book and passages which are kind of despatches but it's all one big journal, really. And sometimes they're written down and sometimes they're recorded on tapes."
"Right."
"So, anyway, I've taken copies of the tapes, and everything's typed-up."
"You're very dedicated."
"That's one way of saying it. The other thing is the originals. You can look at them if you like - take them away for a while - see if anything catches your eye, but I'd like them back, please, so I'd be grateful if you wouldn't take them to Naples."
"Yes. Sure."
We shuffle. Eyes on the floor. I look up. "You don't like me very much, do you?"
"I'm sure I have no opinion of you. We've only just met. I'm only doing..."
"Your job? Your duty?"
"What I was requested to do. I may not understand what John's doing, but at least I can respect it. And he asked for my assistance in this. So I did it."
"Do you always do what he says?"
"Do you always ask so many questions that border on the impertinent?"
"Touché. I'm sorry. I was only taking an interest. I suppose I'm interested in you as a person: what your motivation is. And of course I'm interested in him, so I'm interested in your relationship with him."
"Are you sure it's an Italian degree you're doing and not Psychology?"
"Who's asking the questions now?" She smiles. "No, it's Italian I'm doing, all right, although there is a Psychology module. So, perhaps you're the victim of that." She smiles; grins, even. I hear the sound of ice breaking. I reach out across the void. "Him and me, we've been through a lot: I mean - we went through a lot. It seems like a long time ago and only yesterday rolled into one. And he seems like just down the road and the other side of the world rolled into one as well."
A pause. The startling blue of her eyes - blue eyes? - some parental recessive genes lying around somewhere - flash in their tortoiseshell frames. Expectantly. Stops me for a second. I continue. "I don't know why I'm saying all this. I don't know what I am saying even. And while it's a sort of exciting challenge, I'm not sure I want the responsibility of all this either. At first, I could have killed Sue for telling you I was going to Naples, but now I'm not so sure."
"Who's Sue?"
"My flatmate."
"She didn't tell me."
"No? Well, who did then?"
"Well, John did. Hang on a minute. Listen." She picks a cassette up from the table, puts in in the player. Fiddles with it. A too-familiar voice leaks out.


She took a cassette-case out of her rucksack. Flicked the serrated top with her thumbnail. Out of the corner of her eye, she became aware that the Signora had woken up and was looking at her. The woman coughed. Gently. Slightly louder than imperceptibly. Janey turned to face her. "Oh, hello. Do you feel better for your sleep?"
"Yes, thank you."
A pause. A silence. Slightly more awkward than awkward.
Janey put the cassette into her pocket. Looked at the woman again. "Sorry. Were you about to say something?"
"No, my dear. I was just a little intrigued. I'm sorry. I am being nosy again."
"No, no, it's alright. Fire away."
"It's just that... I couldn't help noticing... You seem to have lots of pieces of paper to read."
"Yes, just a bit of background. Just fitting pieces of the jigsaw into place."
"And just what jigsaw is that, my dear?"
"Well..."
"Tell me." She leaned over, quite insistently this time. "Are you really sure where your friend is?"
-What is this? -Are you really that concerned? -Strikes me you're either a really pleasant, thoughtful woman or you're more than just a mite sinister. "Oh yes, I know where he is, alright."
-LIAR! -LIAR!
-Shut up, Mother. -Mind your own business. -And you needn't get so jealous, either. -I'm certainly not looking for a mother substitute.
The woman continued. "So you think that he is alright?"
"Oh yes, he'll be OK - no leg he couldn't land on. Like a cat." -Are cats ever diabetic? "He knows all sorts of things to do - he's well-trained in social work - lots of practical experience as well - and he's really good at picking up languages. He knows how to get by. He's had to, poor sod..." Her voice trailed off. "Sorry." -What for? "Will you excuse me? I need to go to the toilet. There's no queue now."
"Of course."
She patted her pocket to make sure the tape was there, and wrapped the headphones around her neck. She eased past Signora Scandone, then past the empty seat to the aisle.
AISLE AISLE AISLE AISLE
-Aisle be hearing you in all the most unexpected places. -Well, not in here, I trust. -I think an appearance in an airline toilet would be a divine visitation of almost Marian magnitude.
-HAVE A CARE, MY GIRL!
-Sorry, Mother. -Listen, perhaps I should stop saying that all the time. -Just take it as read.
Into the cabin, lock the door and switch on the light, into the cabin, into the warm perfumed womb of things.
She looked at the notice.
-Don't smoke don't flush things like that down the bog towels are there facilities a'plenty...
She eased down her jeans and knickers, removed the Bach cassette, took the other one from her pocket, inserted it in the machine and pressed start.

next...

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home