Section Thirteen
Notebook
First day of term and I'm feeling pretty done.
First day of term and I'm lost in a mass of strangers, lots of them first-timers like me.
But lots of them seem to know each other - a network of old boys, chattering at ease, the minutiae established, the initial barriers broken-down.
Do they hunt in packs, I wonder.
Do they bare their yellow teeth at six o'clock and tyre the rain-smoothed roads to this disused school as regular as the night comes?
Why am I here?
Why am I sitting in a too-cold or too-hot room in a discarded classroom over old formica tables or worn desks with a bunch of dilettante pensioners or juvenile no-hopers?
Except him. He is interesting. Don't know why. Different. What's he doing here? What's his motivation? I know them. I've seen them before. I know what they're about. But what's he about? He's the wrong age. In-between. Even more in-between than me.
Pads of paper are shone by nervous forearms. Glossy textbook covers glint beneath the fluorescent lighting. We all await teacher. The knee-jerk conversation subsides. She took a sip of wine. People glance around - some worried, some cheeky, some oddly complacent - do they know they're in control? Are they too good for this piddling little course? Are they too good for me? Have I done enough to earn my spurs as an "Improver?"
Expectancy turns at the edges into frustration: glances at watches, nervous coughs, aimless turning of pages.
The door-handle moves downwards. Through the window of the door, I see a three-quarters view of a figure, hand on the handle the other side, looking away, chatting with some college luminary in the corridor.
A cheery interlude, however. The matter resolved with good humour, he applies his weight to the door and enters our domain.
"Buonasera a tutti." (Confident enough. Cocky, even. Yet pleasant with it. I glance at him-across-the way. He appears neither impressed nor unimpressed. Mr. Neutral. An inscrutable face to the world.
Quite a few "Buonasera"s are floated back by way of response. Some mumble. Some project.
Others, fazed by the protocol and their ignorance of it, remain mute. Including me. And him. Him-across-the way. He wears a baggy pullover and appears to have faint wisps of hair top-lip hair yet an almost bald chin. Is he trying to grow a moustache? Can he just not be bothered to shave yet not be capable of growing beard-hair? There's a recession on, and his hair-line reflects it, just as surely as his forehead reflects the light from the noisy fluorescent tubes.
There are whispers of "late again", "thought he wasn't coming". She looked up.
The waiter was there. "Scusa." The food had arrived.
-OK. -First authentic Neapolitan pizza. She anchored the crust with her fork, then picked up the knife and scribed a spoke through it from hub to rim. -Mm. -Not bad. She started to eat, with the folder propped up before her.
A huge figure sauntered up to the wagon. He wore a long spangly cloak, and had long grey hair tied up in a scarf beneath a big black hat to reveal silver misshapen earrings dangling from each ear. They looked like crows. Across his shoulder was slung a pole and on the pole, a chained jackdaw stared out sideways from beneath a grey-feathered bonnet.
Feeling like the worst sort of cliché, she paused, frozen, the fork and morsel of speared pizza inches from her mouth.
He stared down into the eyes of the tripe-seller, whilst the bird tiptoed and tilted on its perch. He tapped his chin with the middle finger of his left hand, while his right hand manipulated the perch to keep it slightly moving and the bird slightly restive. The tripe-seller curled his bottom lip and looked down, silently. The man turned to stare at her. The eyes seemed to sear her retinas.
She put the food in her mouth and lowered her eyes to the page. Reader, I went out with him. We had a very pleasant time.
It started like this.
All the others disappeared like lemmings at the end of the evening. Just flung themselves into their cars and melted into the night, whether to the pub - from which we were perhaps excluded until we'd served out time or passed the initiation test - or into the arms of their loved ones I don't know. Whatever the reason, we were left alone.
We went to the pub. He had a battered MG. So I wasn't driving and he wasn't drinking. A pattern established. We seemed to get on really well. No problems with talking.
Not then.
He'd been to Italy a bit - travelled quite widely in Sicily - done some TEFL - uninformed readers please note that this is Teaching English as a Foreign Language, not anything to do with non-stick saucepans, as I quickly discovered - they get very fed-up very quickly about that sort of thing - so he knew a bit of Italian, but not that much. So we spent the time talking about this and that, bitching about the old-stagers, talking of past travels and future plans and aspirations. He had an air of well-travelled, well-worn worldliness. I had a few lagers.
I enjoyed it.
As I said, a very pleasant time.
It ended like this.
We surged up to the house sounding like a vacuum cleaner on wheels. As far as I'm aware, nothing actually fell off at this stage. The following duologue ensued: She paused, and poured red wine from the half-carafe into her glass. She glanced at the waiter, who stood in the doorway, cigarette in his mouth, arms folded, one foot crooked against the wall, staring at the scene with a smile as impenetrable as his accent. She surreptitiously followed his gaze towards the wagon. The human two-thirds of the assembly were engaged in their own duologue. Animated but sotto voce. Very sotto voce. They paid her no attention. The tall man was bowed down to meet the tripe-seller's head. The bird's pole was almost vertical, leaving it calmly clinging and desperately clawing to stay in position.
It swung in the air as the man checked out the Piazza, looking away from her at first. She got her head down before he could swing back in her direction.
duologue dduollog duol duol duologueduologue dlg duologue
The words evaporated before her, then condensed. "Just pull in here. God, this thing certainly rattles when it stops. Well, thanks a lot."
"The light's on."
"Yeah. Mother's still up, I have no doubt."
"You still live with your mother?"
"Yes, no need to sound surprised. Why not? You disappointed? Think I was going to pull you in the front door and have my wicked way with you in the depths of the living-room Axminster?"
He stares at me levelly. "No. But a cup of coffee might have been nice."
"Yeah, well. I don't think so. Sorry. It's a bit difficult. I'll explain some other time."
"That's OK."
We stare at each other. Eyes dance a four-square. Lip muscles quiver. Do I kiss him? He is obviously thinking the same thing. We continue to outstare each other. Eventually, I hold up my hand. A static wave. "Well, 'bye then."
A rueful smile. "Yeah. Bye then."
I get out of the car. Close the door gently. It doesn't close. I slam it. Too loudly. He waves, hunched to look out the window, then starts the engine, puts the car in gear, and roars off. Rather too quickly, I feel. Rather too loudly, I know.
I turn around. The curtains quiver slightly. I make my way to the front door.
She doesn't come to the door. I get my key out and open it. I move into the lounge. She will be there.next...
First day of term and I'm feeling pretty done.
First day of term and I'm lost in a mass of strangers, lots of them first-timers like me.
But lots of them seem to know each other - a network of old boys, chattering at ease, the minutiae established, the initial barriers broken-down.
Do they hunt in packs, I wonder.
Do they bare their yellow teeth at six o'clock and tyre the rain-smoothed roads to this disused school as regular as the night comes?
Why am I here?
Why am I sitting in a too-cold or too-hot room in a discarded classroom over old formica tables or worn desks with a bunch of dilettante pensioners or juvenile no-hopers?
Except him. He is interesting. Don't know why. Different. What's he doing here? What's his motivation? I know them. I've seen them before. I know what they're about. But what's he about? He's the wrong age. In-between. Even more in-between than me.
Pads of paper are shone by nervous forearms. Glossy textbook covers glint beneath the fluorescent lighting. We all await teacher. The knee-jerk conversation subsides. She took a sip of wine. People glance around - some worried, some cheeky, some oddly complacent - do they know they're in control? Are they too good for this piddling little course? Are they too good for me? Have I done enough to earn my spurs as an "Improver?"
Expectancy turns at the edges into frustration: glances at watches, nervous coughs, aimless turning of pages.
The door-handle moves downwards. Through the window of the door, I see a three-quarters view of a figure, hand on the handle the other side, looking away, chatting with some college luminary in the corridor.
A cheery interlude, however. The matter resolved with good humour, he applies his weight to the door and enters our domain.
"Buonasera a tutti." (Confident enough. Cocky, even. Yet pleasant with it. I glance at him-across-the way. He appears neither impressed nor unimpressed. Mr. Neutral. An inscrutable face to the world.
Quite a few "Buonasera"s are floated back by way of response. Some mumble. Some project.
Others, fazed by the protocol and their ignorance of it, remain mute. Including me. And him. Him-across-the way. He wears a baggy pullover and appears to have faint wisps of hair top-lip hair yet an almost bald chin. Is he trying to grow a moustache? Can he just not be bothered to shave yet not be capable of growing beard-hair? There's a recession on, and his hair-line reflects it, just as surely as his forehead reflects the light from the noisy fluorescent tubes.
There are whispers of "late again", "thought he wasn't coming". She looked up.
The waiter was there. "Scusa." The food had arrived.
-OK. -First authentic Neapolitan pizza. She anchored the crust with her fork, then picked up the knife and scribed a spoke through it from hub to rim. -Mm. -Not bad. She started to eat, with the folder propped up before her.
A huge figure sauntered up to the wagon. He wore a long spangly cloak, and had long grey hair tied up in a scarf beneath a big black hat to reveal silver misshapen earrings dangling from each ear. They looked like crows. Across his shoulder was slung a pole and on the pole, a chained jackdaw stared out sideways from beneath a grey-feathered bonnet.
Feeling like the worst sort of cliché, she paused, frozen, the fork and morsel of speared pizza inches from her mouth.
He stared down into the eyes of the tripe-seller, whilst the bird tiptoed and tilted on its perch. He tapped his chin with the middle finger of his left hand, while his right hand manipulated the perch to keep it slightly moving and the bird slightly restive. The tripe-seller curled his bottom lip and looked down, silently. The man turned to stare at her. The eyes seemed to sear her retinas.
She put the food in her mouth and lowered her eyes to the page. Reader, I went out with him. We had a very pleasant time.
It started like this.
All the others disappeared like lemmings at the end of the evening. Just flung themselves into their cars and melted into the night, whether to the pub - from which we were perhaps excluded until we'd served out time or passed the initiation test - or into the arms of their loved ones I don't know. Whatever the reason, we were left alone.
We went to the pub. He had a battered MG. So I wasn't driving and he wasn't drinking. A pattern established. We seemed to get on really well. No problems with talking.
Not then.
He'd been to Italy a bit - travelled quite widely in Sicily - done some TEFL - uninformed readers please note that this is Teaching English as a Foreign Language, not anything to do with non-stick saucepans, as I quickly discovered - they get very fed-up very quickly about that sort of thing - so he knew a bit of Italian, but not that much. So we spent the time talking about this and that, bitching about the old-stagers, talking of past travels and future plans and aspirations. He had an air of well-travelled, well-worn worldliness. I had a few lagers.
I enjoyed it.
As I said, a very pleasant time.
It ended like this.
We surged up to the house sounding like a vacuum cleaner on wheels. As far as I'm aware, nothing actually fell off at this stage. The following duologue ensued: She paused, and poured red wine from the half-carafe into her glass. She glanced at the waiter, who stood in the doorway, cigarette in his mouth, arms folded, one foot crooked against the wall, staring at the scene with a smile as impenetrable as his accent. She surreptitiously followed his gaze towards the wagon. The human two-thirds of the assembly were engaged in their own duologue. Animated but sotto voce. Very sotto voce. They paid her no attention. The tall man was bowed down to meet the tripe-seller's head. The bird's pole was almost vertical, leaving it calmly clinging and desperately clawing to stay in position.
It swung in the air as the man checked out the Piazza, looking away from her at first. She got her head down before he could swing back in her direction.
duologue dduollog duol duol duologueduologue dlg duologue
The words evaporated before her, then condensed. "Just pull in here. God, this thing certainly rattles when it stops. Well, thanks a lot."
"The light's on."
"Yeah. Mother's still up, I have no doubt."
"You still live with your mother?"
"Yes, no need to sound surprised. Why not? You disappointed? Think I was going to pull you in the front door and have my wicked way with you in the depths of the living-room Axminster?"
He stares at me levelly. "No. But a cup of coffee might have been nice."
"Yeah, well. I don't think so. Sorry. It's a bit difficult. I'll explain some other time."
"That's OK."
We stare at each other. Eyes dance a four-square. Lip muscles quiver. Do I kiss him? He is obviously thinking the same thing. We continue to outstare each other. Eventually, I hold up my hand. A static wave. "Well, 'bye then."
A rueful smile. "Yeah. Bye then."
I get out of the car. Close the door gently. It doesn't close. I slam it. Too loudly. He waves, hunched to look out the window, then starts the engine, puts the car in gear, and roars off. Rather too quickly, I feel. Rather too loudly, I know.
I turn around. The curtains quiver slightly. I make my way to the front door.
She doesn't come to the door. I get my key out and open it. I move into the lounge. She will be there.next...
© 2006 by Adrian Benson
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home