Section Twenty Three
Notebook
We sit silently, the two of us, motionless on a bench on a platform in a station miles from anywhere. A train arrives but not for us. Wrong direction. We watch it chug and puff into the tunnel. We do not move. We do not speak. The clatter of the train-wheels on the railway-tracks subsides. We do not move. We do not speak. Clouds of diesel exhaust puke backwards like steam, like fumes from ghost-trains back in time, like the blazing of a trail.
I have not slept.
It is bright. Early morning. Cold. The whole day ahead of us. But we are going back. Leaving a broken car and some cold memories.
My bones are still cold, but it will soon be hot. It will soon be a strange country. We have lifetimes ahead of us. And we are going. Too late to stop now.
He is silent. He looks at me, questioningly. He looks around, his sweeping glance revealing the anticipation. I look ahead, stare at the rails: they reverberate, anticipating our imminent train. I remember yesterday only too clearly...
How did we get to this impasse?
The train approached, rattling the rails, sucking in sound around it. She stood up. The doors slid open. She peered in, tentatively, then entered.
She found a seat with no problem. It seemed to stick to her as she sat down. The train was half-empty. People didn't stare, seemed subdued.
She dandled the notebook on her lap, opened the rucksack, picked out the leaflet about the Aquarium. She glanced around, aware that she was marking herself down as English-speaking.
She flicked through the leaflet. It was written in excellent English and was admirably concise.
She read about Anton Dohrn's travels around the waters of Southern Italy.
...letting her eyes sweep... ...tracing the outline...
She read about Alfred Lloyd, the English engineer who had devised the semi-closed circulation system.
...sucked in a haze of bubbles into the dark...
She read about the variety of local specimens on display.
...bulbous-headed, gaped open, pointed teeth exposed...
It stuck to her fingers as she put it away. She imagined an octopus, its tentacles sucking at her hand.
The doors opened. They squeaked, as if some animal had caught its tail and was being dragged along. She checked out the sign. Piazza Amedeo. A small gaggle of excitable children burst in and sat down, swinging feet that could not touch the floor. Nobody got off.
She riffled the pages of her notebook. Quandary. Impasse. -How did we get there? -How did we get here? She picked it up. Prepared to look at the passage again.
-WHY DO YOU BOTHER WRITING ALL THIS DOWN AND RE-READING IT?
-Have you any idea just how spooky this is, having you pop up all the time? -Not knowing if it's you or just a figment of my imagination? -You never used to do this, not when you were first dead. -Why the change?
-WHY DO YOU BOTHER WRITING ALL THIS DOWN AND RE-READING IT?
-You don't give up, do you? -I'm - just - trying to get this straight, trying to document everything - the whole thing - the whole reason I'm here and what brought me here and, I suppose, as well, in some small way, to try and square things with you. -Perhaps I hope - pathetically - that this will be my deliverance. -Perhaps this will finally get you off my back. -Lord knows, there are enough monkeys on my back at the moment.
-WHY DO YOU BOTHER WRITING ALL THIS DOWN AND RE-READING IT?
-Oh, leave it out will you? -What is this, the one-note catechism? -I - I suppose I need to put these episodes down to explain why I'm here and also I suppose that if I was being honest with myself, when I think I'm talking to you, I know I'm really talking to me, and when I think I'm talking to myself, perhaps I'm really talking to you. -I don't know. -And, also, though I say it's my notebook, I suspect it could really be yours. -Perhaps this is my legacy to you.
-SOME LEGACY!
-It's more than you ever left me.
-TIMES WERE HARD!
-Not as hard as you.
-I WAS NEVER HARD!
-Your hand always was.
-SPARE THE ROD...
-You think I haven't been spoilt by you anyway? -I see you've escaped from your tape-loop, at any rate. -But now please go back in your box. -I can't deal with any more of this at the moment.
The train doors opened again. Piazza Montesanto. Nobody moved, on or off. A torpor seemed to prevail. She riffled through the notebook at random, trying to keep her head down. It seemed to fall naturally open at one place.
We sit silently, the two of us, motionless on a bench on a platform in a station miles from anywhere. A train arrives but not for us. Wrong direction. We watch it chug and puff into the tunnel. We do not move. We do not speak. The clatter of the train-wheels on the railway-tracks subsides. We do not move. We do not speak. Clouds of diesel exhaust puke backwards like steam, like fumes from ghost-trains back in time, like the blazing of a trail.
I have not slept.
It is bright. Early morning. Cold. The whole day ahead of us. But we are going back. Leaving a broken car and some cold memories.
My bones are still cold, but it will soon be hot. It will soon be a strange country. We have lifetimes ahead of us. And we are going. Too late to stop now.
He is silent. He looks at me, questioningly. He looks around, his sweeping glance revealing the anticipation. I look ahead, stare at the rails: they reverberate, anticipating our imminent train. I remember yesterday only too clearly...
How did we get to this impasse?
The train approached, rattling the rails, sucking in sound around it. She stood up. The doors slid open. She peered in, tentatively, then entered.
She found a seat with no problem. It seemed to stick to her as she sat down. The train was half-empty. People didn't stare, seemed subdued.
She dandled the notebook on her lap, opened the rucksack, picked out the leaflet about the Aquarium. She glanced around, aware that she was marking herself down as English-speaking.
She flicked through the leaflet. It was written in excellent English and was admirably concise.
She read about Anton Dohrn's travels around the waters of Southern Italy.
...letting her eyes sweep... ...tracing the outline...
She read about Alfred Lloyd, the English engineer who had devised the semi-closed circulation system.
...sucked in a haze of bubbles into the dark...
She read about the variety of local specimens on display.
...bulbous-headed, gaped open, pointed teeth exposed...
It stuck to her fingers as she put it away. She imagined an octopus, its tentacles sucking at her hand.
The doors opened. They squeaked, as if some animal had caught its tail and was being dragged along. She checked out the sign. Piazza Amedeo. A small gaggle of excitable children burst in and sat down, swinging feet that could not touch the floor. Nobody got off.
She riffled the pages of her notebook. Quandary. Impasse. -How did we get there? -How did we get here? She picked it up. Prepared to look at the passage again.
-WHY DO YOU BOTHER WRITING ALL THIS DOWN AND RE-READING IT?
-Have you any idea just how spooky this is, having you pop up all the time? -Not knowing if it's you or just a figment of my imagination? -You never used to do this, not when you were first dead. -Why the change?
-WHY DO YOU BOTHER WRITING ALL THIS DOWN AND RE-READING IT?
-You don't give up, do you? -I'm - just - trying to get this straight, trying to document everything - the whole thing - the whole reason I'm here and what brought me here and, I suppose, as well, in some small way, to try and square things with you. -Perhaps I hope - pathetically - that this will be my deliverance. -Perhaps this will finally get you off my back. -Lord knows, there are enough monkeys on my back at the moment.
-WHY DO YOU BOTHER WRITING ALL THIS DOWN AND RE-READING IT?
-Oh, leave it out will you? -What is this, the one-note catechism? -I - I suppose I need to put these episodes down to explain why I'm here and also I suppose that if I was being honest with myself, when I think I'm talking to you, I know I'm really talking to me, and when I think I'm talking to myself, perhaps I'm really talking to you. -I don't know. -And, also, though I say it's my notebook, I suspect it could really be yours. -Perhaps this is my legacy to you.
-SOME LEGACY!
-It's more than you ever left me.
-TIMES WERE HARD!
-Not as hard as you.
-I WAS NEVER HARD!
-Your hand always was.
-SPARE THE ROD...
-You think I haven't been spoilt by you anyway? -I see you've escaped from your tape-loop, at any rate. -But now please go back in your box. -I can't deal with any more of this at the moment.
The train doors opened again. Piazza Montesanto. Nobody moved, on or off. A torpor seemed to prevail. She riffled through the notebook at random, trying to keep her head down. It seemed to fall naturally open at one place.
© 2006 by Adrian Benson
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