The fact that I
am writing to you
in English
already falsifies what I
wanted to tell you.
My subject:
how to explain to you that I
don't belong to English
though I belong nowhere else

Gustavo Perez Firmat

News flash

It was 12.14am, on 20 February 2009 and like the other 12.14am in February 2009, B. was in the office, on the twenty second storey of a thirty storey tall building in the middle of the city; his brows knitted with a slight but perceptible clench, staring at alphabets on the computer screen, and crafting a precise sentence. Short words rather than long, expository rather than descriptive but never sensational. And always objective.

Then B. disappeared.

The news of B's disapperance bothered many of the readers of the daily paper on Friday, and for months after, it was the talk of town. After all, the headline in the papers on 20th February 2009 read:

"Newspaper writer decides newspaper writing not for him"

The photograph of B., properly supplied under the headlines, showed a man of about fifty, reservedly suited with a blue shirt, and gray tie; but his thin bony features and unblemished skin under the complimentary glare of the flash made him look youthful - the sort of picture taken for one's resume. The caption, properly supplied under the photograph, one of the most succient captions ever written by B.,  was, off to better days.

J..

As the rain continued to pour outside, B. noticed that there was just a day before T. would return, and so he sat down beside the young woman with the short hair, and asked her, almost absent mindedly, whether she thought the beach house was fantastic. J was looking at the rain and whispered, it is, is it not. He watched her eyes glanced in his direction, and without a word, they darted back. And then she said, “But I do wish the rain will stop.”

The next morning, B. woke up early and quickly became absorbed in writing his next novel.  As B. was writing, he heard a burst of stifled giggling. It was J. . T must have came back last night, he thought. He could so easily imagine them now, nestling together, half dressed still, whispering sweet nothings, and kissing, in that tiny bedroom, on those white sheets, thrust against the mattress, on that creaking wood-work. He tried to continue writing, but that image, and the emotions aroused in him, which he could not properly describe - was it guilt or was it envy, distracted him; and so he picked up his cup of coffee, drank the remainder of it, and closed his eyes for a while, trying to regain concentration.

But it was not before long he heard J. and T. climbing  down the stairs, and they appeared, , he thought, perfectly, by his door. Both looked fresh with wet hair and scrubbed faces.  

“Hello, Mr B, how is the writing going? Shall we go for breakfast now?” T said.

“Yes, I look forward to hearing all about your trip. New York, was it?” 

“It is all business really. I had no choice, I had to be there, bloody hell. Away from my love ones, you know.” T said, with a twinkle in his eye, as he gave J. a slight peck on her cheeks.

Life is Elsewhere

Jane loved walking home. She loved how the tall trees that lined the path gave her a sense of security and belonging. Each step seemed to bring her closer. A gentle breeze would be blowing, and the sweet scent of freshly opened flowers would fill the air and bring a smile to her face. There were the stormy days of course when she would be soaked to the skin, but Jane never remembered them.

As she walked, she daydreamed about how wonderful life was. How gently the wind rustles the trees and grass. How quietly and lightly I’m breathing – oops! Did I just disturb a frog in its sleep?

Day by day she made up these little stories. Sometimes they were elaborate and included people. And the trees would sway and whisper all around her, seeming to share her joy and excitement.

Then one day on her way home, Jane realised that the path was blocked. “Upgrading Works” the sign said in red. As much as Jane tiptoed and strained, she could not see over the white aluminum sheets.

She didn’t think much of it, and took the other route that led through some buildings.

Half a year later, a multi-storey carpark was built where the trees once stood. Jane stood there looking at the building and wondered why anyone would consider it beautiful. But her parents and all the other adults seemed to love it, so she did not think much of it.

One day, Jane decided to explore the new shop houses that lined the new multi-storey carpark. Wow, there was a bookshop, a hair salon and even a coffee shop. But wait, what was that.

Before her was an old tree she once knew, cordoned off in concrete. Its boughs were cut to fit as the centerpiece of the building. Its roots were trapped beneath the metal grating in an artificial pothole of soil to keep it living.

Jane stood stock still, shocked to the soles of her feet. Then, the tears started running. One by one as they fell, she remembered her old friends. She remembered the quiet moments, the peace and the calm, the sweetness of security and belonging. She remembered wonderment, and the simplicity of life.

~

Jane loved walking home. She loved how the sheltered walkway never let her get wet. Each step brought her closer home. Sometimes there would be a breeze, and oil from the coffee shop would waft along the walkway. Jane felt like she could possibly love anything.

Afterall, life was elsewhere.

J.

By the tall tree, outside the house, opposite the swing gently swaying in the wind, J. sat on a patch of soil, wrapped in a thin nylon blanket. She had been sitting there, awake all night and she was now, with a wooden stick, drawing vacant smiles in the soil. The same soil he had chased her, around the tree, when they first brought the piece of land – when only the tree stood there. She always thought herself a plain looking girl, her freckles and pink cheeks pale into a sickly light complexion. She had always been unexceptional – her school tests were pedestrian, her marriage practicable, and her career, lusterless. She had one daughter, her name was K., but K. had left for her studies abroad.

J. stood up slowly, gazing across, outside her gates now. She knew that down the road, there was a playground, and that because it was early still, it was still and silent, except that the wind will be gently rustling the dead leaves. She felt she could hear it. She closed her eyes. It must be so beautiful. They were there some evenings, when K were still young, both furtively afraid for K., but restrainted themselves nonetheless. It was the same road that led to town, via an expressway, and she could imagine taking a journey there now. To town, where by the time she reached, the stores would be opened and she could order a strong cup of coffee like he always did and perhaps live again.

Yet, there were things to be done. Flowers to be re-arranged, and windows to be wiped. She walked steadily, with a sense of purpose now. A list of things to be done was now forming in her head. A list, which she used to recite to him – half knowing that repetition will irritate him – which she enjoyed doing, because of the expression of mock exasperation. That was when she knew he truly loved her. He used to joke about it, do you think about the list during sex, you obsessed housewife, he once asked. No, she did not. 

It doesn't matter where she goes; the important thing is that she gets to go away. At the break of day, she is already at the train station, blowing gently into her two palms from time to time to pass some of the warmth from her breath onto her stiff hands. Despite the leather gloves, they are cold and undesirable. She wishes that she has someone else's hands to hold, just for a while.

While waiting for her train, she starts to read. Franz Kafka's The Complete Short Stories. One of the short stories, a very short short story which occupies a total of six lines on page 404 of the book. How cool is that? The title of the story is "The Next Village." I might as well copy it into my journal, so that I may comment on it later, as and when I wish. And so she did.

My grandfather used to say: “Life is astoundingly short To me, Looking back over it, life seems so foreshortened that I scarcely understand, for instance, how a young man can decide to ride over to the next village without being afraid that - not to mention accidents - even the span of a normal happy life may fall far short of the time needed for such a journey.”

I wonder why Kafka likes to leave out his fullstops; the whole book is full of them! She thinks to herself as she closes her journal. Is it some kind of bad habit or is he trying to make a point? She presses on with her train of thought, but fails to find any answer.

Life is astoundingly short - how true. She grabs hold of her luggage as the train pulls into the station, and wheezes to a stop. Gathering her skirts about her, she climbs up the steps and walks into her cabin. A small table in the centre, two benches flanking the left and right, otherwise the room looks small and a little sad. And how cold she still feels! She wonders if it will get better as her journey starts. Maybe someone will come around to sell her blankets. That will make her happy - to buy a pretty little blanket that can keep her warm.

She sits down and immediately falls asleep. In her dream, she goes home and finds that it is much warmer and happier than when she left it.

The Difference between the Dead and the Living

They were mourning his death. A great man, wonderful achiever in his own time. But he was a drinker, someone whispered. A shaking of heads, bearings held high. Eyes glazed over with a constipated look, as if someone just punched them hard in the groin. A tragedy. Another round of sighs. Someone coughed politely. The plastic sheets on the table flapped noisily. Overhead, the incessant whirling of fans and stark, stinging lights blazed, giving the parlour a sterile sheen. Not a speck out of place.

Silence. Then how is the family. How are you. How is my own success coming along, oh I can’t wait tell you about my new-

A plaintive wail surged through the sea of white.

Everyone was relieved by the interruption. One by one they queued up to pay their last respects to the deceased. Gestures were exchanged, tears formed the invisible thread that held the void deck in rapt. They passed his ashen face beneath the glass and sighed, letting their tears run dutifully.

And there he lay, motionless. Relieved of the obligation of putting one foot before the other, looking out for traffic, embracing a woman he no longer felt anything for. Around him, the commotion rose, as the pallbearers took their places. As the coverlet went down, you can almost imagine his half-smile.

Youthful games

There was a group of six, four women and two men, sitting around table 12. They were all about fifty years old. The first impression was that the two men betrayed more age than their female companions. Perhaps it was the artifice which women must so carefully master which concealed the deeper wrinkles and darker bags. Among the women, P. clearly stood out. She was a celebrity trader, and even had her own column in the papers.

But the jokes found their audience easy. The occassional reference to "last time" and "remember" and the quick laughter which followed hinted of a time when this group of 6 must have been closer. Perhaps they were ex-classmates who meet once a year. After all they did not possess that troubled intimacy many experienced with their immediate family, where in that little-to-laugh-about-truthfulness, laughter never felt entirely at home. 

Dinner for that group of six came to the moment when the bill had to be called. This was when an old game was remembered. "Remember how we used to guess who the waiter will give the bill to?" D said. "The oldest" E said immediately, grinning. "The one who called for the bill" said another. C. chortled and said. "Clearly, there are many factors. You know, the way you look, the way you dress, the way you carry yourself, but basically, how likely it is that you will be treating everyone else." There was loud laughter all around. Each of them, tonight, by this very meeting, was in their own way recalling the times when they used to count the years they have lived, and not the years they might have left. And how brillant that was! 

Those days, they all felt uncomfortable pondering who the bill would finally be presented to. If they received the bill, it must mean they looked richer, smarter, sharper, wiser and at least, older. It was, in its own way, a strange recognition of status, and it was in the nature of this game, that they were at once seduced, and at once afraid. C said, "There is no point in this game anymore. They will definitely give it to P." P quickly said, "That's just because you want a treat from me!" They all laughed uproariously, and the laughter echoed down the hollow hallway.

Life sits close
On a
Toilet bowl
Squint, and squeeze
And plomp!
Now move on.