A letter from Louis arrived this afternoon, posted from somewhere down on the south coast. It looks as if it were written in a single sitting, or maybe that's just because it unfolds in one unbroken block of words.
JR, it reads, Currently at camp and surrounded by trees that tickle the sky in a soft flowing breeze. The old blacks would have stayed here for some time I'm sure. The beach is but a spear throw away. And the sound of the surf at night soothes my synapses (somewhat). And shell middens I now see both here and in my dreams, some with a French voiceover. I was going to stay for a single night but that single night has now become seven or eight. And there's something I've been meaning to say since coming here and seeing you again.
And that something was that he had been here before, to this far part of the world, with his wife, Susie, two years ago. He came before her, but he didn't say how long before. Then she called and said she would be his surprise for Christmas. But no sooner had she arrived (Wednesday) than she was eager to get going again. Not because of where he was living, but rather due to a fellow passenger she met on the flight over, who told her of some festival coming up at a place called Peats Ridge, and whose brother was one of the organizers, and so some tickets could be arranged, if Susie liked, and Susie liked, and so some tickets were arranged. Just like home, she said, on seeing the back room of the cottage strewn with sheets of paper. She wanted to know how everything was coming along. It was coming along. Then maybe a bit of distance might do you some good now, she said. To rest. Replenish. Get a different perspective. A long drive was suggested. And then the next thing he knew (Thursday) she had a car and a trailer full of camping equipment, and a beeping flashing red light wouldn't quit until he'd clicked on the seatbelt, and the remainder of the letter he had recently been translating was folded at his feet inside a satchel, along with a change of clothes and a toothbrush. They drove some distance, in a labyrinthine manner, and then spent the night in a hotel. Come the morning (Friday), after some cold water face splashing, Louis looked into the mirror and failed to recognize the reflection staring back at him. It must be a head cold of sorts, Susie said. Maybe some bug that held on for dear life while she was clearing customs. She recommended some pills highly recommended to her by a man who insisted he knew what he was talking about, spewing forth a list of pharmaceuticals as if they were the names of Greek gods. As for the hotel, the bed was fine and strong, the breakfast lame. He went over and stood in a doorway and sipped a coffee while doing his utmost to keep still the tree lined horizon, waving as if it were a windblown sea. Passing voices suddenly started to sound like the white water of a gushing river slamming against some jutting jagged rocks. Leaning against a wall, he closed his eyes. Running water lingered behind his eyelids, swirling there amongst what seemed to be the rounded stones of a soft river bed, until he could start to make out the eel-like outline of a face, and then another, and another again. Flickering features interchanging as if he were looking at a police identikit, unable to settle on any single identity.
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