When he called, I wasn't sure what Louis meant exactly, not until I picked up the package from the post office, his handwriting unmistakable. That was more than a month ago now, maybe more. Likely more.
I haven't left the house much. Only for food and to sell a few things. And I bought a dictionary too, secondhand, from a man fluent in Sanskrit of all things, and apparently Aramaic as well, and Hebrew. We didn't talk long. I had to get back to reading what Louis had sent.
But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Louis called first, a while back. He wanted to let me know he was all right. He was in Victoria, during the raging fires that devastated the region, at a place called Wilsons Promontory, the southernmost point of Australia.
His talk was fast, erratic, disjointed. He mentioned lightning striking twice, homemade picture postcards, Madagascar, the Mark of Cain, and the name Gavrilo Princip on a number of occasions. 'What do you mean you can't place the name? Don't tell me you've forgotten your history lessons already. Here, I'll spell it for you.' At times I wasn't sure if he was laughing or crying. Then the line went dead. A few hours later he called back, sounding considerably calmer. He said he was done with it all. He said that when the fires first made their appearance the first thing that came to mind for him was not his personal safety or the care of others, but a postcard. 'A postcard,' he said, 'can you believe it? A postcard.' Then he said postcard again. Again and again. I imagined him shaking his head in dolorous disbelief.
A postcard. The one he was referring to when he called was circled in red ink and was removed from its numbered place in the manuscript that he posted, and put to the front. Some scribbled lines, also in red ink, were added as well: 'So the flames climbed higher and higher and the eyes of children were beginning to bulge and panic and this is what comes to mind for me, a postcard I translated. Not the horrible heat or the rain of embers or how or if we would all get out of this, no, a postcard. A postcard. It's no wonder Susie left me when she did. I'm staying for the moment in a hostel. I'll call soon. Do with this what you will ... Here, also take copies of the ones I never got to. You might want to finish them yourself. I'm done. But I'll keep the originals of the cards on me, at least for the time being. Now I'm going to drink some wine. Chilled white wine. I want it to flow through my blood like electricity.'
The postcard he refers to reads as follows: Soren - The fires rage atop the plateau, flame in all directions - The surrounding animals attempt to make the best of a bad situation, seeking the only protection they can find, huddled together in the few remaining shallow pools of water, which in days past used to be an uninterrupted stream - Further down, these pools are divided into pods each filled with creatures trying to submerge themselves in this last remaining refuge - Most know they stand at best only a minimal chance of survival, some are now just in it for the game - Then from one of the flames crawls a cat, severely distressed and singed - In a nearby pod a snake makes room for this petrified feline with its forked tongue licking the fur of the puss until it slips off into a deep yet uneasy sleep - And look, there, crouching in the fire, that strange creature unknowingly protected from harm by an even stranger entity whom everyone longs to meet - Beside the snake, the cat - Beside the cat, the zoologist - Beside the zoologist, the first scratches in a new plateau - Mora
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