MONKEY'S COUSIN

When I first came to these parts I started counting different things all the while on the drive up, only ceasing upon reaching the sign that stated I was now a thousand steps higher than the sea. Pulling in to fill up the car, I caught sight of the light on my hand still holding the steering wheel, shining on the sunless ring around my finger where an engraved band of silver used to be.

I was so far from home.

We had called the car Gloria on account of the song, filling the background as our bodies were first starting to get to know each other. Now though, no naked legs were catching the last of the summer's light on the front passenger seat. Instead there was a bag of clothes there, a couple of books, and a spare pair of boots in place of her feet.

Sol called ahead to get my foot in the manager's door at the retirement village. The manager, a Mrs Doreen Shearer, hastily explained the relevant duties to be undertaken around the grounds, in between calling out bingo numbers for the gathered residents. For the most part, the duties consisted largely of mowing the lawns and weeding and pruning the various garden beds around the place. 'It's Friday,' she said, after calling out another number, 'so why don't you come back Monday and show me what you can do.' So on Saturday morning I was scanning the library shelves for any volumes on basic gardening techniques, which at the very least added a few extra words to my vocabulary, such as mulch, and secateurs.

OCEANSIPPING

Mr Albuquerque, at one pole, suddenly found himself under siege, soon to be utterly overwhelmed, while at the other end he could still see himself somewhat rested and content, occasionally even still able to witness a little of the wonder in the world.

It was the first day of another month: venerable, imposing, sublime, majestic.

In one swift move he lit the candle by the window, though moments later he couldn't even recall doing so. The scent of a recently extinguished match only went to contradict his memory even further.

Earlier in the evening, he ate his way through half a bowl of stew, which consisted of the remaining ingredients he could find in the kitchen, and potatoes. Then he sank down low in the armchair. The ice was still yet to melt in the glass, while the slice of lemon added significantly to the taste of this particular drink. What’s it called again? It was on the tip of his tongue, but wouldn't come any closer. The bottle, where did the bottle come from? Begin from there. Maybe it was left behind by some kind soul, maybe just the other night, he didn't know. After finishing another glass, he swirled an ice cube around his mouth for a bit, and then poured more from the bottle upon discovering that this coal coloured concoction possessed a sufficient enough number of bubbles to enable him to satisfactorily burp away some of the staleness that had for so long been accumulating inside his stomach, with no thanks at all to a particularly uninviting, flavourless bowl of stew. Correction: half a bowl of stew. The other half would be deposited in the street first thing tomorrow morning, out the window, for any soul, human or otherwise, willing to sample such a messy insipid brew. There would, however, be no bowl present, nor any other kind of container either, just pavement.

A few nights later he went down to the beach. At first he thought he was alone, but then, in the distance, he could make out something going on down at the other end. So he went to have a closer look, and once there watched as a series of boulders, some the size of a small house, fell from the top of the headland and onto the sand, bouncing back and forth a few times, up and down the shoreline, before coming to a standstill. All seemingly harmless at first, until the gigantic ancient balls began to bounce and roll in his direction. So he did all he could to avoid being hit, seeing at that moment no need for any collision. 

Once a boulder had come to a standstill, running out of steam and all ideas on how to connect with his weary flesh, it simply vanished, apparently in acknowledgment of some kind of defeat. And yet, all the same, he couldn't help but feel that maybe the boulders had not vanished at all but were instead scurrying back up along the path to the top of the headland again, in preparation for another attempt, waiting impatiently in the queue behind all the others with the exact same thing in mind. And maybe it was purely down to some kind of habit that he tried his utmost to make sure that no boulder somehow stumbled across his death. And after a while he felt he was getting the hang of it. So much so that eventually he even afforded himself the luxury of watching the approaching boulders with just one eye, simultaneously letting his increasingly attracted attention turn to the gigantic white cloth stretched out along the length of the beach and holding back an increasingly frustrated ocean.

This was now a whole new kettle of fish.

Straps were being securely fastened in place, buckles strategically located, and although threatening bulges were beginning to appear, they also quickly vanished. Yet some did seem to hover ominously for a while, over one horizontal strap in particular, seemingly beyond the laws of gravity, for which it apparently held no respect. And just when it seemed that the cloth could hold nothing back for much longer, showing signs of wear and tear along its ever straining face, with numerous protrusions starting to pop up here and there, then, and only then, would the force relent a little and withdraw into the bosom of its mass, waiting for another attempt to push through and complete the breaking of this increasingly brooding wave.

Down at the foot of this conundrum could be found the inspectors of today’s proceedings, pointing and pontificating, scribbling illegible messages in their little black notebooks, issuing instructions deemed necessary for their small crew to carry out, as soon as possible, if not sooner. Up and down the shore, these hardy automatons loosened and tightened lines and buckles, undid straps and tied new knots, all according to their most recently received command, passed along from man to man, shoulder to shoulder, and always with at least one ear cocked and waiting for the next order to arrive. One of the inspectors took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow, then peered up toward the stars, to where he imagined the peak of the tarpaulin to be found, just in front of the wave’s curling lip, and wondering how much longer he would have to wait before the first splashes of water hit his face, and whether or not the inevitable fall of the wave would bring with it any significant sound, like the tearing of the sky in two.

Great murmurings, hushes, and sporadic applause greeted the girl's head emerging from the depths of the river and soon shooting to the surface, her small rosy mouth opening wide and gulping down numerous buckets of air, before a proud father reached down and lifted her into his arms, whirling her around in an enormous fluffy towel, his joyous laughter mixing with hers, her messy hair pointing to the sky in all directions, her skin tingling, her toes and ears still wiggling, her nose ticklish, but she didn't think she’d have to sneeze. She smiled at the man and kissed him on his cheeks, then closed her eyes again so that she could watch for a little while longer the funny lines and shapes and colours currently having a holiday on the inside of her eyelids.  

All leaving Mr Albuquerque to wonder, on another first day of the month: when the tarpaulin could no longer hold back the ocean,  and when the lip of the wave finally completed what it originally set out to do, whether this would then signal a breakdown, or a breakthrough.

AFTER A NUMBER OF COMPLICATIONS

After a number of complications, says Louis, he was born. But his mother never made it. She pointed at her belly at one stage in a stabbing motion, while he was still inside her, waiting to get out into the sultry air of an Indian summer evening. He speaks about this as if he clearly remembers it all unfolding, almost as if it all took place a week or two earlier. Almost as if he were a witness to his own birth. He mentions some details of the funeral arrangements afterwards, the sweet smelling breasts of his aunt - his mother's younger sister - a month shy of her nineteenth birthday, who held him close throughout the proceedings, which Louis was more than grateful for, having done his utmost to avoid the clutches of the other wailing mourners, especially one uncle in particular, who reeked of whiskey, cigarettes, cabbage, and boiled pig. His father and his older sister were sitting nearby on a couch, meekly accepting offers of condolence from the train of folk passing through the house ... Then I have a little difficulty keeping up, the speed of Louis' speech increases, and he also throws in a few sentences of French, peppered with phrases of slang to which I'm unfamiliar. But it does seem that his sister was quite a few years older than him, perhaps on the verge of womanhood. She may also have had a different mother, it's hard to say exactly. He then remembers a day by the river, and what sounds like an underwater swimming race, in which his sister participated. He says he can see his father, even now, standing on the riverbank, waiting for her to emerge from the depths with an enormous fluffy towel at the ready. But she's never seen again, and neither soon is his father. But no sore feelings, papa, I pray at least you found some peace.

HEARSAY

Louis' father went out for cigarettes one day 

and never made it back home again -

more interested in the phases of the moon

than the raising of children.

Or so I hear.

AN OLD CAMERA

Louis returned to school after summer one time with a camera, given to him by a woman he played doubles with at some tennis tournament for guests of the resort where he stayed with his family on the Malaysian island of Penang. We would have been twelve, maybe thirteen. Doubtful fourteen. It was a thin flat silver contraption, the camera, if I remember rightly, with a disc that held the photos. The woman, whose name I forget, gave Louis the camera after a particularly hard fought three set win over a husband and wife team from Victoria, British Columbia. The woman's own husband wasn't much in for tennis, so Ellis, the event's organizer, suggested she pair up with Louis, who had, by this time, displayed a proficiency for the game far beyond his tender years. Eventually they bowed out in the semi finals, losing to seventeen year old twin girls from Macau. Afterwards, discussing the loss alone in the shade of a frangipani tree, she put her hand down his pants. And two days later she was gone, back to wherever it was she came from. But she left behind a parting gift, or at least a bag containing things that she didn't want to pack, and the camera.

The bag contained the following:

a half full bottle of scotch,

a tin of neutral shoe polish,

a shiny magazine advocating on its cover the benefits of wrinkle free skin,

a small box of paperclips,

a miniature model of the Arc de Triomphe made out of matchsticks,

a pack of playing cards,

a blue silk handkerchief,

a small plastic Chinese junk,

a blue plastic comb,

a sachet of curry paste.