TILL THE LAST TRICKLE

1 - JR - And how goes the camera? - The computer? - Hope they're working for you somehow - And I wonder whether you're doing any reviews - Or have left that malarkey behind - There is a pizza here that tastes as if it has been mysteriously transported straight from the best wood fired oven in Italy - Served by dark haired, dark eyed slender beauties - Kind, gentle - So gentle and kind - Susie is better off - For me monogamy at best has only ever had the slightest of holds anyway - Do you remember those girls when we were about 13 or 14? - Nicola something or another with me - Siobhan something or another with you - It was an Irish name at least - Even though she sounded as if she was mere steps away from ascending to the english throne - God we thought we were in love - At first -And I suppose in a way we were - I don't know about you but I felt in some kind of love with each of their friends too - Yes even Siobhan - There were about seven or eight girls in that group and I desired them all - And listen, I don't think much has changed

2 - No I don't think much has changed at all - There is an older man here at the hostel who says women will always be a torment till the last trickle of testosterone has left and packed up for new climes - Jesus it's a wonder I ever got married at all - Growing from a boy I would observe various men who had sworn loyalty and dedication and who knows what else to the woman beside them - White white white - At various functions - In hotels - Embassies - Wherever - And even before I first needed to shave they struck as belonging to either one of two kinds, as a result of marriage - Or if they were particularly unfortunate, both - Drunks or Idiots - And so I swore eternal bachelorhood - And yet - And yet, here I am - Stuck on the underside of the world - Looking for something likely no longer there - Likely gone, gone for good - Good

3 - Good - She's better off - Besides everything else, I got tired of terrorism too late - What in the end does it matter who did what to whom? - What the hell was I looking for? - Some secret - Likely in the end some silly secret - And then all of a sudden it's too late - Your world, your world in the end evaporates - And yet all the same I can't help but wonder what has become of my papers - Those I sent you - Way back when - And I wonder whether you took a stab at translating any of the ones I never got to - I mean, if so, you could have made Mr Dunnerly proud - Wherever he is - He was a good teacher - He was a good man - Melbourne's mighty cold - A different kind of cold - Wait, there's a Sudanese cab driver I know trying to catch my eye - Later - LA

A SOLITARY PERIOD

A letter from Louis arrives, it's there waiting in the cold metal mailbox when I get back from another day pulling out ivy cascading down a rocky embankment. It's written over three postcards, numbered, and placed in an envelope.

1 - JR - The entries in the journal I've been keeping - Since coming here again - To look for Susie - Have been getting shorter and shorter - And it's not a matter of finding the time - Oh there's time - I'm still at the hostel, and there's an arrangement now for board in return for helping clean the rooms - Vacuum the halls - Sign in new guests - Oh there's time - But still the entries are getting shorter and shorter - So I've stopped - Stopped before I make an entry under a date that has nothing more than a question mark - Or maybe not even the squiggle of a question mark - Just a period, a solitary period - She's gone - Susie - I don't expect to see her again - Or at least anytime soon - Maybe she's somewhere in London after all - I don't know - It doesn't matter - Too late - And yet still an old scene plays over - As I hand over a room key to a couple of Swedish girls in shorts and long shiny tanned legs

2 - An old scene - Back in London - Before all this unfolding - This unravelling - Leaving our London flat one night to follow a lead - A meeting in a hotel - When Susie wanted me to stay and talk it out - Sort it out - But there wasn't time - I had to go - They were waiting - No she said - Something's not right - There's too much left unsaid - Something's awry - Awry she said - Her fine senses kept speaking to her - Prodding her - They wouldn't shut up - She yelled after me down the hall - We haven't finished talking she said - Don't walk away we haven't finished - But to me nothing looked as if it was going to be resolved - It's hard enough to argue with a woman at the best at times - Impossible when time's against you - Everything has to be explained - Clarified - Laid out fully - But the cab was waiting - She yelled after me some more - South Kensington I said to the driver - And left - And the following week I was on a plane to Sydney - Susie was staying with her parents - Or that friend in Clapham Common - I don't know - She was somewhere - It was hard to say - There was no note - And no answer when I called

3 - I thought keeping a journal would help me find her - I was looking for an answer - But I should have listened more carefully on that first day when I wrote that first sentence - Outside at a pub on a headland in the dot town of Tathra - Overlooking the sea - The great heaving sea - The great heaving silent sea - I should have known right then - I should have let it all go - Go over the edge - Into the great heaving silent blue - When I wrote down those first words - Never never never never - That's what I wrote - Shakespeare it wasn't - But it was a start - And I drove on from there - And now here I am months later in Melbourne - Washing sweeping wiping mopping - Smiling - Making do - Like a determined monk - LA

AN AFTERNOON ALL SPENT

JR - Starting with the one between her wedding band and pinkie - With a free hand and lipstick I'd gladly connect - Every mole on her body - Until together we'd reveal and hopefully comprehend - One of the secret words of God we'd lately come to read about - And which I knew, I really knew resided - Somewhere atop her most naked naked flesh - LA

THE FLAT WITHOUT A CAT

The stubs from all the movies we went to see while living in the desert, maybe still there, back at the flat, in a shoebox beneath the bed. The flat. The coolness of the stairwell leading up to the top floor. The flat. The flat without a cat. 

 

Often I would prowl the streets in search of her favourite pet, with every step aware of the possible consequences. Put simply, cats do not like me. Rarely will they tolerate my presence. I first came face to face with one as a young boy. It was red, not ginger as others claimed later, but red. Supposedly it fell from the rotting branch of a tree and required my head as a emergency landing pad. So say the witnesses. I say otherwise. I say it leapt and knew exactly what it was doing all along, its sole intention to tear apart my face with its claws in the shortest amount of space possible. Fortunately I realized the plan in time and acted accordingly, in the process sacrificing a little of my scalp, while the cat made the most of its opportunity and sliced up my ears some before I managed to get a finger in and gouged out one of its eyes. Poor pussy. Poor Louis. Wailing, we both ran off to opposite poles, never to see one another again.

 

I never told Susie any of this. And I never told her about the pandemonium in the pet store either. It happened one morning while out walking on the edge of town, soon after sunrise. My shoes were growing heavy with sand and my mind heavier with visions of her superior body waiting supine atop the crisp white sheets back at the flat. Before I slipped out, I inhaled once more the essence of her scent in that indented space above her upper lip, then watched as she silently vanished into the slowly shutting door.

Then the shoes became too much to bear. I sat down on some steps and emptied them of all the sand, just as the sign in the store window behind me was switching to open. A tall, elegant looking red haired woman with a wide gracious smile and bright white teeth opened the door and greeted me in an effortless manner, instantly setting me at ease once she said: Welcome. 'You're early,' she said. 'In fact, you're very early. But that's okay. Please, come in. I like to think that my first customer gives me some kind of indication of the day that lies ahead. Usually I can see it in the eyes. Often it's easier to spot than not, if you know what you're looking for. Please, come in.'

The words flowed from her mouth as if she were reciting the words of a holy song. She didn't sound as if she were around these parts either. As she went about opening the shutters, it suddenly seemed as if she were singing, sound flowing into sound, emanating from her long, slender body and then blending beautifully with the melody of the birds, each revealed one by one from under their dark cloaks that kept them covered up throughout the night. Then she stopped, turned and asked if I would be interested in a canary perhaps. I shook my head and smiled the smile of a contented fool. The day looked promising.

 

If such a place as this could be found in the desert, I thought, then maybe staying here might not be so bad after all. And after all, it would only be for a little while longer, it wouldn't be long now.

I started looking around for the cats but couldn't find any, and knew that soon the flat without a cat would be waking, would soon be starting to stretch and feel for my limbs. 'They're in the next room,' the woman said. 'Listen, can you hear them? They're beginning to stir.'' She slid open some doors and beckoned me closer, smiling again, and with what I now thought was a slight trace of milk atop her upper lip. In the darkness of the room ahead, one set of eyes after another slowly appeared, first flickering, and then fixing on me. As she opened the remaining shutters, I could start to make out the litters of kittens scattered around the floor, or up in baskets on tabletops, all eyeing my flesh, as if in hope that it would soon play some essential part in their latest scratching post. Then the older cats started to hiss and bare their teeth, and it wasn't long before they were strategically positioning themselves around the room, in readiness for attack. 'Please,' the woman cried, 'please, please.' And she shooed me back out onto the street as quickly as she could.

Gladly I would have gotten Susie a dog, but we just didn't have the room. Already the flat was beginning to cramp. 'Soon,' I would tell her, 'soon, soon. We won't stay here forever. There's still a few little things that I need to do, that's all. It won't be long now. We'll find a place somewhere deep in the green countryside. We'll have dogs and sheep, cows and chickens. Some goats. A couple of horses. Maybe even an antelope or two. And lemurs. Whatever you desire.'

Susie smiled and slid over onto my lap. She kissed my eyes and stroked the scars that crossed my ears.

It wouldn't be long now.

THE FIRES RAGE ATOP THE PLATEAU

It's like I'm learning to read all over again. 

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

SOME QUESTIONS FOR LOUIS

He's left no contact details. His phone he seems to have put aside, discarded, lost, I don't know. The occasional postcard comes, and that's it. I mention this because I was looking over his letter again and wondered why he was retracing the steps he said he took two years ago with his wife. Why come back and do the same trip? And it's been weeks, no, now months, that he's been down the south coast region. Doing what, I don't know. And I've been wondering about this a while now. I think about him.

I think about you, Louis, do you hear me? I've sat in six different cafes with the intention of making up some sort of review of each place, purely for practice, like you said, and such scribbling only left me deeply dissatisfied and desperate to leave. Instead I found myself pulling out your letter from a pocket, reading over again what you wrote, and then began transcribing the pages, between cups of tea or coffee, a sip of watermelon juice, a nibble of rosti with a side of pesto mushrooms on turkish, or a bite of a barramundi burger. Then the letter ended, and once again the cafe chatter was starting to close in. I couldn't concentrate. Surrounding spoken sentences were soon starting to seep into one another. The filter, for want of a better word, was failing. I had to get out.

Louis, I can't help but wonder what happened in Melbourne. Why did Susie leave all of a sudden? And did she or did she not return to London? I'm guessing, but it seems to me that she didn't, otherwise why would you return alone and repeat the route you took with her? I've been to Melbourne once before, I like the city, it's a place in which I could imagine living one day. The food is fabulous, the bars brilliant. We could meet there if that's where you plan to end up. Let me know.

Louis, where are you?

Shuffled scenes from our childhood are starting to come back to me. In dreams. The other night I saw again Lisa Hart, Ian Prince, Sanjeev Gurung, and Shaun Bright. Do these names mean anything to you? Sanjeev I know you remember, for that's who we talked about the day I saw you again, after so many years, walking down the street last November.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS YOU HEATHEN

The letter wrapped up rapidly. I half expected some more pages to promptly follow but nothing came in the post. Hastily scribbled in a red pen half way down the page, Louis brought it all to a close. He agreed to go on traveling the country with Susie but only if he could return first to Katoomba to pick up a manilla folder of papers he said he'd need. And once there, rather than repeat the drive north, they decided to head south. So that's what we did, he said, we drove down the south coast and stayed there a while, places like Tilba, Bermaguii, some place called Tathra I think, Eden, Wilsons Promontory, and then a hellish hot drive on to Melbourne, which is where she left me, making a few calls and then boarding a plane to take her back to London, or so I thought. Here comes the postman. Happy Christmas you heathen. Louis.

MANGLING THE REMAINS OF THE YEAR

Come the evening they were up and about again, hand in hand, nearing ever closer to the end of the year. The heat of the day had passed and the remains of his discomfort were seeping out of Louis and into the ground beneath his feet. At one stage he saw some strange metal creatures start coming to life, and he watched them a while, comfortable for once in the crowd. An impassive silver head of a woman atop a shiny silver torso caught his eye. Ominous looking long metal legs, like that of an enormous spider, shot out from her body. Fenced in, the moving metal limbs were soon mangling the remains of the year, accompanied by shooting flames, drumbeats and cheers. Otherwise, Louis said, the evening was more or less a blur, with chit chat and smiles and then the return of a devilish drowsiness that sent him scurrying back again to the tent, still a while before midnight, and this time with the welcome presence of his wife. The next morning, Susie said goodbye to those she'd met over the last few days while Louis set about packing up camp. He was baffled by her ability to acquire so much camping equipment so quickly but was grateful at least that he was taking down the tent and not putting it up. He thought back to London and the day he decided to leave for Australia. He had toyed with the idea through many a drizzly afternoon while working on his translations but it was only upon waking one morning with a vivid dream that he went as far as booking a ticket. In the dream, he saw great hulks of ships in gray heaving waters, docked side by side and enjoined by what appeared to be enormous shoelaces. Each vessel was populated by peasants as well as the plentiful others let down by lousy lawyers and corrupt cops bulging with cream. Countless legs were ringed with heavy iron anklets, in turn attached to great rusty chains. Not long after being led up the gangplank, he was restrained from behind and slammed to the floor. Lovely, lovely, someone said, what special pearl do we have here now? Legs and arms held him down and his hair was roughly cut from his head, leaving scratches that were soon sweating blood. Next the clothes were cut from him and he felt as if they were gutting some poor dinner plate destined beast. He was shoved into a sack with parts of words enjoined to others in the stitching, beyond his comprehension, as if he were not only near naked and shorn but also obliged to learn how to read all over again. Following the irregular rhythm of the slapping water below seemed at one point to be his only salvage, until a new strength seeped into him and he suddenly became determined to escape, however necessary, and kill whoever deemed it worthy to stand in his way. 

HUEVOS RANCHEROS SENOR

They're Guatemalan, said Susie, and they have the best breakfast around here by far. They ordered two specials (Sunday), which consisted of a tortilla with refried beans, fried egg, tomato, lettuce and chili. Louis said it was delicious, and deserving of a rave review. Simplicity in all its splendor. He ordered another plate when barely half way through the first and asked Susie what she wanted to talk about. You, she said. You, you, you. She wanted to know when he was thinking of coming home again, or how much longer he was planning on staying on this side of the world, which might have amounted to the same thing, she wasn't sure, maybe he'd be off somewhere else again, as soon as the trail told him to. She wanted to know whether he was any closer to finding what he was looking for. Nothing in the end, he told her, that aided his translations of the letters, but, all the same, there was something to be said for sitting on the land where some of the work seems to have at least been written. The smell of the sea for instance. The dry air. The severity of the sun in the early afternoon. The isolation. Nothing though to indicate that he was getting any closer to actually finding the man who wrote the letters. Or least find out what happened to him. Susie smiled. I want to stay, she said. I've taken leave from work. There's time. She said they should keep on driving once the festival was finished. Just pick up and go. She heard something about Byron Bay and its surrounds. Heard it was worth a visit. Louis had heard something similar, and he didn't need much persuading at this point. Some sea on the skin might have been just what was needed. Another mouthful of tortilla and beans and he knew she was right. The Guatemalan hospitality was working wonders. He almost felt new again. They ordered a coffee and some chocolate covered coffee beans and then walked around the festival site some more, hand in hand. Eventually they were back at the tent again, where they napped in preparation for the new year's festivities. Louis was relieved, for he was exhausted. He tried to relax and enjoy the surroundings while they were ambling around, but it was no use. He couldn't help but keep searching the faces that passed by for clues, for some sign of recognition, for how he would imagine the author of the letters, one Anthoniszoon van Aken, otherwise known as AVA, to look if he were there, even though such a thing seemed near on impossible, but still he couldn't help it. And so it was a relief, he said again, to lie down and rest, to lie down and stroke the soles of Susie's feet with the tips of his toes, before slipping off into slumber. Trying to think of nothing but the breathing between them, rolling in and out like the sea. And when he woke there were vivid images of a dream by the ocean, with diving dolphins, and clouds that appeared to weep tears flowing up toward the stars in bright daylight.

LIT BY FEINT ORANGE LIGHTS

It was still dark when he woke (Saturday), but a thin pale orange line was beginning to assert itself over on the horizon. Then some birds came and starting singing the line even further into existence, and he shuffled his bare feet through the dew heavy grass that made him think of the sea. Susie was still asleep atop the covers. He couldn't recall hearing come in during the night. He walked a distance toward some trees and then returned to the camp. He pegged back some flaps on the tent so as to make the most of any breeze that might consider them worthy of a visit, then lay down beside her. And it wasn't long before he started dreaming. He dreamt of Susie, who was playing the part of a primary school teacher, escorting her class on a special excursion. She unfolded a map and asked Louis, who was passing, for directions to the waterworks. She expected them to be somewhere more or less around where she was standing, though she did admit that her map by now may be long out of date. Yes, it appeared quite old, said Louis, but it still should be more or less applicable. It looked as if she had come over one street too many, that's all. He pointed her in the right direction, right behind the city's central gardens. She wanted to show her appreciation by making him a gift of the map, which, on closer inspection, appeared to be an antique. The place and street name script was unfamiliar, ornate, and in a language he kind of recognized and even strangely understood a little. Certainly the map seemed valuable. Louis thanked Susie and asked what she would be doing while the children were playing in the waters. Without saying another word, she took his hand and led the way. Lit by faint orange lights were the interweaving channels underground. After checking in their belongings with the concierge, the children streamed off in all directions, some toward the slides and wave pools, others to the flying foxes and waterfalls, each under the watchful gaze of their specially appointed personal guide. From a window above, Louis knelt behind Susie and watched the children frolic in the orange lit channels below, blessing the golden chance occurrence which poured up through his knees in a kind of sacred erotic prayer. When he woke again, he saw Susie looking in at him from outside the tent. I know just what you need, she said, and told him to follow her. She said they needed to talk. A nearby stall was just opening for the day and a few stray revellers could be seen wandering around the ground. He checked the day with her. Sunday, said Susie. Sunday, said the nodding Latino behind the counter making coffee.

AN ANCIENT ANCESTOR

Arriving at Peats Ridge, they set up camp and went for a walk around the grounds. Crews were putting the finishing touches to various stalls and installations. Tepees even. There was abounding knotted hair about. And natural fibres ruled the day. Pity those, said Louis, with an inclination for nylon, for it would be tolerated in tents but not much else. Coat yourself in synthetics and watch your chance of a warm embrace sink like the waste in one of the many composting toilets situated around the place. Susie squeezed his hand and sent some kind of sedative to the fraying synapses of his brain. She called it love. Come nightfall, the crowd had grown significantly. In their circular wanderings, Susie came across her plane sharing ticket tout, and in turn met others who met others who met others. Plentiful introductions were made but Louis could barely keep still. He said it felt like an ancient ancestor was rummaging around his insides, eventually finding two sticks and rubbing them together while using the lining of his stomach for support. Soon there was a spark and he settled on allowing the smoke to rise out through his eyes. If that couple of scarecrows nearby weren't careful, he thought, they might catch alight. Susie, he said, was looking luminous, a different kind of light was inside of  her, one warm and comforting, welcoming, and you would be a fool not to want to be around it as much as you were able. But Louis could barely keep still. Weren't these ever grinning revellers aware of the enemy forces just over the cusp of the hill? They hadn't so much as a pitchfork with which to defend themselves, and the river wouldn't prevent even the most decrepit of demons from crossing. Ah the river. The river failed to resemble in any way the winding blue treat on the cover of the festival program. The one in front of them was a thin shallow brown line that in parts appeared at best ankle deep. So much for the rush of water whacking on the head the latest onset of his finicky illness. It easily compared unfavorably, he said, with the river in Bellingen, if such comparisons were sought. Then maniacal laughter broke out over somewhere near the beer tent. Susie stole away from her admirers for a moment to inform Louis about the closeness of their camp. In their aimless wandering, he said, his sense of direction had broken into several jagged pieces that could have sliced the length of his arms wide open. She said he should probably lie down. She offered her kind flesh for company but he told her to stay on and enjoy herself. He said he'd sleep it off. He kissed her and then eased off into the darkness, turning sharply on hearing the disembodied voice call out for the third time what sounded remarkably like: You ... You, you, you. And although it gradually lessened in intensity as he got closer to camp, it was still faintly there as he zipped up the tent and lay back on the mattress, trying to focus on the nearby beating drum as best he was able, in the hope of soon being blessed by the onset of replenishing sleep, for which he waited and waited and waited.

SHELL MIDDENS

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.