didn’t want a book there’s an old card-bound copy of
Madame Bovary
on the tray as well.
Maybe it’s by way of an apology for the run-in with her father.
The evening passes in a haze of heat and sweat. I lie in my boxers on top of the mattress, drugged by the spiced, cigar-box smell of the loft. For lack of anything else to do I make an attempt at
Madame Bovary
. But the archaic French is impenetrable, and I can’t concentrate. The words blur and the book keeps falling from my hands, until eventually I give up and put it aside. I think it’s too hot to sleep, but when I close my eyes I slide under so deeply it’s like drowning.
I wake with a cry, images of blood on a darkened street stark in my mind. For a few seconds I can’t remember where I am. The loft is in darkness, but a ghostly light spills through the open window. My hands are hot and sticky, and with the nightmare still vivid I expect to see them stained with blood. But it’s only sweat.
The moon’s light is bright enough for me to see my watch without turning on the lamp. It’s just after midnight. I reach shakily for my cigarettes. Only three left: I’ve started smoking them a half at a time. I light the burned end of one I started earlier and draw the smoke into my lungs. A weight of despair refuses to lift. When I finish the cigarette, making it last right down to the filter, there’s no question of going back to sleep.
The loft is humid and close, floodlit by the moon. A strip of light runs across the floor and hooks over the edge of the bed. I get out of bed and hop along its silver path to the window. The night has turned the landscape black and white. Beyond the shadows of the woods, the moon’s twin shines from the mirrored lake. There’s a metallic moistness to the air. I breathe it deeply, imagining submerging myself in the water, feeling its coolness lift even the weight of hair from my head.
An owl hoots. I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out. There isn’t enough air. Suddenly claustrophobic, I seize the crutch and lamp and go to the trapdoor. I’ve left it open, and it looks like a hole into nothing. In the lamp’s dull glow I lower myself down the steps.
I don’t think about what I’m doing. The barn below is dark, but once outside the full moon is so bright I no longer need the lamp. I turn it off and leave it in the entrance. The night air soothes my bare skin, scented with trees and grass. I don’t feel tired at all now, only a feverish desire to get to the lake.
I follow the track that Georges used earlier, limping past rows of vines. It’s a monochrome world, all light and shadow. I pause at the edge of the woods to catch my breath. The trees form a solid wall of black at the edge of the vine field. The air is cooler here, dampening any sound. Moonlight drips indiscriminately through the branches. I shiver, wondering what I’m doing. I know I should turn back, but the lure of the lake is too strong.
This is the furthest I’ve walked on the crutch, and my breathing is laboured as I go through the wood. I trudge with my head down, so focused on what I’m doing that I don’t notice the pale figure until it’s right in front of me.
‘Jesus!’
I stumble back. Now I see more of them, motionless shapes in the trees. My heart is thudding, but none of them move. As the shock of seeing them fades I realize why.
The wood is full of statues.
They crowd both sides of the track, stone men and women dappled by moonlight. I sag in relief, but still have to touch one to reassure myself that the lifelike limbs aren’t, after all, flesh and blood. My fingers encounter only the roughness of lichen and smooth, hard stone.
I smile, shame-faced, and as I do the wood’s quiet is shattered by a shriek. It’s high-pitched and inhuman, seeming to go on and on before it abruptly stops. I stare into the blackness, gripping the flimsy crutch. Just a fox or owl, I tell myself. But I feel the hairs on the back of my neck
Madame Bovary
on the tray as well.
Maybe it’s by way of an apology for the run-in with her father.
The evening passes in a haze of heat and sweat. I lie in my boxers on top of the mattress, drugged by the spiced, cigar-box smell of the loft. For lack of anything else to do I make an attempt at
Madame Bovary
. But the archaic French is impenetrable, and I can’t concentrate. The words blur and the book keeps falling from my hands, until eventually I give up and put it aside. I think it’s too hot to sleep, but when I close my eyes I slide under so deeply it’s like drowning.
I wake with a cry, images of blood on a darkened street stark in my mind. For a few seconds I can’t remember where I am. The loft is in darkness, but a ghostly light spills through the open window. My hands are hot and sticky, and with the nightmare still vivid I expect to see them stained with blood. But it’s only sweat.
The moon’s light is bright enough for me to see my watch without turning on the lamp. It’s just after midnight. I reach shakily for my cigarettes. Only three left: I’ve started smoking them a half at a time. I light the burned end of one I started earlier and draw the smoke into my lungs. A weight of despair refuses to lift. When I finish the cigarette, making it last right down to the filter, there’s no question of going back to sleep.
The loft is humid and close, floodlit by the moon. A strip of light runs across the floor and hooks over the edge of the bed. I get out of bed and hop along its silver path to the window. The night has turned the landscape black and white. Beyond the shadows of the woods, the moon’s twin shines from the mirrored lake. There’s a metallic moistness to the air. I breathe it deeply, imagining submerging myself in the water, feeling its coolness lift even the weight of hair from my head.
An owl hoots. I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out. There isn’t enough air. Suddenly claustrophobic, I seize the crutch and lamp and go to the trapdoor. I’ve left it open, and it looks like a hole into nothing. In the lamp’s dull glow I lower myself down the steps.
I don’t think about what I’m doing. The barn below is dark, but once outside the full moon is so bright I no longer need the lamp. I turn it off and leave it in the entrance. The night air soothes my bare skin, scented with trees and grass. I don’t feel tired at all now, only a feverish desire to get to the lake.
I follow the track that Georges used earlier, limping past rows of vines. It’s a monochrome world, all light and shadow. I pause at the edge of the woods to catch my breath. The trees form a solid wall of black at the edge of the vine field. The air is cooler here, dampening any sound. Moonlight drips indiscriminately through the branches. I shiver, wondering what I’m doing. I know I should turn back, but the lure of the lake is too strong.
This is the furthest I’ve walked on the crutch, and my breathing is laboured as I go through the wood. I trudge with my head down, so focused on what I’m doing that I don’t notice the pale figure until it’s right in front of me.
‘Jesus!’
I stumble back. Now I see more of them, motionless shapes in the trees. My heart is thudding, but none of them move. As the shock of seeing them fades I realize why.
The wood is full of statues.
They crowd both sides of the track, stone men and women dappled by moonlight. I sag in relief, but still have to touch one to reassure myself that the lifelike limbs aren’t, after all, flesh and blood. My fingers encounter only the roughness of lichen and smooth, hard stone.
I smile, shame-faced, and as I do the wood’s quiet is shattered by a shriek. It’s high-pitched and inhuman, seeming to go on and on before it abruptly stops. I stare into the blackness, gripping the flimsy crutch. Just a fox or owl, I tell myself. But I feel the hairs on the back of my neck
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