Read Online The PowerBook by Jeanette Winterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeanette Winterson
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because you suddenly said—
‘I ought to call him.’
‘There’s no phone here.’
‘Where’s your mobile?’
‘In London.’
‘What’s it doing there?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘So where can I find a phone?’
‘I don’t know. In the square maybe.’
‘I’ll walk up.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Look, maybe I should go.’
‘That’s not what you said three hours ago.’
‘Don’t bully me.’
‘I’m not bullying you.’
‘It isn’t my fault that you don’t have a phone.’
‘It isn’t my fault that you’re married.’
‘Not this again.’
‘What—does it weary you, my love?’
‘Yes it does as it happens.’
‘Well just fuck off.’
‘What?’
‘I said fuck off.’
‘Fine. That’s fine.’
She was out of the place, taking the steep steps two at a time and disappearing up the vertical alleys before I could fumble with the Calor gas of the stove, grab the keys and go after her.
‘You should let her go,’ I’m saying to myself, mylegs taking no notice. ‘For God’s sake, let her go,’ and my heart was pounding and I was angry, so angry, with myself or her, I don’t know. Just blood pushing against thought. Angry at me or her, and my fist clenched round the keys as I bounded up the track, hearing the church bell like a pulse.
When I got to the Piazza Monumentale, I saw her disappearing in one of the white taxis with the roof down. I ran over to the rank. Stopped. I had come out without any money. Ripping through my pockets all I could produce was a five thousand lire note.
OK. The bus.
I stood in the queue, the sun too hot, no sunscreen, sweating like a horse, my mouth dry, my face like a gargoyle (no sunglasses), my blood pressure at hospital level and my heart melting like a tourist’s ice cream.
For half an hour, bus after bus came in the opposite direction, and I kept saying to myself, ‘Get on, go down to the Faro, swim as you are, wash her off you.’ But it was too late for that, so I stood there like an idiot, waiting.
The bus finally arrived and I shoved on and darted for an orange plastic seat. This was hardly the stuff of romance. If I had been writing about it, I could have come out with more money. I would have remembered my sunglasses, ordered a soundtrack. As it was, the bus skidded and honked down to the terminus, and a woman with one fat hand on the chrome rail and another fat hand round a bag of onions, kept digging her heel into my foot. When I got off I was limping.
So this is me—sweating like a horse, looking like a dog, limping like a chicken, poor as a church mouse and jumpy as a flea—heading for the Quisisana, where naturally enough, the doorman won’t let me in. And you know what? I can’t even bribe him.
After a lot of bad Italian, I did manage to persuade him to call Room 29.
Any answer?
Niente.
I slunk off, past the Cartier and Vuitton, past the bar where I couldn’t afford a drink, past the sneeringwaiters and the gold bracelet man at the Cambio, whose single split-second glance said, ‘Pauper.’
I crept back to the oily floor of the bus terminus and bought my ticket back to Anacapri. I was so thirsty that I could have unscrewed the radiator cap of the bus and dropped a straw in it—if I had a straw, or if I could have bought one. I made up my mind never to put myself in a situation like this again. As we changed up from the ear-splitting second gear into life-threatening third, I prayed to the Madonna of the Falling Rocks to give me the good sense not to crush myself.
night screen
Night. Screen. Tap tap tap. Tap tap. Tap.
The coded message that anyone can read.
I keep telling this story—different people, different places, different times—but always you, always me, always this story, because a story is a tightrope between two worlds.
VIEW AS ICON
There is no greater grief than to find no happiness but happiness in what is past.
This is the story of Francesca da Rimini and her lover Paolo. You
‘I ought to call him.’
‘There’s no phone here.’
‘Where’s your mobile?’
‘In London.’
‘What’s it doing there?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘So where can I find a phone?’
‘I don’t know. In the square maybe.’
‘I’ll walk up.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Look, maybe I should go.’
‘That’s not what you said three hours ago.’
‘Don’t bully me.’
‘I’m not bullying you.’
‘It isn’t my fault that you don’t have a phone.’
‘It isn’t my fault that you’re married.’
‘Not this again.’
‘What—does it weary you, my love?’
‘Yes it does as it happens.’
‘Well just fuck off.’
‘What?’
‘I said fuck off.’
‘Fine. That’s fine.’
She was out of the place, taking the steep steps two at a time and disappearing up the vertical alleys before I could fumble with the Calor gas of the stove, grab the keys and go after her.
‘You should let her go,’ I’m saying to myself, mylegs taking no notice. ‘For God’s sake, let her go,’ and my heart was pounding and I was angry, so angry, with myself or her, I don’t know. Just blood pushing against thought. Angry at me or her, and my fist clenched round the keys as I bounded up the track, hearing the church bell like a pulse.
When I got to the Piazza Monumentale, I saw her disappearing in one of the white taxis with the roof down. I ran over to the rank. Stopped. I had come out without any money. Ripping through my pockets all I could produce was a five thousand lire note.
OK. The bus.
I stood in the queue, the sun too hot, no sunscreen, sweating like a horse, my mouth dry, my face like a gargoyle (no sunglasses), my blood pressure at hospital level and my heart melting like a tourist’s ice cream.
For half an hour, bus after bus came in the opposite direction, and I kept saying to myself, ‘Get on, go down to the Faro, swim as you are, wash her off you.’ But it was too late for that, so I stood there like an idiot, waiting.
The bus finally arrived and I shoved on and darted for an orange plastic seat. This was hardly the stuff of romance. If I had been writing about it, I could have come out with more money. I would have remembered my sunglasses, ordered a soundtrack. As it was, the bus skidded and honked down to the terminus, and a woman with one fat hand on the chrome rail and another fat hand round a bag of onions, kept digging her heel into my foot. When I got off I was limping.
So this is me—sweating like a horse, looking like a dog, limping like a chicken, poor as a church mouse and jumpy as a flea—heading for the Quisisana, where naturally enough, the doorman won’t let me in. And you know what? I can’t even bribe him.
After a lot of bad Italian, I did manage to persuade him to call Room 29.
Any answer?
Niente.
I slunk off, past the Cartier and Vuitton, past the bar where I couldn’t afford a drink, past the sneeringwaiters and the gold bracelet man at the Cambio, whose single split-second glance said, ‘Pauper.’
I crept back to the oily floor of the bus terminus and bought my ticket back to Anacapri. I was so thirsty that I could have unscrewed the radiator cap of the bus and dropped a straw in it—if I had a straw, or if I could have bought one. I made up my mind never to put myself in a situation like this again. As we changed up from the ear-splitting second gear into life-threatening third, I prayed to the Madonna of the Falling Rocks to give me the good sense not to crush myself.
night screen
Night. Screen. Tap tap tap. Tap tap. Tap.
The coded message that anyone can read.
I keep telling this story—different people, different places, different times—but always you, always me, always this story, because a story is a tightrope between two worlds.
VIEW AS ICON
There is no greater grief than to find no happiness but happiness in what is past.
This is the story of Francesca da Rimini and her lover Paolo. You
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