I believed that living in despair was very elegant. I believed it for the entire two years I spent in Paris, and in fact have believed it nearly all my life.
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By morning, the mistral had died down completely.
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Inside The Mountain. The old house is more neglected than I’d imagined, veranda hanging off the front, stairs
falling away with rot. I use a knee to test the wood and then pull myself up. No doorknob so I
push, palm flat on the peeling paint. The door opens enough to get a shoulder in and becomes
wedged. Edging in sideways, plastic crinkles under my foot. The air is solid. With the door
closed behind me there is just enough room to stand. The weight of the hoard presses down
on me and I see no path through the garbage: bags, boxes, paper and muck.
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It was some time since I had seen him?
Before he had returned to Fez.
Before he left Monsieur Jones.
Before I left my Missus.
Before the collapse.
Before the dole queues.
Before the misery of the crowded bars.
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He left the room and the gallery phase-shifted into a coloured blur. He couldn’t find Fiona. Time slowed down and rushed past him as he looked around the vast gallery space, trying to spot her, until at last he decided to look outside and the rain began. Disparate thick drops at first, the earthy petrichor making his nose twitch, and then a heavy downpour that stung his face and brought his hair down like a curtain falling at the end of a play. Steam rose from the road in the rain’s aftermath, its ghostly vapours following him home.
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The sky has lifted at least thirty feet.
I sat there, not moving. The shock must have cracked the pavement, my right hand fumbled in the rubble. As I breathed, the silence stilled the explosion of stars whose sparks still cracked in my head.
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I ran on a few more steps until I was below a streetlamp and stopped, panting and sweating.
The yellow pouring forth from its ancient bulb was my arena, a dozen feet across. Hell hath no limits,
nor is it circumscribed, but I was yet alive and happy to constrain myself to set bounds. Beyond that
ring I could see nothing. Quickly I retrieved the pellet-gun from the bag but no sooner had I done so
than the first of them barrelled into me, a missile of feathers and malice. It bit and stabbed with its
beak and flapped its muscular wings, aiming for my eyes and face, ridiculous feet kicking at my chest.
I managed to get a hold on a wing and killed or crippled it with a few swift twists of my hands, the
twig-crack of ribs, the hot spits of blood. I could hear more ululations in the sky above. That first
attacker had knocked the air-gun from my hand and into the snow and gouged deep cuts into my
fingers with its beak. I fell to my knees and swept my hands across the pavement through the snow
but it was no use, for all of my preparations I was alone. Blood trails stood out stark against the white,
and the dead gull was already half-submerged. A tip of beak, a hint of feather, and a crooked wing
stood above the snow.
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From that day Lieutenant Mabruki conceived a violent hatred of all senior officers, especially colonels. His moods became fretful, acidic, strained, and for the first time, were marked by displays of sly insubordination and irreverence, of that acute, devastating cynicism which later was famously to coalesce at his own show-trial in the inspired remark: “Your honour, a coup is lawful as it succeeds. I am guilty merely of failure. I declare this trial null, void, invalid, iniquitous, unjust, damnable, reprobate, inane, empty of meaning and effect for all time”.
His superior officers nervously shunned him.
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“He swung with the charge, sweeping the muleta ahead of the bull, his feet firm, the sword following the curve, a point of light under the arcs.”
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It’s good, once you’re in. That’s what everyone always says in Tassie, and that was what Lucy told herself then. She began wading out, busting through the foamy lines, until it became deep enough for her to dive under. The first wave she dove beneath was gritty and sand-churned, and she frog-kicked below its turbulence with her eyes and lips firmly closed. The shock of the cold shuddered through her body. The second wave was cleaner, having exploded right in front of her into a heavy spray of bright white and crystal-clear droplets, which caught up the sunlight and tossed it about in shimmering rainbows. She plunged beneath it and buried her fingers in the sand, anchoring herself against the churning water. She brought her feet beneath her, pushed off the sand, and burst back through the surface, gasping into the sunlight. Her skin was on fire with the cold. The third wave reared up, just beyond her, and this time, when she dove, she opened her eyes, rolled onto her back and watched the way the turbulence of the breaking wave gathered in a series of foaming balls that passed above her like fizzing, liquefied clouds. ‘
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