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hjalmargerber · 3 years ago

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Strandlangs

Nege-uur in die aand is die meeste strande verlate, veral buite seisoen, maar strande tussen dorpe is meer wildernis as strand. Hy kies ‘n holte tussen twee duine om die ergste wind in die nag af te keer en laat val die rugsak.

Die sterre is helder, maar nog nie winterhelder nie. Boonop sal die maan nou-nou opkom en die sterre nog meer verdof. Daar is geen dorp hiernaby nie en geen lig in enige van die bosse nie, net die donkerblou, verlate strand, die wit van die laagwaterbranders en fosfor in die spoel. Met sy leer stapstewels en dik wolsokkies uit, besluit hy om die res ook te laat vaar om in die see te gaan was voordat die koue nagwind opkom. Die oop wond aan sy regter bo-been moet nou dringend skoongemaak word, die area is seer en hy is versigtig dat dit reeds ontsteek het. Die seewater sal help, sy oupa’s en pa het gesweer daarby.

Natuurlik is die water bliksemskoud, maar hy is dankbaar vir die water; daar was geen teken van ‘n stroompie die vorige twee dae oor die berge nie. Nou kan hy die ergste sweet afkry. Die seewater spoel in die wond en laat hom op sy tande kners. Die pyn en koue vermeng egter gou. In die kniediep water dwaal sy gedagtes na ‘n ge-skinnydippery een warm Desembervakansie. Die gedagte, die tyd, gryp hom aan en hy verloor waar hy is en staar uitdrukkingloos na die donkerwater; die koue, hongerte en seer vergete, die soutwater spoel heen-en-weer oor en in die rou wond, maar hy is nie nou meer daar om dit te voel nie. Haar gesig is voor hom, daar, in die donkerwater. Sy kyk op, sien hom en glimlag. Hy staar na die water, naak en rou, soos die gevoel in hom oor haar glimlaggende gesig. Sy is so pragtig soos altyd. Sy gryp hom aan en trek hom die dieptes van haar see-blou oë in. Daar is geen ander plek waar hy wil wees as in haar oë nie. As sý hom raaksien, maak niks anders in die wêreld ooit weer saak nie.

‘n Klein brander vang hom op die heup en slaan hom amper van balans. Dit bring hom terug en sy meermin met haar wilgerlatlyfie duik weg. Hy was sy hare en baard so met die een hand, hou die koekie seep in die ander. Afgespoel stap hy oor die blou strand terug na die duin.

Dankbaar vir die oorvloed droë dryfhout vir die nag, hou hy die oervlamme dop wat hom droog en ontdooi. Die vorige drie weke deur die Karoo en oor die berge was hard, maar voel nou lank gelede hier langs die kus. Hy is ‘n see-mens en was nog altyd, soos sy. En soos sy pa, wil hy ook sy as op die strand of in die see gestrooi hê. Terwyl die koffie oor die kole prut, krap hy vir sy notaboek en potlood in die rugsak, lig dit saam met die whiskey-flessie uit. Die notaboek is halfpad vol, die flessie is halfpad leeg. Hy skuif nader aan die vuur vir beter lig. ‘n Ou binne-band rek hou die vele los items in die notaboek bymekaar, elke item vertel ‘n storie, ‘n tyd. ‘n Foto gly tussen die blaaie uit. Dis sy.

“Time’s up, Dear,” is die eerste woorde wat deur sy gedagtes speel, asof sy dit hier langs hom sê, asof hy dit gehoor het. “Wat sou jy vir my sê met net drie minute oor waarna jy my nooit weer sal sien nie?” Haar stem is die enigste een wat hy deesdae nog hoor. Hy onthou die vraag, en die somersaand. “Time’s up, Dear,” hoor hy weer. Het hy die drie minute reg gebruik? Hoekom het sy dit gevra, wonder hy weer; wou sy hom dit net één keer hoor sê? Na al die jare, voel hy steeds skuldig oor haar, oor hoe wreed hy met haar was en laat sak sy kop in skaamte asof daar ‘n hemel was wat eens in hom belanggestel het. “I feel sick when I remember how I opened up to you,” het hy onlangs gelees en gedink dat dit haar gevoel opgesom het.

Hy sug en kyk na die vuur. Sedert hy sy rug op die samelewing gedraai het, is alle gesprekke met mense beperk. Die aanskaf van die nodige voorraad vir sy volgende reistog, toerusting, nuwe stewels of so, maar haar stem bly hom egter by: hoe intiem sy gepraat het toe sy nét met hom gepraat het. Hy weet dat ouderdom, siekte, dood of vergeetagtigheid die klank van haar stem eendag gaan kom haal en terugneem; sy bors trek toe as hy net daaraan dink. Daar is sekere herinneringe waarsonder hy nie meer wil bestaan nie, en sy is een. Dat sy nog is, maak dat hy nog wil wees.

As hy haar dan nie kon hê as sy eie nie (en nee, hy het nie 'n oomblik saam met haar verdien nie), as ‘n lewe saam dan nie vir hulle beskore was nie, los hom dan asseblief net alleen met dit wat hy van haar kan onthou. Hulle het by die reëls van die lewe gehou en niemand anders behalwe mekaar seergemaak nie; is ‘n paar memories van mekaar, ‘n paar flitse oor ‘n paar weke dan te veel gevra?

Wanneer hy voetslaan, deur die semi-woestyn van Botswana, deur die groen van die Wildekus, oor die klippe van die Weskus, oor die berge van die Tsitsikamma, deur die geel van die Vrystaat, of deur die verstikkende hitte van die Laeveld, praat hy met haar oor die blomme aan sy voete, oor die soort grasse of weiding, die soorte bome en of hulle goeie hout gee vir meubels of vuurmaak, oor die botteltjies en ander potskerwe wat oorgebly het van die Tweede Vryheidsoorlog, oor uitsigte van die see waar hulle kan stop en saam na ‘n besondere sonsondergang kan kyk, soos by Kranshoek. Hulle praat oor plekke waar hulle as kinders vakansie gehou het, of wynplase in die area, of oor van die min gedeelde ervaringe. Soms dwaal hulle gedagtes na eksotiese plekke waar een van hulle al was en deel dit met die ander een. Of soms praat hulle oor gedeelde denkbeeldige memories, plekke waarheen hulle in gees saam was, die emosie en beelde amper helderder as die ongedeelde werklikheid.

Hy hou die foto tussen sy vingers. Dit is op ‘n strand geneem, een wat hy jare later buite seisoen gaan soek het. Die foto was die gelukkigste wat hy haar nog ooit gesien het, en die gelukkigste wat sy haarself in ‘n lang tyd gesien het. Stralend sit sy op die foto en sy hart raak van voor af sag. Sy kon ‘n model in enige tydskrif wees, maar sy was nie: vir daardie oomblik was sy iets anders, durf hy sê iets net vir hom? Hy wil so dink, maar nee, sy was iets vir haar, nie vir hom nie. Dit was belangrik, onthou hy. "Feels like I'm twenty again!"

Met alles verlore behalwe die een foto, het hy maande later weer alles begin neerskryf wat hy van haar kon onthou. Alles gaan soek om dit te herwin. Elke oomblik het hy oorgespeel en neergeskryf, en méér probeer onthou, totdat sy so naby was dat hy amper aan haar kon raak.

‘n Traan val op die foto en hy vee dit vinnig af. Hy kyk op na die branders en voel die nagwind sny oor sy gebrande gesig. “Belowe my dat jy regtig alles in jou vermoë doen om te probeer,” hoor hy haar weer vra terwyl sy wegstap, nie net fisies nie, maar wegstap in gees ook. Daarna, dag-na-dag, was daar elke dag al minder in haar oor vir hom; hy wat haar lewe amper verwoes het.

En nou is hy hier. En sy is daarbuite, êrens in die wêreld, vir hom verlore. Dele van hom het soos die gekerfde vel geword rondom ‘n snywond. Hy het teruggetrek uit die lewe en hom gekeer tot die wildernis en die woorde wat hy kon skep om haar lewendig te hou, en daar begin leef. Tussen die woorde kon sy met ‘n weergawe van haarself saamleef; dit was wat hy nodig gehad het. Om nie die kwaad, die moeilikheid, die boosheid in haar lewe te wees nie.

Omdat sy haarself nie sommer vergewe nie, het hy gehoop om eendag ‘n weergawe van haar raak te loop, in ‘n gallery, of buite ‘n koffiewinkel, wie haarself aanvaar het vir wie sy is, besluite en al. Vir hom was dit nie foute, of reg en verkeerd nie; sy het gevoel, sy was ‘n vrou van oortuiging én passie, vlees en bloed. Hy het in sy hart bly glo dat sy wel sou opdaag. Sy sou eendag ‘n plantjie op haar knieë plant in haar groen, Kaapse tuin. Sy sou opkyk en die son sien, haar tuinhoed regskuif en die wind oor haar pragtige, fyn gesig voel, en skielik haarself vergewe, alles laat gaan saam met die wind, Gordonsbaai se kant toe. ‘n Gewig sou van haar skouers afrol en ‘n traan van geluk sou in die vrugbare, donker grond val. Miskien sou hy net op daardie oomblik op sy fiets voor haar tuinhekkie stop, sy pet afhaal en in sy hand vou, en sê, “Hey ...”

Hy gooi nog ‘n stomp op die vuur en keer terug na sy notaboek. Op die bladsye het hy ‘n veronderstelde, verbeelde lewe saam geskep, kon hy alles wat in sy hart was, vir haar vertel, kon hy haar stem hoor terugpraat, kon hulle saam ‘n motor laai en die langpad vat, nuwe horisonne saam verken, musiek luister, kon hy haar by konserte op sy nek tel, al sy laaste sonsondergange met haar in sy arms deel, laat smiddae haar op sy skoot neertrek om haar vrese te besweer en homself in haar oë verdrink. Hy wou na die asem onder haar rib luister, sy oor op haar maag lê, haar hand op sy kop voel, oorgee aan haar.

Die bladsye het nie geoordeel nie.

So met sy oë in die vuur, onthou hy dat die Boesmans van die Kalahari glo dat almal aan mekaar verbind is met ‘n onsigbare koord, van naeltjie tot naeltjie. Hy weet nie of dit waar was nie, maar hy het gereeld aan haar gedink en gewonder of sy dit kon voel. Soms besig, moes hy stop; dit het dan gevoel asof sy dalk aan hom dink. Een van sy vriende, het dieselfde ervaring gehad: indien ‘n pasiënt oor hom sou droom, het hy in die nag wakker geword en die pasiënt het dit die volgende dag so beaam.

Elke oggend was sy steeds die eerste gedagte, en ook saans sy laaste.

Vanaand, onwillekeurig begin hy wonder oor waar sy haarself nou mag bevind, in watter deel van watter land, in watter arms of geselskap, hoe oud haar kinders sou wees, of sy werk, en natuurlik die belangrikste, of sy gelukkig is. Hy hoop tog so. Hy het probeer voel soos die Boesmans en hard gekonsentreer.

Die wind het sand oor die duin gegooi en dit het in die vuur gewaai. Die temperatuur het gedaal en hy het besef die wond krap teen sy broek. Hy het sy oë toegemaak en haar voor hom gesien: hy het haar hoor lag. Watter aand van die week was dit? Hy kyk op sy horlosie, dis Saterdag. Miskien kuier sy saam met vriende of familie, dalk ‘n vertoning in ‘n teater, ‘n film? Hy hou aan haar lag waarvoor hy so lief is, vas, maar sy lag nie meer nie. Daar is ‘n warm gevoel, een van huislikheid asof sy binnenshuis is, in ‘n gemaklike plek, dalk veilig in ‘n paar sterk arms. Hy keer die gevoel wat in hom opstoot, weg en fokus weer. “Liewe ouers!” hoor hy duidelik. Sy gesels, hulle gesels, dan raak sy stil. Sy rus haar kop en haar gedagtes raak stil, dwaal af. Plig roep en sy staan skielik op. Sy oë volg haar. Sy is nog steeds so goedversorg, stylvol en skraal. Sy stap deur ‘n huis, die beligting is sag en die huis luuks. Sy dra ‘n pienk trui, sagte serp en ‘n stywe blou jean. Bruin leer skoene vir die herfsweer. Daar is kamers en van die deure van die kamers staan effe oop. Hierdie deel van die huis is stil en die stemme is ver weg.

By die eerste vertrek, ‘n slaapkamer, is daar ‘n jong dame met oorfone by ‘n lessenaar en sy teken, nee, skets. Dit lyk soos ‘n taak, dalk grafiese ontwerp of kuns? Daar is skilderye van skoenlappers teen die mure, ook van lieweheersbesies en van ‘n sonsondergang met ‘n doringboom. Almal is keurig geraam volgens die skakering van die res van die ruim kamer. Sy stap nader, soen haar op die kop en ‘n arm vleg om haar middel. Haar dogter ongetwyfeld.

Terug in die gang, trek sy weer die deur effe toe.

Geluide ontsnap van die volgende vertrek waar die deur toe is. Sy klop en gaan in. Twee jong seuns is vasgenael voor ‘n televisieskerm en jaag teen mekaar resies. Een kyk op en glimlag, haar seun. Sy glimlag meer as wat sy bedoel het en sê, “Nie te hard nie julle” en maak die deur agter haar toe. Sy aarsel ‘n oomblik en dink hoe mooi hy eendag gaan wees. In die laaste slaapkamer, naaste aan haar eie, staan die deur halfpad oop. ‘n Naglig brand sag en ‘n klein dogtertjie lê en slaap, ‘n laatlam, dink hy onwillekeurig, en ook dat dit die enigste kind is wie se naam hy nie ken nie. Sy streel die kind se kop en trek haar toe. Sy staan dan so bietjie, kyk na haar kind en sit ‘n hand op haar eie maag.

Terug in die gang draai sy nie links na die gaste en die stemme toe nie, maar regs.

Die gang loop uit op die balkon. Buite maak sy die dubbel glasdeure agter haar toe en die koue nagwind is skielik koel op haar gesig, maar verfrissend. Sy vou haar arms en loop tot aan die einde van die balkon, staar uit oor die donkerblou see, die wit branders en die verlate strand. Die wind sny en sy lig haar serp oor haar mond en ore, “Nie nou siekword nie,” dink sy.

Sy staan doodstil en voel. Sy luister en hoor die geknetter van ‘n vuur êrens. Iets krap teen haar bo-been en haar oë raak waterig van die wind. Sy ruik whiskey en ‘n aand in Johannesburg, lank gelede, flits deur haar gedagtes. Sy staar uit oor die strand en verbeel haar sy sien die ligblou, naakte figuur van ‘n man kniediep in die branders staan. Hy was sy hare en baard met sy een hand. Dis ‘n ou man, maer, maar nog nie tengerig nie. Die figuur lyk bekend, maar sy kan hom nie plaas nie. Sy hou hom dop as hy effe mank uit die branders terugstap. Sy voel sy ken hom en laat sak die serp toe hy nader aan die duine kom. Haar oë dryf oor sy naakte lyf en haak vas by die wond aan sy regter bo-been, die bloed vloei vrylik daaruit. “Hy moet ophou om daaraan te raak,” dink sy, “anders gaan dit nooit gesond word nie.”

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In die foto het hy haar oë gesoek, soos vanaand. Altyd daardie oë, altyd. Hy staar na die foto en wens dat hy meer as net dit van haar oorgehad het. Daar was ander oomblikke van moontlike geluk, soos toe hulle mekaar die eerste keer in ‘n nuwe lig gesien het, of haar lag toe hy sê hy is nie spyt oor die nuwe situasie nie, dat hy net spyt is dat hy nie daarvoor verantwoordelik was nie. Sy het so skaam-lekker gelag, haar kop teruggegooi en geskud, weggetree van hom af oor die ondeunde opmerking, bang dat hy nog iets só stout sou kwytraak, al wou sy dalk hê hy moes. Hy het haar reaksie gekoester. Sy hoef nie só te reageer nie, het hy gedink. Hulle was niks van mekaar nie, tog het sy nie so opgetree nie. Die onmoontlike het altyd oor alles geskryf gestaan, en hy was so dankbaar dat sy hom dié onbehoorlike skerts toegelaat het. Daarna het alles al hoe meer onmoontlik, al hoe ernstiger geword en, uiteindelik, het hy haar verloor.

Aanraking, wens hy, hy wens só hy kon net een keer sy hand in hare lê. Net een keer haar arms voel. Net een keer haar laat verstaan dat sy alles en vir altyd vir hom sou wees, al sou sy dit nooit weer hoor nie. Maar dit sou nooit gebeur nie.

In die werklikheid, het sy haarself gehaat, die vrou wie op hom verlief geraak het. Hy kon wel nie vra dat sy steeds so voel nie, nee, dit sou te veel gevra wees; hy wou net nie hê dat sy haarself so oor hom moet verwyt nie.

Hy het nie nodig dat iemand hom nóg meer oordeel as wat hyself doen nie. Sy straf het hy reeds weg. Sy lot was geseël.

Daar was geen bevestiging hiervoor nie en die enigste manier om te weet of dit so was, sou wees om haar te vra, iets wat onmoontlik was.

Was mense aan mekaar verbind, het hy gewonder.

Dit was ‘n aangenaam om te dink mense is aan mekaar verbind, ten minste, ‘n soort troos dat iets hom aan haar vasmaak en dat iets dalk, net dalk haar aan hom heg. Was dit ‘n voorvereiste dat almal aan mekaar moes dink? Hy weet nie. Maar sy sou baie hard op haarself wees indien enige deel van haar buite die lyne wou inkleur; daarvan was hy seker. Die waarskynlikheid was skraal.

#strandlangs #begin 10 junie 2019 #deel 1 #beimträumenistalleserlaubt

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hjalmargerber · 3 years ago

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Bleeding

The three men around her grave stared each other down. Rain pelted their black umbrellas and made their dark overcoats look even darker. Narrowed eyes were fixed from behind cascades of water. Everyone one else who attended the much-loved woman’s funeral had left. The three figures stood motionless on the horizon. Between them lay the familiar shape of her raised coffin. A few feet away, the rise of dirt that would seal her away from the living.

The trees in the deserted cemetery stood stripped from their foliage. Like skinny, grey mourners frozen in time, stick figures against the clouded sky. Frost had all but ripped the dead grass from the earth.

Not one of the three was at the head of the coffin, but flanked her sides and feet. On her right, the straight, tall figure of her husband, Alexander. His middle-aged masculine frame erect. His clean-shaven face and strong jawline, clenched in grief. The wrinkles around his blue eyes spoke of happier times, with her. His clothes reflected wealth and comfort. Black satin tie and Hugo Boss shirt. Only his thinning, light hair disclosed his age, six years older than she had been. He held the umbrella in his left hand and the metal of the broad wedding band contrasted with his black Armani Exchange coat. Alexander was the personification of goodness, stability and security. With him, she lacked nothing and never would. He made her the envy of all her family and friends and, together, they were the stylish couple everyone else wanted to be. On summer holidays at the coast, they looked like an advertisement for longevity; she on his masculine arm, her short blonde hair blowing in the wind, both sporting the latest sunglasses and styles. At evening cocktails, the party would only begin when they arrived; her sleek figure the envy of every man and woman. It was impossible not to stare at her, the vibrant, smiling blonde in the black dress, the contrast of colours like a trap to the eye. But his fortune, of course, came at a price. He loved her dearly and, as he promised at the outset, held her hand when she passed.

On her left, stood her long-time college friend and priest, Joshua. They were never romantically involved, but he had been in love with her from the first day he saw her. She was late for class one day and the only open seat was next to him. She skidded past him and, quite hung over, crashed into the chair. In class, he could think of nothing else and flunked the semester. Today, here, next to her, he was still as in love with her as back then if not more. She never suspected his feeling and never would. Her fun-loving nature contrasted with his austere personality. She regarded him as her moral compass, a best friend and confided in him when she lost her way in life. With tender humility and a pure heart, he acted as her spiritual guide and selflessly directed her back to the path. He reconciled her to herself and who she needed to be, for her own sake; something only he understood. Without her and no hope of winning her affection, priesthood seemed to be the only option for him. For the rest of his life, each night, he would beg forgiveness for this love he was not supposed to have in his heart for his married friend, only to find it back again in the morning. He was discreet in his care for her and to this day, never touched her. Once, just once, she broke down in her remorse and grief, hugging him. He never raised or extended his arms, and now he never could. Afterwards and recalling the scent of her perfume that day, he would know when she was on her way or had been in a room; even that she was about to call. But this only led to pain and him punishing himself for what he spiritually regarded as his lust; he flogged his naked back with a whip as was the custom of priests in that day, in vain trying to tear down the weak flesh. But she was not in his flesh, but deep in his soul and how do you tear someone from your soul?

At her feet and by no accident standing there, was her life-long and only lover, Bjorn. Of the three faces, his bore anger, resentment and jealousy. He chose to stand at her feet, because this was where he worshipped her. Next to her coffin, it looked as if he would fling himself at the other two at any moment and tear them to pieces, one-by-one and limb-from-limb. He blamed them for taking her from him and fumed. His fist seemed as if it would snap the umbrella at any moment. Bjorn was pure passion without compromise. He stared at the coffin. All he saw were her eyes like the ocean, her pale skin and a smile that would make him fight hell to get her back; there was no cost, only a prize, only her. He could not wait to die and go look for her in the afterlife. They met a few years after she and Alexander were married. A casual conversation over a glass of Pinotage at one of Alexander’s work cocktail parties. She immediately recognized him from the gymnasium they both frequented. Their eyes would catch each other’s in the entrance, him leaving as she was arriving. The glass of Pinotage led to a chance conversation the next day at the gymnasium which led to a cup of coffee and, soon, they were in love. Their passion for each other was unrivalled and as destructive. When they were not in the heat of passion, they would talk the night away, sharing every thought, good and bad, until there was little distinction between them. It was a love like no other and without her, Bjorn was near death. Of the three men, he was the only one visibly crying for the lost love of his life.

All three men knew each other.

Joshua had to endure all that she shared about Alexander and Bjorn, and she did not spare the details. She would scold herself for Bjorn, regretting the person she was with Bjorn as much as she loved him. How unfair she was towards the good Alexander who never deserved her betrayal. Joshua listened painfully.

As the lover, Bjorn was well aware of her domestic situation and always jealous of her time with Alexander, always pleading for her to leave him and run off. Over years, he struggled to accept that she never would and this often led to violent fights that would eventually cool down. He was jealous that she needed to see Joshua and why would she want to confess anything to any other man. But this was another fight he would lose. He either had to accept her terms or lose her.

Alexander was always busy, on flights and meetings across the world, building an empire for her care, comfort and luxury. She was his motivation and goal. If she wanted a week in Paris, he would buy her an apartment there. If she wanted a bottle of Chenin Blanc, he would clean out the estate’s cellar. If she wanted to throw a party and her favourite caterer was fully booked, he would buy the company. She was unaware of his financial powers and influence. He would lean on business partners and contacts to make it all happen for her. Was he a saint? No, no saint. But he was never unfaithful. He was aware that she was in love with Bjorn and, strangely, accepted it because it made her happy. Her happiness was his only goal. Like Bjorn he knew and accepted her terms without saying so.

“Excuse me, Sir are you still going to be a while? It’s been three hours…” Alexander looked up from the grave and across to the voice in front of him. There in the rain stood a little man in green plastic work clothes, the gravedigger. He was in his sixties with a kind face and sympathetic eyes. “I need to lower her before the grave fills up with water and all the soil washes away, Sir. I’m very, very sorry to disturb you. I can see this is difficult for you. If you like I can come back later? I really am very sorry, Sir.” After speaking, the little man looked down at the coffin. The deep mahogany wood was the very best money could buy. The flowers were soaked.

“What about the others?” Alexander asked. “What others, Sir? You’re the only here. All the people left after the service and I waited for you.” Alexander clenched the umbrella. “There were two men here, with me.”

“No, Sir, I’m sorry, but I’ve been waiting there in my tractor the whole time” and he pointed to the vehicle a little way off. Alexander followed his arm and saw the vehicle. He never noticed it before. He looked around him, but there was no one but the gravedigger.

“Very well” Alexander said. He stepped forward and his boot sank into the mud. He leaned over the coffin and laid his hand on it, on her, one last time. He saw the ocean in her eyes, felt her warm pale skin under his, heard her voice saying his name one last time, her captivating smile looking up at him and felt his heart falling in love with her again. As he stretched, the skin on his back hurt.

“I’m really very sorry for your loss, Sir,” said the gravedigger softly.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you” Alexander replied and, looking down at the coffin, said, “Please take good care of her, she was my only...”

He turned and saw Joshua and Bjorn waiting behind him.

“Will do, Sir, will do” said the gravedigger gently. As usual and out of respect, he waited a while before lowering the coffin. A cold wind was starting to blow and a shiver ran down his spine. As the coffin lowered, his eyes followed the tall, grieving husband under his umbrella walking through the cemetery, a single, dark figure against the grey sky.

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hjalmargerber · 3 years ago

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The vacancy

It was an unmarked house on an unmarked road built on an unmarked cliff. The dark waters that lay beneath the cliff were always covered in white specks that grew until the surf crashed into the cliff. Low tide did not reveal a beach, but black rocks, the type that could easily shred a ship. High tide covered them like a secret.

The unmarked road twisted through a green pine forest that intermittently dissolved into small clearings of yellow grasslands and then grew into dense dark forest again. The unmarked road was muddy and there was no sign of traffic having crossed this way. There seemed to be a secret agreement that the forest would not interrupt the road and the grasslands picked up on this arrangement.

A large mountainous region formed the backdrop to the forest and pine trees stretched far up the dead grey rockface.

The unmarked house was entirely constructed from the wood of large pines trees that had been halved. The construction was solid and had weathered the winds and tides of time well, the builder seemingly aware of the demands of future upkeep in such a deserted place faced with such harsh and unhospitable conditions.

Apart from a large wooden deck chair on the porch looking out over the dark sea below, there was no sign of occupation. Windows were nailed shut with wooden pine panes and, as a result, all the glass panes were still solid, although misted by the moist air.

At the back, the pipe of a wood stove stuck out and at the front a stone chimney revealed the fireplace inside. The stone was grey as if chiselled from the mountains. The overflow of a large rain tank next to the house was dripping slowly, gusts picking up the droplets and swinging them either against the house or into the grasslands. Where the droplets landed against the house, green moss grew and covered the dark pine.

The front of the unmarked house had an overall sad appearance with a single door and a single window. The porch did not circumvent the house, but was deep, as if shielding the house from either sun or wind. One could not imagine that the builder had sun in mind as the sky seemed permanently grey. The wooden chair was large enough for two people, but still not as large to be a bench. It gave the impression of a seating shared by two, its occupants either cold or intimately acquainted. Perhaps a big red cushion would be left outside, or a red blanket would be brought out by the two to take in the end-of-day view. The armrests of the large wooden chair bore large circular stains as if left by coffee mugs or wine glasses. Here and there a smaller, pink circular stains revealed that a female occupant also used the spot to touch up her nails.

The flanks of the house contained a single window each, rendering the inside dark, or warmer, depending on which was more important to its occupants. Apart from the darkness upon entering, one was struck by the odd homely atmosphere of the unmarked house. Given the isolation of the unmarked house, one would expect a vacant feel, one of abandonment, even rejection. Yes, there was an air of overall sadness to the house, as if a great loss was suffered here. But it was clear from the meticulous detail inside that, once upon a time, warm affection or love ruled within these walls and that its occupants had been deeply happy. Small adjustments that he had made for her, perhaps to make things easier to reach, or just more comfortable, spoke of love and two eyes that followed her as she moved through the dwelling.

If you stood very still and quietly observed the space, you could see her move from the bedroom at the back of the house in the morning, tying her beautiful choppy bob back as she walked towards him who was always waiting for her, waiting on her. As the light of the front window or the open door caught her lovely face, he saw her smile upon noticing him who rose to his feet to kiss her good morning for the second time. She stopped before his tall figure and gazed lovingly up into his eyes, now smaller, deeper with age. Her slender, almost slight hands would straighten out the crooked hairs in his beard. He caught her wrists, and then while looking into her eyes, kissed her palms, as soft as the bits of fleshy bits behind her knees.

He led her by the hand out onto the porch where the tray stood with their plunger, two mugs and morning coffee. As was their custom, he poured the coffee and handed her both mugs and then sat down in the large wooden chair. She followed him and slid her fairy-like figure onto his lap and handed him his mug. She rest her head against his chest and he folded his arm around her and their day started…

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hjalmargerber · 3 years ago

Text

First story after 4 Feb'19

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked. She looked up at him from the park bench and slightly shook her head, then returned to her pencil sketch. The wooden bench stood partially in the shade of a large oak tree, one of many in the gardens. The sketchbook on her lap lay in the autumn sun and the white paper reflected brightly. He sat down and took the paperback from his satchel. It was a classic, Islands in the Stream, he was re-reading it. The gardens were quiet and city traffic light, perfect for outdoor reading.

After a couple of pages, he looked up at his neighbour. Her only movement was the pencil and her only sound the tip of the pencil dancing across the white page. He wondered what she was sketching, but soon abandoned the thought and listened to the pencil, a relaxing sound that took him back to school and art classes. He sighed and returned to his book.

A quarter of an hour passed and he heard her sharpening the pencil. Then the swift zip of a small bag. He looked up and noticed her sweater, jeans and leather boots. Her posture seemed more relaxed and he turned another page. After another twenty pages, she suddenly stopped and exchanged her sketchbook for what-must-be lunch. The wax paper around her sandwich made a rustling sound as if she’d wrapped the bread in dry leaves. Afterwards she folded the leaves again and sipped a small carton of juice, then her sketchbook appeared again. The steady rhythm of her pencil strokes made him drowsy and he closed the book for a while. There was a comfort to her sitting there. The sun was now behind them and he could feel the warmth on his back and neck. A slight breeze was rustling the oak leaves and it seemed that traffic had died down completely.

When he woke, she was gone and all that was left was her sketchbook. Thinking she might have just left, he quickly stood up, took the sketchbook and looked for her before she went too far without it. But she was nowhere to be found. Other park benches were empty too, leaving in him a sense of loss. He returned to their bench and opened the sketchbook for perhaps a name, address or a number to return it. It contained no such details. He paged through the sketches. To his surprise and on the first page, found a pencil sketch of himself sitting and reading a book on a park bench. It was a rough sketch, but the style of clothes were undoubtedly his. This must have been what she was sketching today. He smiled and turned the page. The next page contained an old couple walking hand-in-hand along the coast, the old lady leaning slightly on the old man’s shoulder. They seemed to be walking towards a sunset. She was good, he thought to himself, and she created an atmosphere with sparse pencil strokes. He turned the page and found a family picnic under a tree next to a vineyard. Mom and dad sat talking over an open picnic basket and a little child lay sleeping near them. Mom’s hand was on the child and seemed to always be there. A peaceful, serene scene, he thought and stared at it for quite a while. The last sketch was of a street café and a woman sitting at a table. She was wearing a beret. In front of her a cup and saucer. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Above her, was the name of the café, Boulangerie. As he read it, he recognized the name. The café was here in the city, a short walk away. He was sure of it, but decided to confirm this. He put her sketchbook in his satchel and set off.

It was getting cool as the sun slipped behind the mountain and he closed the buttons of his jacket. He walked briskly and as he was walking, felt an urgency rising in him. He walked faster. He recalled the day in his mind and as the evening drew near, missed the sense of comfort he felt earlier and the afternoon sun on his back. A few hundred metres from the café, he felt anticipation rising in him and then, as he turned the last corner, he spotted the sign, Boulangerie Patisserie. Yes, this was unmistakably the same place and he crossed the street to it. A little way off, he noticed a single figure sitting outside the café, a cup and saucer on the table. He slowed his pace and stopped a little distance from the table. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked. She looked up, smiled at him and slightly shook her head.

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