A collaborative effort in creative writing.
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A collaborative effort in creative writing. |
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February 2001 Collaboration Viv of First Person Particular "A older gentleman is sitting at a bus stop. He is dressed in quality clothing, with a middle eastern feel to them. He is bronze, with tight hair and a beard startlingly white against his skin. On his lap he holds a leather bound folder, tied together with a thong, containing thick, pulpy paper. He stares ahead, but occasionally allows his eyes to follow passing cars or pedestrians. The sky overhead, dark with clouds, begins to release fat drops as the bus approaches. The man lifts his face to the sky, and grips the folder tightly in strong, sinewy hands." It is when it rains that she comes back to him most clearly. She was a creature of the rain, it seemed to him now. Always carrying that bright umbrella, a yellow beacon in the masses of gray and black that jostled along the London streets. "A beacon" he muses, and then wonders if he'd said the words aloud. Crazy old man on a bench, that's what I have become. But the thought remains. She was a beacon to him in more ways than one and now she's brought him back to the city he thought he'd never see again. The pace of the rain quickens and he tucks the leather folder under his heavy wool coat to keep it dry, leans back into the attenuated half-moon curve of the miserable bus shelter. Terrible country, this. Insane weather. Cars send up a plume of spray as they round the corner nearby, and still he is waiting. He runs thick fingers over the surface of the folder, letting the tips dip inside to feel the soft deckle edge of the paper it contains. Paper that keeps the photographs safe. He sighs to think he must give them up after all these years, and lets his fingers linger long on the texture that is not her, but that always reminds him of her. A woman hurries up, juggling purse and umbrella to check her watch. She glances at the man and then quickly away without saying anything, peers through the rain drops as if willing the bus to come. "The bus... It is late," he says. She doesn't understand his thickly accented words and a humorless half-smile tightens her lips as she flicks her eyes at him, and then back to the street. He studies her profile, her pale face is bright against the dark backdrop of the rain. The curve of her cheek is familiar to him. Could this be Elana? Surely not. Her umbrella is dark gray. She emits no aura of joy. Of course, she is also no longer a girl. He decides to speak. "Elana?" She flicks her eyes back at him and away again, sure she must have misheard. "Elana?" he says again, drawing out the "l". This time there is no mistaking the sound of her name. In her wildest dreams, and her childhood had been spent mostly in wild dreams, she would never have conjured up the image of this beautiful, foreign old man. Even when she received the old-fashioned hand-written letter with its Moroccan address redolent of spices and heat, and even when she had a name to conjure him with, still she had imagined him English. "Mr. Amali." She still does not face him, but when he doesn't answer she turns, squaring her shoulders like a boxer. "Mr. Amali, did you bring the photographs?" He studies her angry face for a moment. The decision is reached as the words are formed. "No. I did not." "Then why did you come?" He cannot meet her frustrated gaze. Hidden under his coat, his fingers trace again the paper's edge. He has come on a fool's errand, hoping to find Catherine in the daughter they created so long ago now. A fool's errand. A foolish young man has become a foolish old man. She begins to speak, but stops when a bus pulls wetly to a stop in front of them. He stands, unsteadily at first, nearly losing his balance, but then more resolute, takes a step toward the open bus door. This bus will take him to another bus which will take him to the airport. He is suddenly overcome with longing for his warm, dry home. "Mr. Amali." The girl puts her hand on his arm and he stops. Looks down at her hand on his sleeve. A tiny waterfall of rain pours off the edge of her umbrella and splashes off the dark brown polished leather of her glove. She is looking down, too, as she speaks. "Please." He is close to her now and even though she is not meeting his gaze, when he looks at her face he can see she has Catherine's pale skin. Her brown eyes, fringed with his own thick lashes, are his only clue she means anything to him at all. The bus driver calls something and reaches to pull the door shut. The old gentleman lifts his hand in an appeal for time. The bus driver shakes his head but puts his own hand back on the wheel, watching. Mr. Amali pulls the folder out from under his coat and holds it out. "These are yours as much as mine." He cannot bring himself to smile. She grasps the folder awkwardly. He steps away from her and onto the bus. The driver sighs with impatience as he fumbles in his coat pocket for the fare. A student carrying a huge parcel climbs noisily on behind the old man, shaking rain off his coat in a shower of drops. He makes a joke and his too-loud voice echoes through the nearly empty bus. Even so, the old gentleman doesn't hear it. He settles into a seat by a window and looks out. Elena is sitting on the bench, head bent over the leather-bound photographs. She looks up. As the bus pulls away her lips move and he wonders what sort of words he might be leaving hanging in the rain-filled air. |