The sunlight came through the
jalousie and spilled itself in bars on the floorboards. Cyril Jones
came from the shower, wrapped in a red towel, to stand amid the bars
of sun and dry himself. The noises of the café below and of the
street reached his ears.
He moved
slowly. He was in no hurry. He powdered himself and then dressed,
putting on his old white chinos and a clean white shirt. Sitting on
the edge of his unmade bed, he assumed socks and
sandals.
His room was far from
luxurious. It contained, besides the bed, an ottoman covered in
striped cloth, with a sausage cushion and a tassel, a brass chest, a
mirror hanging tarnished on the wall, and a small circular table, on
which stood a radio, with a cane-bottomed chair beside it. In a
cupboard in one corner hung a few clothes and a battered linen
hat.
When he was dressed, Cyril
Jones combed his sparse hair. Unlocking his door, he went onto the
landing, turned, relocked the door, and slowly descended the worn
wooden stairs. He emerged from the passageway beside the café into
bright sunlight, and stood there for a moment, adjusting to the
brightness and the crowds in the
street.
He ambled slowly to his
left, past the shops and market stalls, avoiding contact with the
people there, some shouting their wares, some buying them, until he
came to the market place. There, a few doors away from the mosque,
was a small stationer's shop which sold European papers. From the
rack, he selected a copy of the "Daily Telegraph" with the previous
Monday's date, and paid the shopkeeper for
it.
Retracing his steps, he
returned to the café. The café owner had pulled out his awning and
set up his tables an hour or more previously. Cyril Jones had heard
from his bed the squeal of the awning rolling into place. He seated
himself at one of the metal tables - the only one not occupied, the
one reserved for him. He exchanged a greeting with the proprietor,
his landlord.
In due course,
the usual waiter, looking as downtrodden as ever, brought him a cup
of coffee, a croissant, a glass of water, and a bowl of plain
yoghurt. It was the same breakfast Cyril Jones always
ordered.
He ate slowly, while
looking idly about him. The other café tables were all occupied by
men, men in conversation, most of them smoking, some eking out a cup
of coffee. No one showed any inclination to move. The landlord stood
at his doorway, one shoulder resting against the door frame, his
arms folded.
Cyril Jones sat back,
crossed his legs, and began an idle read of his newspaper. He
scanned the columns as if not greatly interested, turning the pages
slowly, before going back and reading something on the front page.
Then he sat and watched the people
passing.
At length, he drew
from his shirt pocket a letter which had arrived the previous day.
It was, as he knew by the handwriting, from his mother. Taking his
yoghurt spoon, he used the handle to slit open the envelope. He
smoothed out the single sheet from within on the table top before
commencing to read.
His mother's
sciatica was troubling her. Otherwise, she was well. It was raining.
Emily Watkins was due to call; her daughter had passed her exams.
She still could not place exactly where Cyril was, although she knew
it was somewhere to the south and left of the Black Sea, she said.
Was it in the mountains? She noted that his company was defunct and
grieved that he remained where he was, the last man to leave. She
hoped he was well. Cyril Jones folded the letter again and stowed it
carefully back in its envelope. He returned it to his shirt
pocket.
Towards noon, he rose
and paid the owner for his breakfast. The man was pleasant and
showed his yellow teeth in a smile. The muezzin called his electric
cry from the minaret of the nearby
mosque.
Walking to his right, past
the front of the café, Cyril Jones came after some metres to a
flight of stone steps. Beggars were sitting here, sprawling amid
their rags in the sunlight. He threw one of them a small coin.
Ascending the steps, he entered higher ground where a fountain
stood. The fountain was not working; it had not worked for as long
as Cyril Jones had been in the city. He sat on a bench, from which
he could look down on the curve of a sluggish river. Small boats
sailed there. A steamer was moored by a
quayside.
When his company was
declared bankrupt, the other Europeans had left by that same boat,
sailing downstream to the nearest
airport.
After contemplating
the view for a while, Cyril Jones rose, crossing to a kebab seller,
whose wares he could smell from his bench. From this man he bought a
skewer of roasted lamb and green peppers. He turned and walked more
rapidly than usual back to his seat on the bench, anxious in case
someone else took it. There he ate the
kebab.
The kebab finished, he rose
and walked, newspaper under one arm, back to the café where he
lived. Going upstairs to his room, he locked himself in and
stretched out on the bed for a
siesta.
Some time later, he
rose and, going to the mirror, combed his hair. He sat on the bed,
yawning, and listened to faint strains of music coming from below.
At this hour of day, the owner always put on music. Cyril Jones had
never discovered if it came from the radio or from a CD player. Nor
did he know why there was no music in the
morning.
He walked round the room
and adjusted the jalousie. A fly was buzzing about. He chased it
with the rolled-up newspaper. Driving it into the bathroom, he shut
the door on it. At length, he decided to go out for a stroll, now
the heat of the day had
lessened.
This time he took himself
across town, to the area where a few municipal buildings stood. They
were of a grander sort than elsewhere in town. Here stood the
offices which included the post office, to which Cyril Jones's
letters were addressed, and from which they were sent. He knew a
cashier there who spoke fairly fluent
English.
Behind this cluster of
buildings stood a tennis court. The court was reasonably well
maintained. Beside it was a stretch of green grass, a sure sign that
it belonged to some authority, since it was watered by hose every
morning.
Cyril Jones went
through a gate and walked on the green grass. It pleased him to do
this. Today, a woman was strolling on the grass, a tennis racket in
her hand. She wore a grey recreation suit, tied with cord at her
waist, and white trainers. Her hair was dark and curly. Freckles
were sprinkled like pepper on her
cheeks.
When she and Cyril Jones
came level, she asked him if he played tennis. She spoke in English.
He said he used to play. She said she used to drink lemonade. A long
silence ensued while he thought about her remark. Finally, he
offered to buy her a lemonade; it seemed only
polite.
They walked together to a
nearby café she knew. He had not visited this café before. It was
smart by local standards, rejoicing in a once-smart decor. They sat
at a table on the pavement. The table was covered by a moderately
clean cloth. She talked, with an accent that lent charm to her
words. When she asked him what he was doing, he said he was planning
to visit the cinema that
evening.
At that, she fell
silent. Eventually, she said she was living in a hotel. He asked her
which hotel it was. She gestured vaguely to her right. She brought
out a cigarette packet and offered him one. He took it. She produced
a lighter; they lit up and smoked in silence. The silence was
comfortable.
Eventually, he paid
for the drinks and they parted.
He
looked back once, but she had already turned a corner and
disappeared. There was only sunlight on the stained
pavements.
That evening, he
visited the nearby cinema. A silly gangster film was showing. He
tried to follow the dialogue, in order to improve his knowledge of
the local language.
He slept poorly
that night. Next morning, he showered, releasing the troublesome fly
into his room, and went downstairs. After buying a newspaper, he sat
at his table and made his usual leisurely breakfast. He took his
mother's letter from his shirt pocket and read it over again. He
must answer it today or tomorrow. He could not remember the name of
Emily Watkins's
daughter.
As
he was sitting gazing at the street, the woman he had met on the
previous day strolled up. She greeted him and took a chair at his
table facing him. The men at the neighbouring tables stared at
her.
This morning, she was wearing
a pale blue blouse with a pair of grey trousers and sandals. She had
no adornments, no earrings, no necklace. She produced a packet of
cigarettes from her handbag and offered one to Cyril Jones.
Accepting, he called over the proprietor and ordered the woman a
coffee. The proprietor passed the order to the waiter and returned
to prop up his doorway.
They
drank and smoked. He told the woman of a news item he had seen in
the paper. It was about a town in Surrey which was flooded in a
storm. He had been born near there. She said she was from Denmark.
When he remarked that her English was good, she replied that it was
grammatical - in fact, she added, more grammatical than the English
spoken by many Englishmen. She had not visited
Surrey.
"I could move in with you,
if you liked," she said.
He
thought, before replying that he had only one bed in his
room.
She said that that was
okay.
Cyril Jones said there was
also an ottoman.
She said that that
was okay too.
So it was
arranged.
Instead of taking his
morning stroll, he escorted her upstairs to inspect the room. She
appeared to like it. The sunlight lay in bars across the floor. He
attacked the fly, which made the mistake of settling on a bare wall.
He swatted it with his newspaper. She clapped her hands in applause,
saying it was useless to be
sentimental.
She went away, to
return an hour or so later, carrying a small suitcase. She moved in.
She had nothing complimentary to say about his arrangements; on the
other hand, she had no
complaints.
They lived together
without quarrelling. The ottoman was not used. The owner tried to
charge Cyril Jones a little more
rent.
Every day, they went for
walks together. One day, they walked all the way down to where the
steamer moored, and had lunch there, in a restaurant overlooking the
river. They ordered fish, which proved to be tasteless. She
mentioned that she had to get back to Denmark; someone was waiting
for her in Copenhagen. But there was no
hurry.
It was two days later that
he went into the street and hailed a taxi for her. She kissed him
goodbye and climbed into the vehicle with her case and her tennis
racket. He gave her a wave, and then she was gone, her car swallowed
up in dust and sunlight.
After
his siesta, he fished in the brass chest and brought out a sheet of
paper and an envelope. Taking them downstairs, he sat at a table and
ordered a small raki. He began to write a note to his
mother.
"All is well here," he
wrote. | |
