CHAPTER 1

Chapter 1, written in 2010, is indebted to the book Mirrors
by Naguib Mahfouz (translated by Roger Allen)

Not a particularly large space (because I want the work to be mobile and not bulky). The work is likely to be a bit fragile so a fairly protected space would be useful.

A slender old woman walks into the low back room of a bar.  I want her to have whitish hair brushed back past large delicate ears and a soft metallic off-white blouse with a floral pattern.  She is also wearing silvery, pinkish varnish on rounded fingernails that are grooved and outsized with age, and a rose fragrance.

The room is small.  She sits facing the entrance on a simple wooden chair at a pine table, probably unsturdy, suitable for four people.

On the table there’s a basic, bulbous wine glass.  There are white fingerprints on the cup of it, matt though made of transparent grease.  The glass is empty except for a small puddle of water with rounded edges.  There is also a wet drop on the base, which rests on the unvarnished wooden table and has white watermarks on it from old drops.

Sitting quite upright, with her left hand in her lap, her right hand is face down on the table, half open.  There’s veins visible, round areas pigmented with age, swollen finger-joints, two gold rings on her ring finger, and she’s holding a silver Olympus dictafone.  She moves her thumb, presses a button and a little orange light goes on.

She says: “A shadow of a smile appeared on his lips.  Encouraged, I said, “It’s impossible not to say hello after what happened.”  He broke his silence: “After what happened?”  “After what happened between our eyes.”  He laughed.”

Quickly a waitor enters wearing a dark blue apron, picks up the glass and waits.  It’s a dark room lit by a lightbulb hanging in the middle.

“I’ll have a beer,” she says to the waiter.

There are two men sitting at a table in the shadows, near the wall furthest from her.  They’re between middle and old age and wear quite colourless clothes, it’s difficult to see exactly what they’re wearing because of the darkness in that corner.  They look similar.

One of them is bent over a sheet of paper, writing on it with a pencil, but suddenly looks up:  “I’ve done yes as a beginning word,” he says, alarmed.

“Come on,” says the other one. “That’ll be really good.”

“I think yes is good at the end.”

“I think yes is good – yes is good anytime.”

“At any place in a sentence you can say yes,” says the first man, getting used to the idea.

“I would say so.”

When they’ve gone silent again the woman says into her machine: “A lovely warm dark orifice opened in a cold timeline of suspicion, re-sealing before we said goodbye but after we had arranged a meeting for the following evening...”

The waiter begins to reappear with beer. 

“…My attention had been attracted to a smiling face and a body bursting with masculine maturity.  His endless ability to be friendly, indicating his like for people generally – apparently he was content to be in company constantly. The way he walked with a subtle swagger on land and sometimes appeared to be wearing pajama bottoms.”

Her thumb moved, the light went off.  She looks up and accepts a large green bottle, in a way which is graceful and poised, smiling, elegant.

The light goes on again:  “I told myself I that I liked this man and desired him but I would not love him.  I had imagined a debauched dirty flaming episode, but relaxed on the sofa, not even removing the silk tie around his neck, he was calm, surrendering, with affectionate eyes.  I caressed him and kissed his lips.  He responded to my emotions with a contented, loving smile.”

She stops and lifts the bottle and drinks.  The sound of the pencil doesn’t travel far, but flies buzz around the room.   Sitting quite upright, with her left hand in her lap, at a rectangular table, she speaks into the dictafone:

“Our weekly meetings continued.  When I asked him about himself a tear fluttered in his lashes and he said “People hate being cross-examined.”  After consistent meetings, and tamed by habit, he surrendered his memories.  My attachment was courtesy, then habit.  His care and affection grew until one day he said, “I can’t imagine my life without you.”  I found the safest answer was a kiss but he demanded stubbornly, “And you? You never told me you loved me.”  “But I do, and that’s more important,” I replied.”

There’s a pause.  Her eyes lower and seem to rest on a red pencil that’s lying on the tabletop near where the glass had been.  The pencil, not being full length, must have been sharpened several times.  Its quite blunt lead pokes upwards.  At the other end there’s an acid-gold coloured eraser-holder which looks empty from this angle, and its rims are squashed in like it’s been bitten.  Black capital letters on the red paint say the pencil’s hardness.  It has six sides and underneath there’s a grey shadow, thin and without clearly defined edges, and under the eraser-holder two little curved gold stripes are reflected in the grey shadow.  But the woman has looked up.

 “His wife returned from her residency.  I met her at the house of a Danish-American artist couple. I was amazed to see a woman of his age, perhaps a few years younger, beautiful, intelligent, with unlimited spiritual aspiration. A rare friendship developed between us, and I, in turn, introduced her to the artists I collaborated with.”
.
It looks as if the men in the corner are looking at her: her lipstick, sculpted hair, her posture and clothes.  Probably she’s wearing perfume, but I can only smell the perfumes of the audience.  Not acknowleging their gaze, she continues.

“And so our friendship began four months after our my affair with her husband!  It upset me to the point of torture.  Not expecting it, he was shocked.  Our meetings became gloomy, strangled.  “Forget my wife.  I need never have mentioned her identity,” he pleaded.  “It’s no use pretending you didn’t,” I replied in confusion.  He said, “We must preserve our relationship – it’s more important than anything else.”  “I’m in torment,” I said, truly sad.

“If she knew about our relationship she wouldn’t care,” he said.  “She doesn’t love me – hasn’t loved me for years, believe me.”  “I believe you and I’m sorry.” He said,  “She’s seeing another man.  If she weren’t so devoted to her children, she’d have left us!”  “David,” I said, “I’m sorry.”  “What do you mean, sorry?”  “Sorry about your situation.  And mine is not enviable.”  “If you loved me, you wouldn’t feel sorry at all!”

“He turned his red-eyed face away.  “You hardly know her.  Love is stronger than friendship.  But the truth is you don’t love me.”  I had nothing to say.  And so the curtain came down on our sad affair.  When we went outside, I observed his mature person, suffering life’s most difficult stage under the weight of abandoment and disappointment.  My heart shrivelled in pain and sorrow.  A cold wind lashed at us like a whip in the dark night.”

Everything goes silent.

“And after that?” says one of the men in the corner loudly.  And after that there are strange noises, bright light, smoke, and a man starts coming extremely slowly out of the toilet.