Our hero runs into some trouble with a crying baby on the Eurostar
The view is jet-black. Engines rumbling through an underwater tunnel. The soft, serenity broken by the screech of a crying baby. Our hero sits in front of this little criminal trying to read a dusty book he picked up at a charity shop. The only way to prepare for a trip from London to Paris is to pick up a literary antiquity and pretend you're something you're not. Interesting.
There's no greater blot on a packed train than a crying baby. This little creature is grabbing at its mother, heaving, while the hot and sweaty father looks on, drained from a day of trying. They're pulling off the newly-wed look nicely. Pinged by stress, but content in the illusion that all their hard-work will pay-off with a nice little photo album to show their cheek-pinching family. What kind of parents would you be if you didn't take your child somewhere on the Bank Holiday weekend? Memories needs to be made. If only their baby was old enough to have a memory. All this little potato feels is fear of the train motor clank and strange luke-warm glow of the neon lighting.
There's an elderly obese man in an old-timey suit munching on a £7 pack of crisps with one hand, and flicking through a broadsheet in the other. He's politely ignoring the fracas, in his own world, it seems. A seasoned family man who knows how to tune out. We also have a middle-aged lady, likely French, looking on with concern. Her bird-like beak poking out of her face, dying to make other's business her own. She seems seconds away from grabbing the little monster and giving it a hug. The kind of desperation that a lifetime of loneliness can do to you. Then we have our hero. Staring at his old book, gritting his teeth with anger – afflicted with the idea that the world owes him something. He shuffles in his chair, and rubs the rough, royal blue cover with impatient anticipation. That rub soon turns into a dig. His nail scratching the sewn surface. Ebbing and flowing with the cries of the carriage's little nuisance. Itch. Scratch. Wah. Scratch. Wah. Wah.
The obese man finishes his crisps, and starts scrunching up the pack like a simpleton. He lays it aside, and gets up slowly. He removes his blazer, folds it neatly and places it on the seat next to him. Our hero can't help but look – such is the titanic depth of his work, he's always looking for inspiration. Peering over his circular 70s-style glasses, he notices our hero's stare. They exchange an awkward smile, before the obese man adjusts his trousers and ambles onto the aisle. As he walks toward the carriage door, presumably to stock-up on more high-price goodies from the bar, he stops at the young parents. The obese man leans in to the father's ear, and whispers something. Maybe he's the baby's grandfather. Who knows? Regardless, the father grabs the baby, stands up and accompanies the man out of the carriage. This is all keenly followed by the beak woman, of course. Her face panning like a crane.
Didn't she bring a book?
It seems not, but our protagonist did, and here's his chance to take a look. It's one of those beautiful turn-of-the-century editions, way before people needed a graphic front cover to give their imagination a pulse. This hard-back's plain. Coarse to the touch, and pages bent with the charm of age. Books might be the only product on earth where the word 'used' is not only welcome, but essential. This love-lorn idiot even looks for old editions with other people's notes. You see, he loves the romance of owning something unique. Especially something from yesteryear.
Nostalgia's a curse, but people will stop at nothing to distract themselves from the present.
Great quote. Better post that on Facebook, he thought, as he took out his phone. He taps away quickly, before the moment goes, and hits 'post'. Snag. No signal. Ah well, it will go through when he hits France.
When it comes to romantic trips to Paris, there are two things you can't live without it. Old books and Wi-Fi.
Well, shit. There's another one. He writes it down on the Notes apps to post later. France couldn't come soon enough. Still another half-hour or so to go until they get out of the tunnel. Until then, and while the baby's indisposed, it's probably best to enjoy his book. He puts his phone away, and picks it back up. He opens the front cover, revealing two blank, bleach-white pages. Barring one small printed inscription on the right. It reads:
I can't read your work, I just can't.
In Memoriam. 1879-1913
'Strange', our moron thought. But, let's get out of his head for a moment and do something he can't. Think. Let's take a moment of self-indulgence without the artifice of a character. I'd love to claim that I made this line up, but I really saw this in a book. A curious inscription. The joy of a complete work capped by something so sad. A snip of something we can only assume to be unrequited love. A man's muse isn't always their lover, and it's not only artists that need a muse. But, when an artist devotes their art to a lover, they might not ever recover. This dusty book, an arbitrary romance by an unknown author, is poetry. In prose, mind you. But, poets understand poetry the least. Goodbye self-indulgence, hello arrogance.
The baby's back, and our thinker's closed the book. But, something's changed. The baby's asleep, in its mother's arms, by the carriage door. The father's shaking the obese man's hand like a mixologist shakes a Margherita. Face creased with appreciation, he looks like he just took his first shit for 9 months. Too bad his wife beat him to it.
His elderly benefactor has a cheeky smile, confident that his wisdom has done the trick. Proud that his child-bearing past could help others. There's nothing more self-affirming than an act of kindness, after all. But, it's not wise to question the purity of a kind act, is it?
Nevertheless, the father returns to his seat – the baby comfy and calm. The titanic tub returns to his seat too. He puts his blazer back on, parks his rear and picks his broadsheet back up. The drama over, the beak woman is resting her eyes. With everybody back in their own worlds, it's business as usual. Relieved at the silence, our hero opens his book back up. This time, he does something absolutely unthinkable - pass the first page.
Past the inscription page, there're two more near-blank pages. Except, on one side, we have the title of the book:
I sleep with thee, and wake with thee
Shitty, syrupy-sweet title – especially when you consider that it's not original. It's stolen from one of John Clare's poems. A bit of thievery is in every writer's toolbox, but this title should've been thieved more wisely. These thoughts aside, our writer gets out a pen from his bag. This isn't just any book, it's a gift. And, as we discussed in exhaustive detail before, nothing sanctifies a book more than a handwritten note. He slips off the pen lid and hovers over the page for a few moments. Where to begin?
The baby starts crying again. But, this time, the father follows. Our man lowers his book with frustration. He looks around in disbelief. The obese Samaritan, however, isn't showing a flicker of interest. Immersed in his newspaper, he gives his finger a lick, before turning the page. Our other bird-shaped Samaritan has lost hope too – not budging from her power nap. I guess self-serving kindness has its limits.
Our hero perseveres though. She'll be waiting for him at the station later that evening, and something needs to be written, or his gift will be a failure. He picks the book and pen back up, and gets ready to scribble. Maybe it's better this way, he thought. It will help honour the one universal rule of writing, he thought. A maxim we'd rather die than break. I think it goes like this.
Don't overwrite.
Watch this space for the next chapter
Comentários