Butterflies in November

EIGHTEEN

My current abode is thirty-six square metres and has two walls of a yellow that is not dissimilar to the yellow of I can’t remember which South American flag. The other two walls are violet. I didn’t change the colours when I originally moved in. The window in the bigger room, where there is a kitchen and my computer and desk, faces the harbour, while in the other room there is a sofa bed, table, mirror and a sixteen-inch black and white Blaupunkt TV that once belonged to Mum. I kind of like it here.

He phones three or four times, until I finally answer. He tells me he has recovered from the skating incident and has started cooking, roast beef with potato salad, opened a bottle and set the table for two. I tell him that I’m recovering and need more time on my own to figure out where I’m at in my life, explaining that I’ll be quite busy over the next few days and, actually, right up until I leave for an indeterminate time, since there are a number of projects I need to wind up first. I don’t tell him that I’m thinking of changing my travel plans. It is then that he asks if he can bring me over some of the food.

After hanging up, I turn back to more serious matters and stretch out for the TV schedule.

Kathleen is pursued by a man. She reverses the roles and starts to follow him. This leads to an accident, which results in him following her again. Meanwhile, she gets into a quarrel with her ex-husband.

I turn the TV off and pull out the sofa bed.

One of the fundamental elements in any woman’s life is sleep. I haven’t washed the bedclothes; if I sink my nose into them I can still pick up the scent of my old home, the conjugal bed. I don’t allow myself to get nostalgic about a piece of furniture and change the duvet cover. Then I shake the pillow and slide it under my cheek. I’ve got eight hours of freedom in front of me and a pile of translation work in my direct line of vision.

My first night of sleep here is good, considering the lack of blinds and the flickering light of the lamp-post outside. There is nothing familiar about the sounds that travel through the open window. Nothing but the intimate smell of my office.

Some people are chatting three floors below and seem so close that they could be whispering in my ear. One of them is a man, but I can’t quite decide whether the other is male or female. The voices hover in the air.

“Like I said, he’s probably scared.”

“Are you sure you won’t come in for tea?”

“No way, thanks.”

“I have some Christmas cake to go with it.”

I furtively peep out of the window, maybe leaning out too far, balancing like a gymnast on a beam, but see nothing. I can’t sleep, so I fetch a nineteenth-century novel, a family drama that spans the lives of three generations and stretches all the way south to the Pyrenees. I finish the first half at half three and wander into the other room to make some tea and toast. I’ll buy Christmas cake in the bakery in the morning.

When I finally doze off, I have one of those totally meaningless dreams, in which I’m speaking Gaelic and muttering good morning out of the corner of my mouth to a neighbour on the landing of the stairs. Then I’m suddenly holding an empty glass bottle of Coke I want to sell, but I’m stuck out in some marshland in the middle of nowhere.

I’m suddenly wide awake again, as the first batch of buns come out of the ovens of the bakery below.