Postcard Story I: Winter Dreams
Nathaniel awoke from a strange dream. He had been in a bazaar in the centre of a village in the middle-east. The sun had stared mercilessly at the pomegranates, artichokes and entire lambs speckled with fat. There had been flies buzzing everywhere. The beautiful dark woman with whom Nathaniel had been walking had suddenly disappeared. He was alone in the crowd. There were sharp, bright colours overwhelming his senses: a tradesman hawking a glinting silver dagger, a sudden flash of radiance of moving water – what was it? – someone splashing the face of an infant, and then, as he broke out from the shade, the intensely azure sky struck him.
Something was happening.
A thin man moved into the shadows under the awning of a café. He wore a t-shirt splattered with something, and corduroy trousers so frayed that they were little more than rags. He was shouting. Nathaniel looked around again for the dark woman. He knew her – he didn’t know how – and she would explain this to him. But she wasn’t there. The thin man had a jerry can of fuel. He was shaking it over himself, dousing his hair and shoulders, and now he had fallen silent, as had the entire bazaar, as if bearing respectful witness to a ceremony.
The thin man lit a match. He started to burn. Fiery tufts of his hair drifted to the ground. Flames engulfed his body. The crowd was watching. But now someone in their midst had decided to do something. He wrenched away the pail of water from the mother and the mewling infant and ran at the burning man. He threw water onto the flames but they did not die. The entire crowd was stirred from a seeming reverie, and now there were shouts and screams, and people were running. Nathaniel was one of them. He did not know where he was going. Down this dark alley, between these two walls, until he finally found himself out of the village. He was slowed down by sand. He was on the beach.
When he looked back, smoke was belching up in mushroom clouds from the village rooftops. The fire had spread everywhere. Suddenly, the dark woman was beside him again.
“You made it,” she said.
He asked, “What happened to everyone else?”
“Probably all asphyxiated or burnt,” she said and paused, looking down briefly, as if observing a brief moment of respect. “You didn’t try to save him?”
“No,” said Nathaniel.
“You didn’t know what was going on?”
“No,” he repeated.
“It has nothing to do with you anyway,” she said. “He is not your problem. The fire is not your problem. It is OK. You are safe now. That is all that matters.”
He got out of bed, aware that his bedroom was cold. He went to the window and opened the curtain a crack. Outside, a late-March snowstorm was blowing, and the street was veiled in crystals, and everything was white and grey.
“Life is happening elsewhere,” he said to himself. “I wish I could understand it. Here there is nothing to understand. Just the little annoyances of digging out my car, and the traffic, and a long, boring day at work. But I am safe, so really I have nothing to complain about.”
All the same, when he finally left his apartment, and the bitter wind scratched at his face, he felt sorry for himself, and he wished that life could be colourful, noisy, bright… even glorious and all-consuming, like a flame.
Something was happening.
A thin man moved into the shadows under the awning of a café. He wore a t-shirt splattered with something, and corduroy trousers so frayed that they were little more than rags. He was shouting. Nathaniel looked around again for the dark woman. He knew her – he didn’t know how – and she would explain this to him. But she wasn’t there. The thin man had a jerry can of fuel. He was shaking it over himself, dousing his hair and shoulders, and now he had fallen silent, as had the entire bazaar, as if bearing respectful witness to a ceremony.
The thin man lit a match. He started to burn. Fiery tufts of his hair drifted to the ground. Flames engulfed his body. The crowd was watching. But now someone in their midst had decided to do something. He wrenched away the pail of water from the mother and the mewling infant and ran at the burning man. He threw water onto the flames but they did not die. The entire crowd was stirred from a seeming reverie, and now there were shouts and screams, and people were running. Nathaniel was one of them. He did not know where he was going. Down this dark alley, between these two walls, until he finally found himself out of the village. He was slowed down by sand. He was on the beach.
When he looked back, smoke was belching up in mushroom clouds from the village rooftops. The fire had spread everywhere. Suddenly, the dark woman was beside him again.
“You made it,” she said.
He asked, “What happened to everyone else?”
“Probably all asphyxiated or burnt,” she said and paused, looking down briefly, as if observing a brief moment of respect. “You didn’t try to save him?”
“No,” said Nathaniel.
“You didn’t know what was going on?”
“No,” he repeated.
“It has nothing to do with you anyway,” she said. “He is not your problem. The fire is not your problem. It is OK. You are safe now. That is all that matters.”
He got out of bed, aware that his bedroom was cold. He went to the window and opened the curtain a crack. Outside, a late-March snowstorm was blowing, and the street was veiled in crystals, and everything was white and grey.
“Life is happening elsewhere,” he said to himself. “I wish I could understand it. Here there is nothing to understand. Just the little annoyances of digging out my car, and the traffic, and a long, boring day at work. But I am safe, so really I have nothing to complain about.”
All the same, when he finally left his apartment, and the bitter wind scratched at his face, he felt sorry for himself, and he wished that life could be colourful, noisy, bright… even glorious and all-consuming, like a flame.
posted by Laurence Miall at 3:48 PM
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