The Double

The tropical port of this city simmers with restless Latin crowds, shouts of market traders, wearying trumpet blasts of traffic. It wears its decay like the ruined head of a stone idol revealing an unfathomable puzzle of side streets filled with inscrutable chatter.

Ragged children spring at play into a sunlit haze of dust, their cries echo along the cruel walls of the labyrinth. Women peer downwards in curiosity from balconies flagged with linen while old men with black glistening eyes squint upwards from their doorsteps through a haze of cigarette smoke. TVs fizzle in open doorways. Dogs linger in the shade or sleep, unconscious balls of fluff in the gutter.

My travelling companion and I look out to the cool relief of the sea. He is aloof and unnervingly silent. Why won't he speak? I suppress a flare of irritation and point out our escape. A tiny island, a secret town not too far in the distance. A ringed address in a notebook.

A decaying ballustrade leads us along a seafront strewn with garbage, the fresh sea breeze mingling with the stench of decaying fruit. My companion flinches disdainfully. The crowds thin to a trickle of sailors, drunks and cutthroats as we board the rusting hulk of the ferry.

***

On arrival, we are the only two to leave for the island. The cool winding hilltop lanes call us to our destination. I turn to my silent companion who looks ahead, barely seeming to sense my presence. We lean into the current of the twilight that carries us through the silent shade of alleyways. The town is empty, a vacuum of sealed shutters and doors. Shadows fall. The evening turns like a blade.

This is the place. We find ourselves standing by a fragile iron ladder. I climb uncertainly up to a platform to face a heavy wooden door. Prised open, it reveals an otherworldly glow of music and laughter. It seems as if the whole town is present, a candlelit carnival shrine of faces. My companion follows, grim faced. Parched with thirst I weave through the crowd hoping a drink will quench the growing resentment I have for my sullen comrade.

In a dark corner of the bar, a girl I remember. She stands alone, gazing into a tilted glass. Her delicate face is in eclipse. Can it be her? I sense a distance, as though she is marooned in thought.

She will surely see me now. And what then?

My tentative glances are received with poised indifference. Now she lifts her head imperceptibly, sweeping hair away from the lunar slits of her eyes, mouth down turned, severe and blank as a shark's. There is no hint of recognition. She must surely be someone else. But the resemblance...

Then she emerges from shadows to sweep past me, graceful, animated. When I turn, she appears unexpectedly engaged in conversation with my companion. I rage suspecting some cruel trick devised by a ventriloquist devil.

Something inhuman now peers through my eyes, relishing my own misery and humiliation. For what possible reason are they together apparently conspiring? And what of my whispering travelling companion who has barely spoken to me throughout our journey? What is he saying to make her so intimate and lithe in his presence?

The Fortress

I feel the rusty tremor of the engine, the appalling judder of the wheels. At night there are no lights. The coach driver complains aloud about avoiding bomb craters in the road. He talks loudly and fast. I hear something about “war” fought here “long time ago”.

Tired by long weeks of restless travelling, my head hangs forward uselessly, swinging limply from side to side. I lean exhausted into the curtain of the coach window, lit by needles of daylight. My forehead glances against the rattling glass.

My veins ache with the acid of fatigue, my legs are gripped with cramp. I yearn for darkness but my head fills red with morning sun. My eyes are almost too tired to close. Damaged sunlit dreams flit in and out of my head. I see a man in the middle of a market square. He's clutching something he's bought from a stall, stammering, turned away from me. Then I see something which fills me with revulsion. A growth on the back of his neck. When I look more closely it reveals itself to be a small green carnivorous sundew.

Daylight pierces my retina. I peer at the little eastern driver, irritated. His diminutive frame shakes with loud frustration or unpredictable laughter. His shirt is streaked with sweat. He talks constantly in a high pitched broken stammer above the roar of the vehicle, to anyone, to himself. He never sleeps. His thin white arms throw the wheel of the coach dramatically with the full force of his body as we career into space. I’m left breathless by the speed. Time and again I’m thrown violently forward. My heart tumbles out of me, wheeling into emptiness.

I momentarily think I must be ill. Why is the journey so long, so remorseless? The coach suddenly spasms to a halt. I see a flat expanse of land. Far in the distance, tiny silver domes glint above the trees. I catch a glimpse of a small town enveloped in morning dew.

***

I become aware of your presence as you awaken. The passengers arise to leave the bus. Some stretch their limbs, or talk idly. Some lounge on the grassy bank in the steamy heat of the morning.

I follow you and we step outside. I almost forget my precious books. It's warm but the air is fresh. We greet the morning sunbathers lying exhausted on the grass. They are curious about the leather bound volumes under my arm. I say they are my travelogues. I often meditate on places I've visited. Everything is written and drawn from life. After some persuasion I distribute them. The passengers gaze in awe at the pen and ink illustrations. Some even read the stories aloud.

I too stare captivated by the craftsmanship of the volumes, the delicate mysterious faces and landscapes of far off countries. However, I keep a dark secret to myself. Touched with an uneasy feeling of shame, I accept the praise with humility.

***

A guide known to the driver approaches. I collect my travelogues into a shoulder bag. The passengers assemble and we are led through a trail in the jungle. The vegetation looms on either side, deep and inpenetrable. It is completely silent. We reach the entrance of a fortress. Its ruins stand high though great stones lay pounded by battle. We climb up monolithic stairs. Small idols stand on either side, flaking with flowery clusters of lichen.

We reach a deserted courtyard. The guide and passengers disperse. I follow you to an arched entrance in a mighty moss coloured wall. It has no door in the conventional sense. It is a rectangular slit raised a couple of feet above the decaying stone flags. You lie on your back, placing your arms by your sides then roll beneath it. I follow in the same manner, impressed by the assured way you reach the other side.

We climb stone stairs along the side of a wall. The stairs narrow at a perilous height. I look below and fear for my life, imagine smashing against the stones. At the summit is a garden. The low walls, mostly obscured by vegetation are maze-like. At the centre of the stone labyrinth is a small cage.

Behind the bars are two monkeys. A still, anxious looking mother gripping the thin rusty bars with her delicate fingers, and her son, a smaller, restless agitated creature. He runs with unnerving agility up and down the cage, with nimble liberty and abandon. The mother remains still, yet her eyes apprehensively follow the mad acrobatics of her son. Finding a flaw in a corner of the cage he unexpectedly squeezes free, leaping up and down at my feet in a mad dance, fixing my eyes in an imperious stare. The mother snaps in anger, helpless and trembling.

What are we to do? I turn, but you're gone.

On the Run with Robocop

I'm at the wheel of a large truck, speeding through a main road on the outskirts of Hanoi. The traffic is seething with the manic buzz of motorcycles. I have a vague slightly unsettling notion I can't drive, but it seems immaterial as long as long as I look ahead, grip the wheel and keep my foot on the accelerator.

The bikes glide crazily negotiating around the truck like a throng of angry metallic wasps. I catch snapshot glimpses of the chaos: a girl in smart office dress with long flowing hair interweaves between a fat labourer with a mattress on his back and just ahead of him, a man and his wife, the latter clutching her husband's waist in one arm, her child in another.

As far as the eye can see, a mad architecture of crude half built concrete apartment blocks rise above the choking red dust and exhaust fumes. Hordes of workers cluster and toil in this metropolis of dust and confusion, unafflicted by the simmering heat.

Beside me is Robocop. His plastic face is pallid and expressionless. His frame is thinner than he appears in the Hollywood film and he is dressed in loose white chinos and a sweat stained linen shirt. Next to him is seated Alan Sugar, UK entrepeneur and TV celebrity. He seems irritable and restless, writhing in his seat. His stubbled face is bristling with barely suppressed anger yet I'm oblivious to what is afflicting him, focused on my task. It seems imperative that we escape Hanoi. After that, I'm not so sure. Do we go our separate ways, losing ourselves in the anonymous craze of suburbs?

Suddenly Sugar turns to Robocop and yells: "You're fired!" Robocop's spittle flecked face remains ominously blank. He is momentarily still. Then he turns to face the raging Sugar with ferocious mechanical speed, clutching him on the shoulder in a steely grip that rips the entrepeneur's shirt and causes him to yell in pain. Robocop pushes him with such force the door hurls open. His body spins behind the truck into the throng of traffic like a broken doll. The rush of air suddenly ceases as Robocop slams the door shut with blind automatic efficiency and resumes his blank composure. I drive on.

On the outskirts of the city, I steer the truck down a maze of narrow streets. The crowds have thinned, the district is quiet save for a few traders and locals eating noodles seated along the pavement. We stop the truck in a square outside a rectangular concrete building. "I have to find my suit," says Robocop.

"I'm going for a pee," I reply, nervously. "I'll be back shortly."

"OK. Meet you back at the truck."

Perfect Pitch

The empty attic needed some wallpaper. I finished decorating a wall in minutes. The paper had a curious design consisting of musical notes. When I placed the palm of my hand on a symbol, I found I could sing the note in perfect pitch.