Fishing in Beirut

May 3, 2010

Part 8: Te Quiero (scene 7)

Filed under: Character : Frank, Part 8 : Te Quiero — fishinginbeirut @ 10:02

Frank was writing about his time in Sevilla – meeting Lise and Sjal, and drinking with Dev. It was an odd but beautiful experience to put things down. In a way, dredging up these memories for a book was a method of releasing them, a benign and gentle freeing of thoughts in his head. He would scrutinise them closely on paper and then find they were gone.
Writing let him taste and smell in ways he’d forgotten. Sevilla was sensually rebirthed to be fully let go. He remembered small moments – light on glass, wine, laughter. His body seemed to rewind also, and his ankle grew sore.
He stopped for a moment. He rotated the muscle and cartilage till it loosened and felt warm. Slowly he read over what he’d done. He didn’t know if it was any good or not, and he didn’t really care. One man’s gimmick is another’s startling insight.
He walked around the room with his pen in his mouth. Some paper fluttered towards the window and he hurried to retrieve it. It was a page where he and Lise played pool in some dive.
He heard a helicopter in the distance and then silence returned. He wanted to write about Aria and wondered if he could. Might he jinx the sweetness of his reality? It was better to finish the Sevilla section before contemplating this.
He wrote down a conversation between Lise and Sjal. An English conversation, because they didn’t want the others excluded. It was something to do with awareness when you entered a room.
Lise had said she unconsciously registered who was where upon entering a room. She thought Frank did it also but Mette did not. He transcribed these sentences as best he could, knowing exactness was impossible and approximation would do. It was funny to use people’s words to fill up a page.
He boiled water for mint tea, taking a break and leaning out the window. March, and the weather was suggesting perhaps it was May. This was two years in a row – unexpected sunshine in February and March. When he thought of his discomfort a year ago he was amazed at so much change.
He re-commenced writing, drawing linguistic pictures of Andalusia. Once, Sjal and Pernilla had taken him to the coastal village of Torrox, and he remembered clear blue water and banana splits. They stayed in a house owned by Sjal’s parents, with a rat in the kitchen.
Busily, he jotted down descriptions. He didn’t know any of these people now. Probably he could meet them again and still not know them, or maybe not. Perhaps he’d get re-acquainted with them afresh. The sun hit his desk and dust was visible. Aria’d told him that dust made her think of a plane.
He swished his hand through the air. Dust particles scurried and re-aligned. He was going to write something about humans being like dust, but deemed it pretentious. Humans are more like moths, attracted to what can hurt.
He didn’t know how long these memoires were going to be. He thought he would write about Berlin and leave Chicago alone. Reminiscences of Berlin and Sevilla would be perfect.
Aria sent a text and he read it three times. He smiled at his foolishness, but there are worse crimes. I’m making dinner tonight. Come over x. A bird on a balcony opposite broke into song.

Aria bought chicken, peppers, an

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