Collection by Anne Burgot

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIKE A BREEZE ………………………………………………………………………. p. 3 ROSE WATER …………………………………………………………………………. p. 5 When Absence Glides ……………………………………………………………….. p. 8 LETTER TO MY SON ………………………………………………………………… p. 9 PAPA SQUIRREL ……………………………………………………………………... p. 12 WITNESS PROTECTION SCHEME ……………………………………………….. p. 14 The Gift …………………………………………………………………………………. p. 16 LITTLE GOLDFISH …………………………………………………………………… p. 17 THE GHOST …………………………………………………………………………… p. 19

LIKE A BREEZE

Believe it or not, dawn is my favourite time of the day. I haunt the streets of the city at its most empty. All is quiet, the air is crisp, the light beautiful, I take pictures with my soul’s eye. What I like to do this early as I wander the city’s streets is to follow people. Discretely, I tiptoe - almost. I follow their track, retrace their steps. I smell the scent they leave behind, try and mimic their allure. If I am lucky, I have seen where they have come from: home, work, a lover’s den. If not, I see where they’re going. I know what they’re wearing. Sometimes, hardy, I take a peek through the opening of a pocket or a bag. A wallet, bingo, I learn their name, their age, if they are married, if they have kids. I see a photograph. A girl. Must be six. I follow. Sometimes, they stop. They frown. They turn around. But I am quick, I have vanished, they don’t see me. They felt a breath, maybe, they felt a warmth, possibly, a caress. Just like a breeze. This morning, as I was wandering along Paddington street, I glimpsed a figure. In a flowing dress, with flowing golden locks, she flowed out of a building entrance and onto the street. I didn’t even think about it, she was that magnetic. I followed her. She had come out of the door just beside the French bistro’s entrance. I figured her lodgings might be above the little restaurant. Perhaps she was even French. That thought made me smile. She smelled of lavender, with a hint of citrus. I had not seen her face yet but I imagined her skin to be white as milk and smooth as velvet. I considered walking faster and passing her so I would turn round and see her eyes – green, I guessed, with sparkles of copper and gold. I refrained. Not yet. She glided more than she walked, yet there was determination in her pace. She turned right into Baker Street and slowed down. She tilted her head a little as if she was listening to something. Perhaps she sniffed the air too, I cannot be sure. She picked up her pace again and so did I. The street was empty. I could sense the staff setting up their coffee shops behind the closed doors. I wouldn’t look. My eyes were fixed on her. 3

She crossed Marylebone High Road. I heard more cars and more people but I did not look. I was drawn, ready to follow her the whole day. Occasionally, I have been known to stalk the same person for up to three days. Already I felt I might break a record today. I might follow her for much longer. She had both lightness and depth. I was intrigued. I was spellbound. She entered Baker Street underground station. Her high heels resonated on the tiles. She approached the turnstiles to the Bakerloo line. She reached into her shoulder bag, took out her Oyster card. I was but an inch behind her when she stopped and stood still. I stopped too, just. I’d have heard my heart pound had I still had one. She turned round slowly. I did not move. And she looked at me. Straight into my soul. And I knew that she could see me. She was more beautiful than I had imagined. Shining. She did not smile. She stared at me for what felt like an incredibly long time. I stared back, at a loss. Should I smile? I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move. She was neither scared nor surprised. Perhaps a little reproachful. Finally her lips parted. “Boo,” she said. She turned back, touched her Oyster card on the reader and pushed through the gates. I watched her step onto the escalators and sink away. Just as she was about to disappear she turned round one more time, glanced at me and shook her head disapprovingly. She was gone.

ROSE WATER

Her body swayed left and right. Her shoulder bumped onto the glass partition. She took no notice, engrossed as she was in her tattered Harlequin novel, A Witch’s Dream. She mouthed the words as she read, she knew them by heart. What pleasure does one take in re-reading a story whose story one already knows? It was her own dream put there in the pages. Behind the cover, a watercolour of bubbling cauldron stamped with a broomstick, green and black, a witch’s pointy hat, her fantasy was made that much more real. She rode the tube lines every day to nowhere in particular. She liked the rocking of the moving carriage, it reminded her of the rocking of the bed as her mother read her stories when she was still a little girl. Now in her late fifties, she still was that little girl in spirit. Still had the dreams and awe and wonder. She wouldn’t grow until her dreams came true. She refused to grow old until the life she lived inside was real on the outside too. She did not care about people, she did not care she had no friends. She cared her mother was now long dead. Still she was real in spirit, she talked to her there. She mouthed the words, a hint of a smile curled her lips on the side. No one took notice of her. Her long grey hair brushed but greasy, her grey clothes had no shape, were just a blanket to a just as much shapeless body. Massive boobs not in the least alluring, dropped on her bloated belly, burdens of a womanhood she was yet to feel. She smelled of unscented soap, so I guess it made her smell of nothing. She smelled of the book in her hands, its yellow pages looked like they’d volatilise, turn into dust at the next turn. She took great care. She had thought about buying a new copy. It was out of print yet she had once seen another one in a library. The idea of stealing it had crossed her mind but she was an honest woman. And most of all, she hadn’t felt the magic of the original copy when she’d held it. It didn’t have the same smell either. The book she now held she had found on the park bench she sometimes had lunch on when she was sixteen. It had appeared there one day, as if for 5

her. She had looked around, seen no one. She had picked it up, raised an eyebrow at the child-like cover, opened it up. She’d taken a bite off her sandwich, read the first line, the second and she was hooked. She’d finished the book in one sitting, squinting at the end as dusk had fallen. She’d lost her position as a sewer’s apprentice after that but she didn’t care. She didn’t even think about it for more than a fleeting second. A warmth had grown inside her guts that was fast spreading to her whole self. Was it love, passion, something new, an energy that felt damn good, that lit up the world around her, that made her stand tall and upright, that made her breathe deeper, made her smile, made her happy. She’d walked home in a daze, skipped dinner and sat on her bed. She’d read the book again, twice, until dawn had broken and, at peace, she’d fallen asleep to the chirping of the birds outside her window. The lights in the carriage went off. Darkness. She put the book on her lap, she reached blindly for the bottle in her pocket, squirted the gel out and rubbed her hands together. The lights came back on, she picked up the book again, her lips moved again, her eyes followed the lines, left to right, left to right. The carriage was now empty but for a lone dark figure sitting at the other end. She paused. Something in the air, she sniffed. A familiar scent, one she’d imagined, the perfume in her dream? Rose water. She looked up. The lights flickered, the carriage rode in silence. She turned her head and noticed the lone figure up ahead. She stifled a cry, brought the book to her heart. Quickly she passed her hand through her hair. She stood up, her eyes fixed on the stooping figure. Her breast heaving she stood for a moment immobile. It must be a dream, she was in her dream. She marked her page and closed the book. She took a big breath and a step forward. She paused, swayed with the moving carriage. The book clasped in her hands, tight against her breast, she took another step. She started to feel light-headed, she swooned, the lone figure seemed to glow. She smiled and took another step forward. The figure’s head jerked oh so slightly. Slowly it straightened up. He turned to her. She rushed through the carriage now until the figure put his hand up, palm out: STOP! She froze, the smile died. The figure got up, snapped his fingers, the lights dimmed, a melody faded in, part metallic, part string, a sound she’d never heard before but beautiful, for sure, simply beautiful. The figure cocked his head, extended his hand. Would she dance? She 6

curtsied awkwardly and took his hand. A waltz, no less, they danced amongst the seats and the poles. She felt young, she felt light, she was beautiful, her long black hair swirled and bounced, her eyes were closed, she was drunk on rose water perfume, she was high, she was hot. He pulled her against him. Their steps slowed down. She could feel his breath on her cheek. His brazen lips brushed her neck. His hand passed along her shoulder, down her arm. She breathed him in, opened her eyes. She reached for a handrail as she lost her footing. The carriage was empty but for junk food wrappers and a couple of drunk commuters, one was nodding off, the other bobbing his head to the hip hop in his headphones. She dropped her book, feeling faint, the rose water in the air sickened her. She took the bottle out of her pocket, threw it to the other end of the carriage where it went crashing on the floor. She rubbed her hands frenetically against her dirty skirt, rubbed them hard, rubbed them red, rubbed them raw. The commuters looked up, stared at her with fear. The train stopped, the doors swished open, the commuters got up, stared and shook their heads in disgust and walked out. Crazy witch.

When absence glides so tender still, As casual mask of gracious dream, You pray for him in evening wind, And sleep besides the lulling stream.

LETTER TO MY SON

Dear son, I am sitting down at the kitchen table having a cigarette and a glass of wine. You are not even born and already I am a bad mother. Yet I don’t stop myself. I know it can hurt you and yet I don’t stop myself. I am a bad mother. I know it won’t hurt you, I tell myself. I have faith. Ha! Or maybe I want to punish myself or want to show God how I don’t deserve to carry you. How I am bad. I am a sinner. I hurt people. I am no good. But I know you will be all right like I know I will not be and that is why I am writing to you this letter. My son, in spite of it all, I want you to know that I love you. You are not yet born but I love you already. You will grow a good man. I know. I haven’t chosen a name for you yet. I don’t think I will. They will name you right. I am writing this letter for you to read when the time is right. When you are old enough. When you want to know about your parents. I am your mother but there’s not much to say about me. I am 26 years old and I enclose a photograph to make it easy to picture me so you don’t have to keep wondering about what I look like. Like no one special as you can see but this is me. It may sound like I’ve already planned to take my life or in any case disappear after you are born but it isn’t so. Somehow I have the feeling that I will not be able to bring you up or I will not have the opportunity – which, I’m not sure. But that’s the feeling I have. Even if I am still in your life by the time you open this letter, I do not wish to be around when you read it. I fear your questions because I don’t have any more answers. All the answers are here. I am your mother. My name is Annabelle Flint and I am an average fuckedup girl with no proper job, no proper friends, no proper talent, no proper 9

skill. I am not a good person. I give in to envy, to anger, to abuse of alcohol and smoke and self-pity. I tend to be lazy and listless. I don’t trust people. I hate people. I am not good. I do some waitressing – pays the rent. I am pathetic and lonely. I have known love in the past but it’s gone and people say “don’t cling to the past”. Yet, for some reason, your dad has chosen me. I don’t know why. I don’t understand why. I thought it was one of those nervous things – you wish you were pregnant and your body believes it and shows that you are but the doctor could see you on the screen and we saw you were a little boy. I saw you were for real. Don’t you worry because you dad makes up for me, my son. You couldn’t hope for a better one. Ha! No one knows who he is, you know, you’ll be the first. No one knows because I haven’t told anyone because they would laugh at my face. They wouldn’t understand, you see, because your dad is really special and they wouldn’t believe me. They would just laugh at my face. I didn’t see the point. And maybe you will laugh too but no, because you must know that it’s true. Don’t think I’m crazy and above all don’t think I’m lying because I would never. I love you, my son, I love you and believe me I would never lie to you and as unbelievable as it sounds your dad is God. There, I’ve said it. God. That’s your dad. Or Allah or whatever name, who cares, you get the picture. Funny, isn’t it? It’s like I’m the new Virgin Mary. Ha! Except I’m no virgin. I don’t know why he chose me but there you go. I haven’t had sex for over two years so either you’ve been fucking slow or God’s your dad. Good thing is that whatever’s happened to me by the time you read the letter, it doesn’t matter and see, even if I’m dead by the time you read the letter, you don’t have to be angry because I won’t have left you an orphan. You have an immortal dad my son, isn’t that fantastic? You have the most loving, caring, intelligent, powerful dad in the world plus he’s immortal. He’s the coolest dad in the world your dad. You can tell your friends that, that will shut them up. He’ll always be with you and what’s more he’s got all the answers to your questions, you just have to ask.

So that’s it really, my son. Please believe me. I don’t know why it happened to us but there you go. Do me a favour though, will you? Now that you know the truth, please don’t go boasting around that you’re Jesus Christ because you’re not – no offense – but you’re not, like I’m not the Virgin Mary. You’re just his brother or halfbrother I should say. Just be yourself my son and you’ll do great. I love you like nothing else and forgive my drinking and smoking tonight but it helped me write it all down. I wish you all the happiness in the world. Listen to your dad, I love you forever, Your mom, Annabelle Flint

PAPA SQUIRREL

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away, there lived a small squirrel. Not so much in a galaxy far far away as in a tree really. Dug that little hole in the trunk, made his little nest there, his little home. Made it cozy and all. Mama squirrel knitted in her armchair while papa squirrel, aka our squirrel, stood guard at the door (which was just a hole), paranoid that he was. Why not build a door, then, you may ask. Why indeed. I don't know. I didn't ask. The truth is, papa squirrel scares me. A little. The word goes he is crazy. Even the wolf doesn't come near. The wolf! So anyway, once upon that time, as papa squirrel stood guard and mama squirrel knitted little sweaters and socks for children she was yet to have (they were getting on with years and it wasn't mama's fault - can't say much more, I'm terrified, but the other word goes that papa's got issues - I'm off to hide now. Better stay with the wolf.) Anyway, Papa stood there night and day. Mama only stopped knitting to bring him food and water and sleep (for her to sleep, she didn't bring him sleep). Well, then, Papa squirrel felt suddenly dizzy. He fell off the tree and he died. He'd known something bad was going to happen but it didn't come to him like he'd thought, it came from him. And we were wrong to be scared of him. We should have been scared for him. Or at least worried but we didn't worry because we were too busy freaking out and hiding like he knew better but he didn't, he was just like us all. Sad, huh. Now Mama squirrel's got all those little sweaters and socks and defo no babies coming to put them on. 12

She wondered if his paranoia was linked to his problem "in the trousers". I guess we'll never know. Hopefully, she'll find another papa. In the meantime, she buried him at the foot of their tree, curious to see what sprout off it next season. I'll let you know - if I'm still around because now the wolf has started to prance about all prince-like, showing his teeth. I don't know if to be scared or worry for him. THE END

WITNESS PROTECTION SCHEME

1) I went to the opening of a painting exhibition of my friend Carrie once. It was in LA. There, I met that big rock star and his little wife. His name was Johnny. He gave me his hand to shake and I shook it. “Who are you?” he asked me. “I am Johnny.” “Frenchie!” Carrie called out. “Are you French?” Johnny asked me. “No, I am German,” I answered. “Only Carrie calls me Frenchie because she is wicked and wants me dead. Call me Martha, will you? And I am from Germany. Just don’t ask me to speak German because I can’t. Not a word. I had to undergo a change of identity under the Witness Protection Scheme and, had I not been in so much danger, surely I would have put a little more thought into it and chosen a more exotic nationality. ‘Bye now, I can see your wife is getting bored here. It was a pleasure talking to you.”

2) I went to the zoo one early Wednesday morning. It was in March and the weather was rather foul. Rain was drizzling down and most of the animals were fast asleep. I was standing in front of the enormous cage of the parrots whose multicoloured feathers glistened in the dull light when a big rock star and his little wife approached me. “You look familiar, I believe we have met before,” he said, frowning. “My name is Johnny.” He extended his hand for me to shake and I shook it. “I’m afraid you are mistaken,” I replied. “I have never been to LA. What’s more, I never go to exhibitions for they upset me. I believe you must have met someone who looked quite like me.” “Frenchie!” The parrot called out. Johnny stared at me intensely. “I do think I remember though. Aren’t you Frenchie turned German under the Witness Protection Scheme?” He asked. “I am sorry to say you are quite wrong, sir,” I told him, indeed feeling sorry. “I am German turned Chinese under the Witness Protection Scheme. Your 14

mistake was quite natural, though. Mind you, don’t ask me to speak Chinese for I do not know a single word in that language. I can see your wife is bored now so I will leave you. It was a pleasure meeting you. Good day!” On those words, I left to go and check out the tigers.

3) It was a Sunday afternoon and the warehouse was now silent. Johnny, a big rock star, was standing there with his little wife lying on the floor. She had just fainted. A look of horror was frozen on Johnny’s face. They had been on a Sunday afternoon stroll when they decided they should have a fire wake in the old deserted warehouse. I quite understood their surprise when they saw me in there. They must have been disappointed too. I looked at Johnny, the gun still in my hand, and apologised. At my feet, the bodies were immobile. Johnny pointed a finger at me. “I know you!” He declared. I thought for an instant and shook my head. “I doubt it very much,” I said angrily. “I am not the type of person who would take any kind of pleasure in watching animals behind bars. I hate zoos and so should you.” “I know you!” Johnny repeated with big wide eyes that didn’t blink. “You’re that Frenchie turned German turned Chinese under the Witness Protection Scheme!” “Indeed my name is Frenchie!” I answered, quite taken aback. “But I am neither German nor Chinese. I am French and to prove it I can tell you that vous feriez mieux de déguerpir presto si vous ne voulez pas que je vous tire comme un lapin! See, I am not lying to you. Please, before you leave, allow me to give you a piece of advice : do not choose Icelandic for I myself found it rather confusing. Now, for the sake of your wife who certainly looks like she could do with a bit of adventure, run. I promise I will not come after you until I have counted to fifty-seven, including the halves. Of you go, Johnny!” Johnny picked up his wife and with her under his arm he started running. And I started counting. “One…One and a half…Two…Two and a half…”

The gift for future glory Began here, At heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tender beat And ultimate language.

LITTLE GOLDFISH

Inside the bowl of water, Little Goldfish turned round and round. He swam amongst seaweeds, a castle with a red flag, a treasure chest, even, full of glittering coins, and a plastic octopus, bubbling as ideas sprang to his mind. Little Goldfish would twice a day leave his thinking and move upwards and to the surface to eat the flakes that had been sprinkled. Little Goldfish, during the day, thought about the world that surrounded him. He knew that outside his bowl it was dry and rough, harmful, for, one day, he had jumped out there. He couldn’t breathe. Lying in his side, his eyes were hazed. He couldn’t cry, nor could he move and Little Goldfish thought he would die. Fortunately, in the nick of time, a pair of kind fingers had picked him up and dropped him back into the bowl of water. Ever since then, Little Goldfish could only wonder how beings could live in that cruel world. How they could feed him, clean his water and even save his life when he was the lucky one who lived in comfort while them, out there, surely had to suffer. Little Goldfish could have easily become big-headed. He could have thought himself a king. But instead, he learnt humility. He learnt to be thankful and dedicated himself to looking for the truth and finding solutions. How could he get all the beings – for there were many that he could see, now and again, looking at him from above or through the glass, their eyes filled with longing or envy – how could he, then, get them to come and join him in the water when the bowl was so small? Little Goldfish swam round and round, dismissing ideas as they sprang to his mind; he couldn’t make the bowl bigger, he couldn’t create any more water. Little Goldfish felt very sad. Then, on day, like every morning, he made his way up to the surface but there were no flakes. He got worried. He swam down to the bottom where he kept his reserves amongst the pebbles and wondered about what could have happened. Maybe the beings were sick, the hostile atmosphere having finally gotten to them, or maybe they had simply overslept. Little Goldfish decided to wait until the evening to see if the flakes would then be thrown in.

But came the evening and nothing. What if they were dead? Oh, that would be so unfair, Little Goldfish thought. That night he could not sleep. The following day, the beings had still not fed him. Little Goldfish didn’t mind because he still had some reserves but he felt very down. How could he be happy in his fresh water when, out there, beings (who had been so nice, so devoted to him) were sacrificing their healths and maybe even their lives for him? After four days of such mental torment, Little Goldfish had enough. He had started to loathe himself for how could he not react? How could he live in his water? So Little Goldfish said goodbye to the seaweeds, the castle and its flag, the treasure chest and its coins, and the plastic octopus. Little Goldfish said goodbye to the water, goodbye to the bowl and Little Goldfish jumped. The room was silent, his eyes went blurry. His breathing was difficult and he prayed. But not to himself, oh no, he prayed for those poor beings who had died for him. And that’s where they found him, three days later: on the table, beside the bowl, thinking, Shit, we forgot to feed the fish, didn’t we? Before we left for the beach.

THE GHOST

He got run over by a bus. His body was lying in the middle of the road. He stood there smiling. H: “You sure looking happy for someone who just died.” T: “Naye. I ain’t dead.” H: “Sure you are. You just been run over by a bus. Look, your body’s lying there. You’re as dead as the ghost you are.” T: “Naye. I ain’t dead. Is my ghost lying there. Is my ghost I just killed. So I will never die.” And he stood there smiling.