Hand Me Down World

by Lloyd Jones

  It was very early in the morning when I saw her, curled up at the base of a tree. Her knees were drawn up, and her hands were pressed between her thighs. Achatina fulica—that is the giant African snail. Strange that I should think of that just then, but I did. A plastic bag filled with clothing was her pillow. At that time of year and at this altitude the nights have an edge. She must have drawn a blue coat over herself in the manner of a blanket. In the night she must have kicked it off because it lay beside her, unoccupied, if such a thing can be said of a coat. I have over eleven thousand snail shells in my collection. I collect my snail and then the first thing I must do is to get rid of the occupant. I feed them to the cat. Although some I eat. Certain varieties. Not all. You must be careful, not as careful as with mushrooms, but still careful. I clean the shell. Then I varnish it so it will not break. When I look at my shell I never spare a thought for its previous occupant. If I did I would put myself up before a war crimes tribunal. I cannot afford to be sentimental. At the same time I cannot look at a shell without thinking of it as unoccupied space. I don’t know if anyone finds that interesting. I do. Because I ask myself the questions: How is it that those two observations belong to the same thing? How is it that they don’t fit, like so, in my head?

  Anyway, I saw the woman curled up at the base of the tree, asleep, like a creature from a fairytale. She is African. How did she get here? Here at the base of an oak outside a village of two hundred permanent souls of mainly elderly people. I did not notice her until I was almost upon her. That is because when I walk I am looking for snails. If I was a birder concentrating on the tree tops I might not have seen her. But I walk as though I am afraid of my shoelaces twisting around one another. So another mushroom collector described me once. A silly old man who fancied me and used my distraction as an excuse to follow me because he feared I would walk over a cliff or topple into a hole. Of all the men who have pursued me these past fifty years it is the older ones who are the most inventive. I suspect it is because they no longer expect to be believed no matter what they say, so they might as well stretch the truth. At times I am susceptible to such invention. I suspect it is because in the snail world anything is possible. What other creature is a female in one season, and male in another? I am still waiting to hear a tale to rival that fact.

  I stood at a distance looking at her. I stepped closer and stopped, then I moved again. She did not move. So I sat down beside her. I ate a sandwich. I poured tea from a thermos. It was still very early. I had forgotten my giant African snail. I was watching the day find its way through the trees. The light moved to her legs, onto her hip, it moved up to her face and an eyelid fell open. She saw me. She sat up. She snatched her coat to herself. At seventy-eight who expects to give anyone such a fright? I laughed. I reassured her. I tried. It is hard to calm someone when they do not speak your language. I gave her a sandwich. She sniffed at it before eating it. When I passed her my cup she did not sniff its contents. It was hot and I could see she wanted to drink faster than it would allow her to. I showed her my bag of snails. She looked at me differently then—I saw the thought take hold in her face: I was a harmless old woman. I think I preferred it to when she was afraid of me. Then she let go of that look and smiled.

  She stayed with me for two days. Of course she was an illegal immigrant. Of course. I didn’t need to ask. She was very polite. I would cook the meal, then she would clear away the dishes and wash up. In the morning she made her bed. I have never seen a bed so perfectly made. Maps. She was interested in maps. I don’t own a map. I had to borrow a book of maps from my late husband’s sister. I woke up one morning to a stillness in the house. I lay there looking across to the window. I knew she was gone. Eventually I got up. I sang my way along the hall to the kitchen. I put on the jug. Then I checked her room. The bed was perfectly made. Normally you’d have said of such a bed it was unslept in. But with her I don’t think so. She must have left very early. She had taken the road directory with her.

  six

  The chess player

  It was two or three in the morning the first time I saw her. I had got up for a piss. On my way through the front room I looked out the window. I could see someone asleep on a bench across the road. It’s a small park, nothing much. During the day mothers set their toddlers down there. People walk their dogs. There’s a fountain that is always breaking down. And there’s that bench I mentioned. I thought it was a drunk, then I decided it wasn’t, it was none of my business and I went back to bed. The next night I get up. I’m standing over the cistern pissing when I remember the person from the night before. On my way back through the front room I pull back the curtain. There she is, lying on the bench. I think no more about it. Then the next day on my way home from work I detour through the park and sit on the same bench where I’ve seen the person sleeping. The bench is worn, shiny. I try lying along it but I can’t get comfortable. It’s too short and it’s hard. I don’t have enough flesh on my hip bone but I try curling up the way I’ve seen the person do. My wife is coming home from doing the washing at her sister’s—our machine is broken—when she sees me curled up on the bench. She crosses the road to ask what I’m doing. That’s one of the harder questions I’ve had to answer recently. What am I doing? There’s only one answer I can give her. I tell her I don’t know. She says I must know, otherwise, why would I be lying on the bench? She puts down the washing bag. She asks, ‘Did something happen?’ Am I experiencing chest pains—again? She insists on taking my pulse. By now I’m sitting up. I tell her I’m fine. She’s fussing over nothing. Just because she saw me lying along a bench doesn’t mean I am dying. Many people lie on benches. I’ve seen them myself. ‘Who?’ she asks. I nearly say black people. Instead I say, ‘Members of the public.’ She says she can’t recall the name of a single person who she’s seen lying along a bench like a common drunk. So that’s the problem. But she’s smart enough to shift tack. She reminds me of my father’s death, my uncle’s death, the whole motley collection of hearts whose club I have no choice but to accept membership of. In the end she makes me promise to see a doctor.

  Well, that night I get up for a piss. I check on my way to the toilet. This time the woman is sitting on the bench, very upright. I decide I won’t flush the toilet. I don’t want to wake my wife. I put on a dressing gown and slip my feet into a pair of sports trainers. On the landing I have a change of heart. The only people out in dressing gowns and trainers in the middle of the night are nutters. So I go back inside and put on my clothes. I slip out of the apartment. I take the stairs. The lift at that hour can wake the entire building. It is very late. Four am. For some that is an early hour. For me it is both. Possibly more late than early. Depending on chess nights. There’s no one else around. As soon as I come out to the street the woman looks up. I have an idea she had been sleeping. An African face. That’s a surprise. You don’t see many blacks around here. Up north in Rome, yes. On the beaches selling trinkets, those tall, robed guys with skullcaps, and on TV. I used to watch a lot of NBA; that was back in Split. I wander across the road, hands in my jacket pockets. She gets up. I hold up a hand to show that I mean no harm. She’s in a smart blue coat. There’s a plastic bag of belongings beside her. When she sees me look at it she quickly picks it up. The view from the window was misleading. I can see she’s not your usual piece of crap whose life has bottomed out on drugs or bad luck. It’s probably why I ask if she would like a cup of coffee. I’ve never offered a stranger a cup of coffee before in my life. I’m surprised how normal and natural I sound to my own ears. I’m also surprised to hear myself say that I’m an insomniac, which isn’t true but could be. She puts her plastic bag down on the bench. In English she explains that she doesn’t like coffee. I know some English from the British soldiers stationed in Split. My English wasn’t good enough for communications. Socially it was good enough. Funny to think of them still there playing tennis and cricket while we are now in Italy. My wife is Italian, which is why we are here.

 
A taxi with a single person slumped in the back goes by. I begin to notice the cats. During the day I never notice them, but at this hour the streets are filled with strays. The place I had in mind for a drink is closed. So we set off for another one which I prefer anyway. After ten minutes’ walking we discover it is also closed. Our lack of success has made her nervous. She wants to return to the park. We’re standing under a street light. For the first time I get a good look at her. She’s young. Mid to late twenties. She might be older. It’s hard to tell with blacks. I ask her where home is. She doesn’t answer—not at first. But because I continue to wait for an answer she says she has no home.

  Everyone has a home. They might hate it but it is still home. I pass that thought on but she doesn’t reply. Silence would indicate some bad history. I think so. It is none of my business. Still I wonder, as you do. I wonder how she came to this neighbourhood, to this town, and why she sleeps on the bench, and if she has to sleep out why that bench. Is there something special about that bench? We are back there now. I look up at the windows. My wife will be sleeping. I will crawl back to bed and she won’t know I have been gone. Just when I think she has swallowed her tongue she answers—Berlin. Berlin. That’s where she wants to go. Then she asks me which road she should take. I almost laugh. I tell her there is no arrow at the end of the street pointing to Berlin, Germany. She says she plans to thumb a ride. But she’s lost. For the moment at least. Her last ride was angry with her for some reason. He dropped her in an out-of-the-way place. She walked here. She walked until she came to this park. The autoroute is ten k, too far to walk. She has a road guide with her. But our town is too small to have a street directory in it. I offer to drive her to the on ramp. She looks at me as if I might be wanting something in return. But I don’t. Just to help if I can. I tell her to wait. The car is parked at my mother-in-law Gina’s place up the road. But first I have to climb the stairs back to the apartment to get the keys. In the front room I look out the window. She’s standing by the bench looking both ways as if she is expecting someone. Briefly I consider ditching my offer and going back to bed. It would be so much easier.

  I’m still thinking that thought as I close the apartment door and run down the stairs. She’s ready, all set to go, clutching her plastic bag. We walk up the road to Gina’s. Now Gina is an insomniac. A real insomniac. It would be just like her, just my luck, for her to look out the window and see her son-in-law who I feel she tolerates rather than loves walking the street with an unidentified black woman. I look up at Gina’s windows half expecting to see her. The garage has a roller door. It makes a low rumbling which I never hear during the day. I finish winding and point to the passenger side of the wagon. When she gets in she closes the door quietly after her. It’s a small thing, but I notice it. Closing the door quietly like that. Makes me feel slightly uneasy. But then she clips on her seatbelt and I find that reassuring. At least she is not a criminal or an addict. Once she would have been an explorer and I would have been a Bedouin offering my hospitality to her in the night. You see—you see what’s going on here. Already I’m thinking about my story, and how to explain, should my wife wake up in the night to find me gone.

  There’s little traffic. Some trucks making their way back to the autoroute. I have to stop short of the ramp. I don’t want to get onto the autoroute. Otherwise it’ll be another thirty minutes before I can get off the thing. So I park and get out of the car. She gets out her side. I point her in the right direction. We can hear the traffic, that low roar overhead. I feel as though I’m about to push her off the side of a mountain. She is young. God only knows what she has in front of her. Berlin. I was there years ago. My wife took the photos. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known I was there. I was there for a reunion and drunk three days. There is a photograph of me standing before Brandenburg Gate. I am looking up and smiling at something I have no recollection of, none at all. Before we part I give her all the change I am carrying. Ten euros. Because she is so grateful I tell her, ‘Wait, there’s more.’ A twenty-euro note in my back pocket. She’s reluctant to take it. I have to press it into her hand. At least she won’t go hungry for a day or two. I walk with her up to the last street light. There, as we shake hands, I see what appears to be clothing and something else, something in her bag that glints once and disappears as she moves off. Something which frankly gives me a chill. I turn and walk back to the car. For a few minutes I sit behind the wheel. I watch her in that cold blue coat rise up to the shoulder of the road. I study her outline against that part of the sky, that plastic bag at her side, those thin legs. Her head turns. Several vehicles flash by. Then it is all dark. And she has gone. I stay there another ten minutes. I half expect to see her. I don’t know why. But I do. I stay by the car until the skies lighten. Now I’m worried that my wife will wake and find me gone. Or else Gina will be up watering her balcony plants when her good-for-nothing Croat son-in-law drives into her garage. They will want to know where I was. When I play back the truth it hardly sounds believable. They will think there is more to it. That’s when I decide to drive on to the police station. It’s the only way I can make sense of or justify what I just did. For the sake of persuading Gina and my wife I will need the police on-side. At the station the night-watch is just about to go home when I appear in the door. He invites me to take a chair by his desk and he takes down everything. The hardest questions come later—from my wife. She wants to know what it was about the woman that aroused my suspicions. After all, she wasn’t doing anything. She just happened to be up at a very late hour without a roof over her head. The first and second night she was asleep. The third night she sat there as if she half expected a bus to roll up. Now this is the only thing I made up. I told my wife she was crying. That the black woman was crying. Suddenly it all made sense to her, and without that detail none of what I did or why I did what I did makes sense. A week later a policeman rang me. He asked me to come to the station at my own convenience. He had some photographs he wished to show me.

  seven

  The alpine hunter and guide

  The best way to prepare a partridge—you can take this down if you wish. First, a partridge. Preferably shot early morning under low cloud. That way the bird cannot see the approaching shadows. As far as the partridge is concerned the birdshot has arrived out of the hillsides. There has been no time for it to know fear. I have eaten many partridges. I know by their taste which partridge has experienced a moment’s fear and which hasn’t. Adrenalin is the flavour of fear and leaves a distinct taste. Next, you need young chestnuts and garlic. To prepare the partridge—pluck the feathers, salt and rub olive oil into its skin, remove its insides and replace with half-roasted chestnuts and garlic. Peel the garlic, of course. Then stitch up the belly. Or you may use a metal clip. I myself don’t, my shooting colleagues are less fussy, especially at night around a low fire. This next piece of information is important. Slowly turn the partridge over a low flame. We bring with us a special contraption for slow-turning the partridge over the embers. When everyone has finished boasting, and exhausted their memories of past women, the partridge is ready to be eaten with rough bread, cous cous and a bottle of chianti.

  Now to the day in question. We had driven up the day before. Me, Paolo, Leo and Tom, an American food writer who had moved a month ago to our village with his wife, Hester. Hester? No. Sorry, Cynthia. Cynthia. Paolo, Tom, Leo, myself. Tom has come along with our shooting party to experience for himself the beginning and the end of the partridge recipe.

  We camp where we usually do, in an abandoned shepherd’s hut. Goats used to have the run of the hills. There aren’t so many any more. A few wild ones. From the hut we fan out with the dogs and walk through the brush to the foothills and back again. You know what a colander is? We are a human colander through which the country passes. If there is a partridge it will not escape our attention. Leo is grumbling about the light. There is too much of it. Leo owns a restaurant. I’ve known him and Paolo since school days. Paolo is the foot
baller. He played second tier in the Italian football league. At the end of his career he came home. He didn’t know what to do with himself. At the time Leo was the head chef at another restaurant. Paolo told Leo he would buy him a restaurant and make him a famous chef, more famous a chef than he was a footballer. And that actually happened. Which is how the food writer came to our village in the first place.

  The forecast is for overcast skies. Perfect. But they have not arrived. Dark shadows pass over the hillsides. Leo is right. The light is too crisp. But Paolo is impatient. He wants to stretch his legs. He doesn’t care so much about the pure taste of partridge. In that respect he is no perfectionist. And that may be why his football career didn’t reach the heights that his natural talent promised. But I digress. So, we give in to Paolo’s impatience and we comb the hillside. It is nice to be out in the countryside. A gentle breeze blows the worries from your mind. The dogs run with their short excited steps, stick their noses into the underbrush, wagging their tails. The dogs are happy. I am happy.