The Ephemera

by Neil Williamson

  "Maybe that's it," said Ewan. "And this is all some kind of mass delusion."

  "A delusion so convincing that it fills the churches, and the B&Bs in Bonnybridge, and the morgue slabs with the ones who can't cope with it?" Shell replied quietly.

  "Isn't that one definition of a religion?" someone else said. Colin couldn't see who. "Just what we need on this planet is a new religion." Two or three people laughed darkly.

  "Religions usually require a measure of blind faith," Dave mused. "This is different. People are reacting to personal experiences here. Private raptures."

  "Well, not me," said Ewan. "I've not seen a thing. And neither has my family, or to my knowledge anyone I know."

  "Same here," said Dave, and a number of others chorused their agreement. Shell and Deepak looked into their drinks and said nothing. There was a dangerous moment then, that Colin saw with uncomfortable clarity. During that moment any one of them could have pursued the experiences of the group's tacit dissenters, but that would have turned the theoretical into the practical, and, in doing so, crowbarred open the carefully maintained consensus normality that persisted around the table. No-one did. The moment passed and the talk reverted to teasing Ewan about his choices of entertainment.

  Shortly after, Paddy touched Colin's arm and asked to go home. He handed her the keys, not wishing to leave this island of camaraderie just yet. In the event, the talkers strove to keep going a little longer but the spirit of the gathering had been undermined, and people started to drift off into the night. Besides, he found himself worrying about Paddy.

  When he got home he went straight to the bathroom. By the flaccid way she lay in the cooling water, only her nostrils and mouth breaking the surface, he thought that she had drowned. The way her hair floated like weed. The way her white skin, apart from the dark blot of the tattoo, goose-fleshed. The way her eyes stared, oblivious. Only the rapid puffs of breath steaming the air told him she was alive. That, and the mottled rashes chasing each other across her skin like the shadows of clouds. At first he hoped this effect was a trick of the water and light, but saw that it was too regular. The shifting shapes began at her sternum, and radiated outwards across her breasts and belly, sweeping down her arms and legs to her extremities, and then smoothly back again to the centre. Her face was a confusion of overlapping flushes. Colin burned with questions about this illness—it couldn't be anything else—but he could not talk to her like this.

  ~

  Twenty minutes later Paddy came into the back room where he was leafing through some binders of old work. The blue towelling robe she wore was damp at the collar.

  "Can I shoot you?" he asked. "Please."

  She was crying, but nodded. "Over here?"

  "Yes, the chair's good." He handed her the binder to look at while he set up his gear. "You've changed," he said, noticing that she had slipped a contact sheet out of its plastic pocket.

  "I look so young in these," Paddy said with a small laugh. "Look at my hair. And all that make up. What was I like?"

  "You were beautiful," Colin said, tightening the locks on his tripod. "But that's not what I'm talking about. You're like a completely different person to the Paddy that—" He hadn't meant to bring it up, but she already knew what was coming. "That left," he finished.

  "Well, that's how it happens," he heard her say, as he reached behind the reflectors to flick the lights on. There was a defensive edge to her voice. "Sometimes people appear unrecognisable after a relationship has ended. Like you never knew the real person all that time, or they shed the personality you knew like an unwanted skin." She sounded like she meant it. If it hadn't been for her illness he might even have been convinced.

  "That's not what I'm talking about either," he said, sighting through the viewfinder. "It's more subtle than that." He hadn't intended for her to take the robe off, but now it lay on the floor beside the chair he knew that he needed her to be as open to him as possible. The indirect lighting made the sheen on her skin luminescent. The tattoo glistened as if freshly inked. He focussed tight on the tattoo, squeezed off a shot. Tracked up the s-curve of her hip and waist to the well of her navel, took a second.

  Paddy sighed. "You always did pay too much attention to the details," she said.

  "What do you mean?" A curve of breast obscured by an arm. The hairs at the crook of the elbow sleek with moisture.

  "Nothing," she said. "It's just you. The way you look at the world, noticing the tiny things, but never quite aware of the whole picture."

  Was that how he came across? Myopic and obsessed with minutiae? He didn't think that was true, it was just that he knew the world at large would roll on whether he noticed it or not—so why bother? But this was straying from the point. This wasn't about him.

  "I want to know what it's like," he said. The corner of her mouth twitched with conflicting emotions. He photographed that too.

  "I can't tell you," she said. "You wouldn't—"

  "I wouldn't understand?" he interrupted.

  "I can't explain it. It's like a new kind of weather, or a new note squeezed into the scale, or like a colour no-one's ever seen before. How can you explain something like that?" A bright eye, hazel iris on pure white. Pupil wide and depthless. If he could focus tight enough, Colin thought he might be able to see it inside her, looking out. Whatever this thing was that caused her illness.

  "Please try," he said. "What do they look like?"

  "I don't know," she said. "I never saw anything. One minute I was talking on the phone to my mum, and then—"

  "I need to know," he persisted.

  "Col," she said. "It's no use. I think it's different for everybody. Maybe some people do see little green men, and maybe some see God, and some Yogi-fucking-Bear. But not me. I think whatever it is—whatever they are—looks into people and finds something that no-one else has, perhaps the single element that makes them an individual, and then they tweak it to see what happens." There was a weariness in her voice now. He wondered if this illness was killing her.

  "I don't know if they are aliens or not," she said, "but I do know they weren't here a month ago—none of this weird shit was happening a month ago—so it's likely isn't it? Whoever they are, I think they are simply curious about humans. They're just giving us a prod and a poke."

  He put the camera down. "I envy you," he said.

  "Do you? I'm scared. I don't think I'm even human any more."

  In the night, when they held each other, the warmth of skin, the strength of muscle and bone, the vitality of two pulses, Colin thought he was convinced that Paddy was still human. What else could she be?

  Later when she slept he got out of bed and took a long bath. Eventually the water cooled and his skin wrinkled. When he started to shiver he climbed out, dried off and returned to bed.

  ~

  In the morning Paddy was gone. Really gone this time. He knew it from the moment he woke in an empty bed, but he checked the back room, the living room, the kitchen. In the bathroom the towels were lying in the bath where he had left them the previous night.

  Even knowing she was gone he went out to look. His street deserted, he instinctively headed towards Great Western Road, despite the fact that at rush hour on a Thursday morning it would be so busy that anyone could vanish instantly amid the traffic and crowd. Except it too was deserted. No cars in motion, no trucks rumbling, no people bustling, shouting, chatting. It was as if the world had been emptied in the night, save for himself. This was what an alien invasion was supposed to be like. Of course, it was just an impression caused by arriving at exactly the wrong moment, and it only lasted an instant or two. Then, as if a hidden switch were thrown, or all the world's traffic lights turned green, a butcher's shop door opened and a young mother emerged with a push chair, quickly followed by others from other shops, doorways and side streets, and two surges of traffic filled the empty road. In seconds the moment had passed, and the world, as far as Colin could tell, was as it always had been.

  The
re was no doubt now that Paddy was gone.

  When the first drops of rain arced out of the sky, Colin leaned against the frontage of the newsagent and watched. There was something odd. He looked more closely. These drops, disobeying the usual dynamics of falling liquids, were perfect spheres. In fact they reminded him of nothing less than miniature versions of the glass marbles he had owned as a kid.

  He held out a palm. The globes of rain landed in his hand, intact for an instant before bursting and seeping away. Cementing the likeness to marbles in his mind, was the writhing twist of life colouring the centre of each.

  Colin wondered if anyone else in the world had noticed that the rain was amber, or if he were the only one touched by the invisible aliens to be allowed to see them.

  ~

  When I wrote this story, I'd been thinking about alien invasion stories and wondering why, if such a thing were to happen, it couldn't be on a far more subtle level than we usually see. So subtle, in fact, that we almost don't notice.

  Postcards

  In this city the sun draws the palette. Here the buildings, tall smears of sienna and ochre and cream press close around you; the air and the water are depthless, still as anticipation; the people are loud sparks of life, gold and bronze and passionate olive green, living embers of the sun that burn throughout the night. The main streets are rivers of bright noise; shining shop fronts ensnaring tourists herded along their lengths by brash scooter cowboys.

  But underneath this reflective skin, a darker, mysterious heart. The real city, hidden piazzas and colonnaded courtyards, half in angled shade, where passage of time fades with the sounds of the mainstream.

  I can understand why Rose loved this place so much. I can understand the happiness in her face and in her voice, and in the postcards she sent me with her letters. But I am not at all sure I understand my own reasons for coming here.

  ~

  This was her room. Room 232, Albergo Rapallo. I pause outside for uncertain seconds before sliding the key easily into the lock and letting the door swing open. I enter slowly, not breathing, as if expecting to detect some remnant of her presence. But no, the room is clean and still, permeated with a staleness that comes with disuse.

  It is exactly as I expected (remembered), maybe a little smaller; video always has a tendency to make things seem larger. It is all here. The single bed, narrow, white sheets stretched tight; basic wooden furniture dark against the faded floral walls; a single mirror filmed with dust catches the late evening light from the window opposite. A door to one side leads to a tiny bathroom, predictably white.

  I close the shutters and pull the viewer out of its case, sliding the first disc out of its box (a date, 11/6, in Rose's scrawl across the label) and into the viewer. I hold it up to my eyes and proceed to relive my first impressions of this city.

  The scene is this same room, a different time of day, two months ago. The shutters are open wide and the room seems a whole lot brighter. The camera pans slowly, a little jerkily, around in a circle from the window; taking in the bed (holding her as yet unpacked suitcases), the bathroom, the door, the mirror and finally the window again which it approaches to obtain a view of the empty side street below. The soundtrack consists of distant street noises overlaid by Rose's breathing until she remembers to speak.

  Well, here I am. I just got in twenty minutes ago. This is my room. It ain't much, but as it's going to be my home for the next three months I guess I'd better get used to it. At least it's within walking distance of the Galleria. Good job I asked for a room with a view, Huh?

  The camera draws back into the room, the picture blurring for a second as the autofocus adjusts to the difference in light levels. One more sweep around the room finishes up straight on the mirror so that she is focusing on her own image. Keeping the camera still, she moves to one side so that I can see her whole face. Given a grainy quality by the dust on the mirror it is pale and drawn from the flight and the hassle of the Italian traffic between the airport and the hotel. Her pallor only serves to underline the darkness of her eyes and of the dense spill of tight curls that frames her face. A half embarrassed smile curls her lip as she seems to be searching for something to say.

  Guess that's about all for now. I'd better tell you again how much I'll miss you just to set your mind at...

  A knock at the door draws her gaze for a second. When she returns her attention to the mirror her brow is knitted in puzzlement. Arching her eyebrows, a facial shrug, and smiling wryly, she finishes off.

  I'll bet that's room service wanting to know where I want the jacuzzi put in. Better love you and leave you, eh? Take care Mickey. Ciao bambino.

  She blows a kiss, affecting a caricature Latin pout and takes her finger from the trigger of the camera. The viewer fills with static.

  Of the disks she sent me from this city, this is the one to which I return most often, pausing and slow searching her dust filmed image countless times. For what? I don't know. Perhaps it is because this is the only one of the disks in which Rose is actually seen, and so these pictures are the very last I have of her. Perhaps it is because this was the last time I could be sure of her sincerity when she said she loved me. Perhaps it is because, for both of these reasons, this is the one of her postcards that hurts me most to experience again and again. Replacing the viewer in its case, I go to bed. When sleep comes I dream in freeze frame.

  ~

  I take the viewer out with me early before it gets too warm for tramping around the streets. The second disk is a haphazard tourist's guide to the city. It comprises little more than a series of location shots of landmarks. For want of a better guide, I am content to follow in Rose's footsteps.

  I spend the morning treading the same vias, taking in the views from the same pontes, sweating for a Perrier and succumbing at the same corner cafe-bars. Rose's dialogue tends to centre on how much she is looking forward to working at the Galleria. They had given her a couple of days to settle in before she was expected to actually turn up for work. Her boss was to be some Dutchman named van Bosen but she hadn't met him yet.

  From the top of one of the taller square towers off Via Ghibellina which offers 'an unparalleled vista' across the city (for only 4000 lira), the camera zooms in on a somewhat convoluted arrangement of red rooftops away from the main streets, quite far in the distance. Look at that. It's so unusual. Must be some kind of church, I think. I have never been able to discern the object of her amazement from the pictures but actually standing here, I think I can just perceive a spire in that area. It is hard to make out due to a localised shimmering effect which I can only attribute to a trick of the heat and the distance. I had assumed that Rose never found it because it did not appear in any of the other postcards; or at least if she did, she did not have her camera with her. This disk ends with the view of the river from the middle of the elaborate Ponte Alle Grazia. Something about the steady, unrelenting flow of the waters unsettles me. It carries a disturbing inevitability.

  ~

  By two the sun is high and has bludgeoned many of the tourists into following the citizens indoors. Unusually I find myself unaffected by the thick heat, in fact I am enjoying the sudden quiet of the streets. However, despite my sunglasses, I can feel a headache building from the brightness of the sunlight which has taken on a quality of diamantine hardness as the day has progressed. I stop at a cafe and order a coffee, sitting well back in the shade of the faded canopy. There are only one or two other customers but still my order seems to be taking an age to arrive. I use the time to swap the disk in the viewer for the third one in the sequence and begin watching it.

  This one is taken over dinner following Rose's first day at work at the Galleria. It is a noisy affair and in it, her voice a little slurred, she introduces me to her new colleagues, a confusing jumble of names and faces, all laughing. A scene sparking with bonhomie, and although I cannot see Rose, I can easily pick out her laugh, hear how much she is sharing in the enjoyment of the evening. I remember when I first
received this disk I felt a small amount of jealousy on seeing that she could be enjoying herself so much with these strangers. Without me. How long had it been since she laughed like that in my company? At the time I dismissed the feeling but on each viewing since I have felt that hollow pit in my stomach more and more acutely.

  This is Gianfranco. This is Roberto, he's in antiquities. This is Cecilia and Iria; and here's my boss, Tomas van Bosen.

  I don't acknowledge the waiter when my coffee finally arrives; my attention is fixed on the viewer. I sip slowly as I become engrossed again in this, my favourite game: trawling each visage, wondering if this is the one or that is the one and not knowing for sure that it has happened at all. All I have is a feeling born of too many late-night phone calls to her hotel that went unanswered, of some subtle change in her demeanour when we did talk—not in the things she said so much as in the things she did not. She stayed in that hotel for no longer than six weeks, and neither they nor the Galleria are able (or willing) to tell me where she moved to.

  I strain to hear the soundtrack, trying to analyze the babel of conversation that perhaps I might pick up some spoken clue that I have missed each time before. It is impossible, though. Intelligible phrases bob to the surface of the conversation only rarely and since the language is mostly Italian, the integral translator of the viewer is reduced to making guesses at context.