by C. J. Driver
No, it is not for John’s sake that I go, but for my own; there is nothing I can give John that Charlie can’t, and I gain from him simply the renewal of a memory, of the days when, for a moment, the process of history which I had thought was altogether dead turned round to look at John Buckleson of the Free People and nodded, as if to say, “So you are one of them, are you? I’m waiting here for you; come to me if you can.”
*
Then I go to see Tella; that is the second part of my quarterly pilgrimage. She is living in London still, with the occasional jaunt to Greece, to Johannesburg and to New York; she pretends to be thoroughly a Londoner now. She doesn’t invite me to her flat any more; instead, I phone her and we meet for lunch in the most recently opened trattoria or in a tarted-up soup kitchen somewhere.
She never asks about John, although she knows I only see her now after I have seen him. She waits for me to tell her; sometimes I am tempted not to mention his name, but in the end I do not disturb the ritual. What point would there be? So I wait until just before I have to go, then say, “I saw John last week-end,” or yesterday, or whenever it was.
“Was he …?” she never says the word.
“No, he’s just the same; he’s not going to change, Tella, he’s always going to be like that until he dies.”
“I know,” she looks up. She is getting old very quickly, for all her glamour. “I know I’ve asked you before, but do you think he minds I don’t go to see him?”
“He doesn’t know anyone. He doesn’t know me—or himself for that matter.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I am you are sitting here. He’s not unhappy, you see—he’s just nothing.”
“I don’t think I could bear to see him like that,” she says.
All I say is, “You don’t have to see him; nobody visits him now, because there’s no point. Not even his mother any more.”
“You go.”
“I go for special reasons, nothing to do with John really, just for myself.”
“And he’s not unhappy.”
“Unhappiness doesn’t enter his mind.”
And then it’s time for me to hurtle by cab back to court, to quick-change into my robes, and to rush, breathless, into court just as the judge is clearing his throat to ask for me.
So ends Tella for three months; even when I see a photograph of her in some glossy magazine in a dentist’s waiting room or on a news-stand, I do not think of meeting her until I have seen John again.
*
And so they begin again, the dreams of the City and the dream of terror. I understand them now; they guard my sleep.
Nell wakes, crying; I go along the passage to her room and find her sitting up in bed. She can’t tell me about the dream, except that she is afraid. I pretend the dream is hidden under her pillow; I take it out carefully in both hands as if it were a night-bird trapped in a brightly-lit room and then open my hands out of the window to let it flap away into the dark. Nell smiles, and gradually grows quiet and sleepy again.
Suddenly an owl hoots near the house.
“What’s that?” whispers Nell, holding hard again.
“It’s only an owl.”
The owl hoots nearer now. He is charting his small domain.
“What’s his hooting mean?”
“In owl-language it means, ‘I can see in the dark, I can see in the dark.’ Listen. Can’t you hear?”
“Yes,” she says, sleepy again. The owl hoots again, further away. She does not stir.
“Will you sleep now?” I ask.
She does not answer. I put her back in her bed; her head lolls slackly—she is asleep already. With luck she won’t wake again until morning. Very quietly I stand up and look out of her window into the dark of the garden and the steeply falling hillside. The owl is right down there now; I can hardly hear the hooting, but it is still there, somewhere in the pine wood.
Good night, Nell. Good night, owl. Good night, John Buckleson. I can see in the dark. I can see in the dark.
Copyright
This ebook edition first published in 2014
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
All rights reserved
© C. J. Driver, 1974
Preface © Nadine Gordimer, 2010
The right of C. J. Driver to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–30633–6
