by Joe Heap
Kate zips up the folder again, replaces it behind the bureau, and returns to the living room. On the sofa by the window, she listens to the traffic outside, while the contents of her head shift and rearrange.
Two
February
‘UNATTENDED LUGGAGE MAY BE destroyed …’
Nova stands on the platform, waiting for the train doors to open. The February wind bleeds heat through the denim of her jeans. She dislikes Paddington. She dislikes all the big London termini. The Tube she can manage, and the smaller stations. But King’s Cross and St Pancras, Euston and Paddington – they’re all too big, too loud and echoing, with too many people in a rush to be somewhere else. With Paddington, at least, she remembers the way to the ticket office from previous journeys, where she can ask for help in getting to the platform. Now she just hopes there won’t be an alteration.
Sometimes, Nova wishes she still had a guide dog. It would help with big journeys like this, with so many connections. But, day to day, she can find her way with her white stick and doesn’t have to clean up after a golden retriever. She knows dozens of journeys around London, from her flat in Brixton and back. She had a guide dog as a teenager, but Bruno always felt like more hassle than he was worth.
The train doors unlock with a beep-beep-beep, and Nova starts forward cautiously. Suddenly, there is a hand on her arm.
‘Do you want a hand?’ A female voice; elderly. It’s almost always a woman. Men are afraid to touch her for fear of causing offence. Then there are the men who use it as an excuse to grope her, but that’s another story.
‘Yes, please. What carriage is this?’
‘Oh, uh, it’s coach B.’
‘Ah, lucky me!’
The woman guides her forward, but gives no information about what’s coming up until—
‘Big step now!’
Nova steps forward uncertainly, until her boot connects with the footplate. She climbs into the carriage and waits for the old lady to catch up. Lately, Nova has become very aware of her reliance on acts of kindness like this. Mostly, she can get by, but the average day contains several offers of help, a few of which she accepts. This is how it has always been. She accepts that this kindness is part of human nature. If she could see, would everyone leave her alone? The thought saddens her.
‘What seat are you, love?’
‘Thirty-two. I think it’s a window seat. Not that I need it!’ Nova quips. The old lady clears her throat uncomfortably, clasps her elbow and guides her through the carriage until she is at her seat. Somebody is sitting there already, but is persuaded to move by the old lady.
Nova slides carefully into the space by the redundant window seat, clasping her rucksack in her lap. If she puts it in the luggage rack she might never find it again, and wouldn’t know if someone tried to steal it.
It’s a month since her first conversation with Alex. She has seen experts in human eyesight, neuroscience, and psychology. She’s spoken to her parents. When she wakes in the morning, exotic words and phrases like rhodopsin, pupillary light reflex and occipital lobe repeat in her head like a tune she can’t stop humming.
The train pulls out of the station, and Nova listens carefully to the announcements before putting her headphones on. She listens to the playlists on her phone until she finds the one she’s looking for – ’80s disco tunes that she hasn’t listened to since university.
That’s where she’s going – back to Oxford. She hasn’t been since graduation. She’s stayed in touch with people, but it seems like another world now. After ten years of ferrying herself between work and home, Oxford is a distant galaxy.
Nova gets a taxi from the station. She can still remember how to get the bus, but she doesn’t need the hassle today. The taxi deposits her a minute’s walk from her old college, and Nova stops someone to help orient herself. The first person is a tourist, so she tries again and finds a student.
‘Am I near the Modern Languages building?’
‘Yeah, you’re just around the corner, on Bristol Street. Want me to take you?’
‘No, thanks; I’ve got my bearings now.’
She edges down the street, swinging her stick ahead of her in narrow arcs, tapping at the wall until she finds the turning into a wide courtyard.
When people talk about Oxford, they talk about the soft, golden stone of the buildings or the jewel-green of the lawns. They talk about dreaming spires piercing the sky. But Nova’s memories are all of the sound of Oxford. The gentle hum of a city where so many people cycle. The murmur of the quads. The threnody of bells from colleges and chapels.
Oxford, to Nova, is like a well-worn quilt, soft and blanketing. Its sonic signature is all the more striking for leaving London behind. The contrast is as clear as the first time she stepped from an air-conditioned plane onto the airport concourse in Pakistan as a child. The climate here is different.
Nova stands and listens for a moment, then moves toward the steps of the Modern Languages building. Her stick taps in front of her, to the left as she is stepping forward with her right foot, to the right when she is stepping with her left. The motion is as automatic as walking itself, though sighted friends have told Nova how difficult it is. They veer off course when they try it. They say it is nerve-wracking, which makes Nova wonder if she got over the fear, or just got used to it. She can feel everything the stick is telling her – the gentle undulations of the path, the border between the path and the lawn, the varying textures of the stones.
Getting lost is always a possibility. Just a chance to meet new people! she’ll deadpan, though it’s truly frustrating. She wants to ask sighted people what it’s like to know where everything is, when you’re standing still. What it’s like to know that the path is curving to the right, and there are trees over there, and a lake on the horizon. Do they see these things constantly, like an instrument playing an unbroken note, or do they come in bursts? Is it difficult, seeing all that stuff?
She knows that sighted people can be distracted by things they see, like a man crashing his car because of a flashy billboard. Is it difficult, seeing and carrying on a conversation, or walking? She guesses it must be like walking with the stick – you get used to doing both.
Nova comes to the steps of the Modern Languages building, and her feet remember the height of each stone, so that the climb is quick and easy. She feels for the door and grabs the handle just as someone starts to open it. She starts to topple forward, then catches herself.
‘Oh, sorry! Saw you coming and thought I’d be helpful.’ The girl’s voice is panicked.
‘Not to worry!’
This is something else Nova does not understand – how someone can see through a window or a glass door. No matter how often people use words like transparent and opaque, the idea feels impossible, like trying to sing two notes at the same time. Seeing through solid objects is as strange as passing your hand through them. Like walking through walls.
Another familiar thing now – the smell of the corridors. Nova supposes it is something to do with the plastic floors, or the kind of cleaning product they use. But the smell, so long forgotten, is instantly recalled. It’s a clean smell, though not a homely one. It reminds her of long hours spent in the library and computer labs.
She knows her way very well now. She could move without her stick, except there might be objects in the hall for her to trip over. But she walks quickly, turning corners and counting down doors until she finds it, Room 204. She runs her hands over the door until she comes to a small sign, written in Braille:
Sanitation Supplies and Hamburger Storage Area.
Nova smiles; the dumb joke must be superglued to the door. She knocks gently and listens for the shuffle of feet within, the hand searching for the handle. The door opens.
‘Yes?’
The voice is familiar, though perhaps a little thinner, in person – a voice no longer entirely in its prime.
‘It’s me, John.’
‘Jillian Safinova! Stay there so
I can get a good look at you.’
She stands still while the professor puts his arms on her shoulders. This is their joke – John is as blind as she is. More blind, even (Blinder? Is that a word?) – he has no light, no pastel colours, as she does.
‘A little shorter than last time I saw you.’
‘It’s true – I’ve been shrinking. Saves on renting a big flat in London.’
‘Come on, come in, make yourself comfortable.’
He retreats from the door and she steps into 204. The smell in here is quite different, but every bit as familiar. Nova can break it down into three main components:
1) bergamot from countless mugs of Earl Grey tea;
2) the books that line all of one wall;
3) the leather armchair that sits in one corner.
John closes the door after her, and Nova finds the chair in which she has always sat. Everything is always in the same place in 204, just like things are always in the same place in her own home. There is never a fear of bumping into an unexpected obstacle. She hears John cross the room and settle himself into his own chair.
‘Can I get you anything? A drink? I’ve still got the cookie jar.’
‘No, thank you. It’s good to be here – it hasn’t changed.’
‘Really? I suppose you’re right. How are you?
‘I’m okay,’ Nova starts, then stops. She is not entirely okay, and they both know she wouldn’t be here if she were. They’ve always stayed in touch, through emails and calls, but actual visits are challenging. They haven’t sat in the same room for years. John chuckles, softly.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
Nova takes a deep breath, as though she’s about to cross a crowded room, and starts to talk. She explains the procedure, the chance of success (good), and the chance of full rehabilitation afterwards (not so good). She describes the details – how it would be done and how long it would take, but does not mention her fears. She doesn’t pose riddles or thought experiments. She just wants to hear his reaction.
When she is done, Nova pauses, not prompting him.
‘Well … fuck me.’ John says, simply.
‘Yeah.’ Nova grins, waiting for more.
‘So, I’m making an educated guess here,’ he says, slowly. ‘You’re worried about what it would mean to see. You’re worried about not understanding it. And you want to ask me what I would do.’
Nova laughs at how quickly he has understood. ‘Yep, that’s about right.’
‘I see.’ John pauses for a long moment, thinking. ‘Of course, we’re not entirely the same, you and I.’
‘No, I know.’
Nova has been blind from birth – other than the soft, gauzy light, she has never seen anything. John is sixty now, but was sighted until his early thirties, when an infection burned his vision away, leaving no consoling haze.
He pop-pop-pops his lips, a habit of his when thinking.
‘I wouldn’t do it,’ he says, suddenly.
Nova feels like the air has been knocked out of her. ‘What? Just like that?’ She says.
‘You wanted more?’ She can hear his smile.
‘Well, maybe a bit. Some context, maybe?’
‘Mmm … mm-hm,’ he murmurs. Nova has spent so much time in this office, listening to John Katzner thinking. He was her tutor, very briefly. He specializes in literary translation, but her degree was interpretation. The difference is important, to those who care. John is careful with language, in a way that Nova isn’t. She uses language freely, like someone running downhill, carried by her momentum. John uses language like someone picking their way over a minefield. He clears his throat and begins to translate his thoughts.
‘After I went blind, I still saw things all the time. Did I ever tell you that?’
‘No.’
‘At first I saw them only when I was dreaming. In my dreams, I would see as well as I used to, when my eyes were working. My house, my office, the campsite we went to when I was six … Then, I started to see things during the day as well.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Oh, all sorts of things. Trees, traffic, pages of blurred text, hovering in front of me. Nothing so awful, though it was a sad reminder of what I used to have. A distraction, too – as if it wasn’t difficult enough to get used to being blind!’
He laughs, then sighs.
‘Anyway, these hallucinations carried on for a long time. I got used to them. I even appreciated them – they were a memento of a place I used to live. Sometimes in the morning or evening, I would see a white semicircle hovering in front of me, shimmering. I think it was my memory of a sunrise, or sunset …’
He falls silent. After half a minute has passed, Nova prompts him.
‘So?’
‘So, after a little longer, these visions started to get fainter. I was starting to forget what it was like to see. I stopped seeing in my dreams all the time. I was sad that my keepsakes might not always be with me, but I wasn’t too sad. I was getting used to being blind, by this time.’
He clears his throat, and Nova feels bad for bringing this up. John has always helped with her problems, but he’s never talked about himself like this.
‘One day I woke up and … how can I put it? It was as though my last memories were going up in flames.’
His voice is shaking, very slightly.
‘I saw things that made no sense – endless grey bodies, walking up endless grey staircases, flashes of colour as I fell down infinite drops, grotesque faces that screamed then melted back into the grey. I was crossing over a threshold, you see – though my eyes hadn’t worked for many months, I remembered what it was like to be able to see. Now, that was crumbling away, and I was stepping into another world. A nightmare world. I didn’t know if I would ever escape it. For two weeks, I couldn’t leave the house. For two weeks, the visions never stopped. Then, after two weeks, they grew fainter and fainter, and stopped altogether. And I felt peaceful …’
He sighs a long, shaky breath.
‘So, that’s why I wouldn’t do it, Nova. Not because it wouldn’t be good to see again. But because I don’t think I could make myself walk through that door again. I don’t think I could voluntarily step over that threshold. Becoming blind was a kind of rebirth, for me.’
After this, they talk about other things. What they have been doing with their lives. How students are getting more inventive at plagiarism (John). How criminals are getting more inventive at lying (Nova). How restaurants still don’t have Braille menus. Finally, Nova asks her phone the time, and discovers it is time to be going.
‘You must come back soon.’ Perhaps Nova is imagining it, but he sounds more wistful than usual.
‘I will, when I have a chance. You should visit London sometime. I can show you the sights!’
He chuckles at the bad joke. ‘Are you happy down there, Nova?’
‘I suppose. Not unhappy.’
‘Well, if you ever get sick of talking to murderers and rapists, give me a call. They owe me a favour around here, and if you ever wanted a job …’
He trails off. Nova is too surprised to say anything meaningful, and just says, ‘Thank you.’
‘Well, just bear it in mind, eh? Talk soon.’
She’s about to leave, when she thinks of one last question.
‘John – do you remember anything? From when you could see?’
Again, the pop-pop-popping as he thinks.
‘Perhaps …’ He sounds uncertain. ‘Sometimes I think I can remember what that sunset looked like … a semi-circle … a curve and a line … but the colours are all gone.’
Nova pats him on the shoulder. ‘Talk soon, John.’
She finds her way out of Room 204, out of the faculty building, out onto the lawns. The sun is starting to set. It’s raining, lightly, and she doesn’t have an umbrella, but Nova doesn’t notice much. She has more questions than when she arrived. She trudges off to find another taxi rank.
It’s the weekend
, and Kate is alone. She has done nothing with the day – just sat and watched TV, hardly focussing on the moving pictures. Her head hurts, and she’s groggy, as though she never really woke up.
She stands up carefully and walks to the window. At the new flat there is a Juliet balcony where she will be able to sit and watch the sun rise and set. Here, the view is over standing waves of slate roofs, prickling with aerials and chimney pots. This sunset seems especially colourful – a pollution sheen of bronze and pink, bands of silver and bruise-purple. Everything fading into the navy blue of the city night. It’s never truly dark here.
When Tony finally came home from work yesterday, he’d acted as though nothing had happened, coming up behind her in the kitchen and kissing her neck.
‘How’re you doing?’
She hadn’t turned to face him. ‘Well, my head hurts …’
‘Yeah, that was some tumble you took!’
Kate looked at him for the first time, and he was smiling, kindly, a totally different person from her memory of the man who had loomed over her in the kitchen. He was carrying a bag of shopping, and she could see the brand of raisin cookies she likes. Doubt crept in.
‘What was that argument about? The piece of paper?’
‘Argument? I didn’t think we were arguing.’ He put the shopping down and took her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes as though concerned for her sanity. ‘I was just joking around, not letting you open that piece of paper. Then you stepped back and …’ He trailed off into silence, shrugging.
His face was open and smiling – Kate couldn’t believe the version of events in her own head anymore. Had she misinterpreted the whole thing? She didn’t flinch when he pulled her into a hug.
Now Kate stands and watches the semi-circle of sun as it dips below the houses, watching the colours lose their lustre. She feels that this moment is important, but doesn’t know why. The feeling has haunted her all day – the sense that she has stepped out of her own life and into a story. She put on music earlier, and felt as though it were the soundtrack to the movie of her life. She keeps thinking of the folder full of her paintings, but does not get it out again. Perhaps she is going crazy.
