The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth

by Malcolm Pryce

  Cadwaladr joined me and placed his elbows on the railing.

  ‘When are you going to tell me?’ I said.

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Where Rimbaud went during his missing years.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you that?’

  ‘No.’

  He nodded and thought for a while. And then he said, ‘He went to see the widow. The widow of the man he slew in the ravine. Remember me telling you that story? That’s who he went to see. The guy’s widow.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Don’t know. These things happen that way sometimes.’

  ‘How did he know where to find her?’

  ‘I don’t suppose he did. But he had all the time in the world. Probably just wandered around for a while. Then one day he arrives in some dusty, sun-beaten one-horse town. The sort of place you might stop to get a glass of water but not much else. And maybe buy some feed for your animal. He left his mule with the ostler and went for a walk and as he passed the town library a woman came out of the revolving door carrying some books under her arm. She dropped one and bent down to pick it up and, without thinking, so did Waldo. Their hands met on the book for a second and she pulled her hand back and Waldo picked up the book and handed it to her. It was a collection of poems by the French symbolist, Rimbaud. The lady took the book and at that moment Waldo, or Rimbaud as he was just about to become, looked up into her face and gasped. Her skin, he said, was the colour and sheen of a freshly opened bar of the finest Swiss milk chocolate; her eyes deeper and darker than a moonlit pool. Eyes so big and so pure and clear that you couldn’t look at them without wanting to swim in those depths and never return to the shore. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, he said, the most beautiful woman it was possible for a mortal to lay eyes on: and, if that wasn’t enough, she spoke French. After she took the book from the thunderstruck Waldo she did a little curtsey and said, “Merci, monsieur.” And then she left and Waldo stood staring at the empty street for the next ten minutes. He sold his mule to the ostler, sold his saddle and the two little pouches of prospected gold and went to the inn. “How long you planning on staying?” they asked, and he said, “However long it takes.”

  ‘He knew without needing to be told that the divine vision he’d seen on the library steps was the local French teacher so he signed up for some lessons. You will have guessed by now who the woman was: the widow of the dead soldier, of course. But it was quite a while before Rimbaud guessed and by that time it was too late. Her name was Isabella. I mean that’s what they all called her, I don’t know her real name. It’s not important. When she saw Rimbaud at her lesson the following week she thought it must have been a coincidence ordained by fate. A belief only further reinforced when she found out his name was Rimbaud. Well, he had to tell her something, didn’t he? But that’s my favourite poet! she said in delight. How amazing, said Rimbaud, it was my mother’s favourite poet, that’s why she named me thus. And Isabella laughed. For the first time since the news of her husband’s death reached her, she laughed. Laughed with childish delight at the silly coincidence of their names. Perhaps if she had been a little better versed in the ways of the world she might have known that the likelihood of someone from Bala being named Rimbaud in honour of his mother’s favourite poet was not high. But she didn’t. Soon they were best of friends. And not long after that they were more than just good friends. So it is between a man and a woman the whole world over. And has been since this world was made. The townspeople were also pleased. Isabella was a popular girl and had shown the correct amount of piety that decorum demanded after the death of her brave husband. But life, as we all know, must go on and we must go on with it. They rejoiced when they saw the burgeoning relationship with the stranger in their midst. They could see he had brought joy back into her life, and laughter into the lonely home where the daughter, Carmencita, was growing up into a fine child. Before long, Rimbaud moved into the house and the little Carmencita began to call him “Dad” and the townspeople were doubly pleased. Because it is not right for a child to grow and not know a father. And, though he had slain her dad, it did not stop him loving her as if she were his own child. Rimbaud didn’t intend any of this. It just happened, like it could have happened to any of us. And when he found out the identity of the woman he had fallen in love with, what could he do? He tried to explain things to Isabella, he told her he was a Welshman, of the same blood that slew her husband, but she wouldn’t listen. Perhaps she should have taken the bit about the same blood more literally. “I don’t see a Welshman or a Patagonian, or a Spaniard, or a mestizo,” she told him. “Just another human being who has suffered, but whose heart is big.” And then she added, “You know, I think Salvador, my poor departed husband, would have liked you.” That was a moot point, of course. But she seemed convinced of it. “Sometimes,” she added, “I can feel his presence, guiding me and telling me that you are a good man. When I get this feeling, it is never wrong.” Before long they were married and farming llamas and the wounds for both of them were healing fast. The man called Waldo had gone from this world and in his place was Rimbaud, a man who was nowhere but had come home. Together they set up a charitable trust in the name of her dead husband, Salvador. And, to his credit, Rimbaud worked tirelessly for the memory of the man he had savagely murdered. For the first time in his life Rimbaud was happy. He had a beautiful wife, an angel of a daughter, and a respected position in society because to the simple farmers who comprised the townsfolk he was the living embodiment of a Christian parable. The priest even alluded to it from the pulpit: the spirit of Jesus was walking among them in that town, he said, a town they had all wrongly supposed to be too humble and mean to be worth his notice. His spirit had walked among them and touched the hearts of two people who had been bitter foes and had now filled them both with love. And this bond of love between them was thus a symbol of reconciliation and His greater redemption. Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all. And the good priest even went so far as to hope it would not be long before this blessed union was consummated with a child whom they could all love. And the congregation smiled and Isabella reached across and squeezed Rimbaud’s hand.’ Cadwaladr paused and spat on to the rocks below.

  ‘So how did it end?’

  ‘Novocaine. He needed some root canal treatment. Talked in his sleep.’

  I returned to the office and found Calamity who had been to Gabriel’s, the gents’ outfitters in Portland Street. Gabriel’s was old school and specialised in serving gentlemen who like to keep abreast of fashion, as long as it was the fashion of fifty years ago. They were not cheap and they were not quick and nothing was off the peg. Even the handkerchiefs were bespoke. But, interestingly, they kept detailed records of their customers; normally they would have been too discreet to divulge particulars to a stranger. But a case in which one of their coats might help a man recover a lost memory was different. They were quite helpful, even intrigued, when Calamity explained the purpose of her visit. From her description they thought the coat sounded like the one they made for Dr Galbraith from the Clinic for Women’s Problems on Laura Place. The poor doctor had been found dead recently; cause of death an excess of fluid on the lungs.

  ‘What sort of fluid?’ I asked.

  ‘Seawater.’

  ‘Hmmm. That’s quite a common cause of death round here.’

  ‘Found on Aberdovey beach, body been in the water two or three days.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I also tried the Enoc Enocs Foundation but all their records were destroyed in a fire about five years ago.’

  ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘There was one other thing I found out.’ She looked hesitant.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s a bit … er … sort of … I don’t know how to say it. I followed a hunch.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. Where did it take you?’

  ‘I was thinking about the lawn out at the Waifery, the one where the grass won’t grow. I h
ad a chat with the grass seed expert at the Farmers’ Co-op. He said that, according to the Borth Birdwatcher’s Society, birds won’t sing there either.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘He seems pretty sure it’s something to do with metal deposits in the soil.’

  ‘Either that or it’s cursed.’

  ‘I tried to find out when the pond was filled in and it seems to have been about the time of the Great Cliff Railway Robbery. And I thought, if you buried some loot in the pond that would count as a metal deposit wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would. That’s quite an intriguing thought.’

  ‘Especially as they seem to have acquired a new roof for the Waifery around the same time. Anyway, I sort of borrowed one of those five-pound notes in the petty cash and paid Poxcrop to go and have a dig.’

  ‘You borrowed it?’

  ‘He’s given us a receipt.’

  ‘That’s all right then. And what did we get for our five pounds? The long lost buried Cliff Railway loot?’

  Calamity shook her head. ‘No, something else. It’s better if I show you.’ She walked across to her old school PE bag and unzipped it. Then she took out a skull. ‘I think it might be a monkey,’ she said.

  I sat in the corner of the Castle pub next to the switched-off fire and sipped my pint. The lounge bar had a sad, mid-afternoon emptiness. Just me, two students playing pool, and an old man making his pint last all day. The door swung open with a faint squeal and Llunos stood framed in the doorway surveying the room. There wasn’t much to survey and within a second and a half his eyes lighted on me. It was one of those moments – we hadn’t spoken since the men in white hats argument a week ago. When I telephoned him he had been gruff but listened. I told him about Bassett and he said he would bring him in for questioning along with Professor Haywire. He made a slight jerk of his head, walked over. He pointed at my glass, took my answer for granted, and went to order two pints. When he returned, I said I was sorry about the argument and he said, ‘I was out of line, too.’

  ‘No you weren’t. Everything you said was true – about the white hats and all that.’

  ‘You were just sticking up for Calamity. I saw that afterwards. I wouldn’t have respected you if you hadn’t of stuck up for her.’ He took a drink and said, ‘Syracuse wasn’t a bent cop like Calamity thinks. You have to understand how it was in those days.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The Squire was a powerful man. Syracuse was just a nobody.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I don’t know the truth of it myself. I just know after thirty years doing this job that no matter what you do, right or wrong, no one gives you any credit for it. It’s always wrong. You let a guy go, you’re too soft. You give him a slap, you’re too brutal.’ He sneered. ‘These people don’t know what brutality is. They should try doing my job for a month, then they’d know. Most of the time we’re just trying to sort things out. Ask your dad. He’ll know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘What you said on the stairs when you left – it sounded like you knew all along.’

  ‘I did. I found out a long time ago. And a few other things besides. There’s a lot I find out about that I don’t publicise. All I’m saying is, we don’t know what goes on. He probably did his best in the circumstances, and now we don’t know what the circumstances were. I’m not going to judge him. If Calamity wants to, that’s up to her. One thing she’ll find out though, the only thing I know for sure and it took me a while to learn it – is things are never what you think. Tell her to send the dossier round and I’ll sign it.’

  ‘She threw it in the bin.’

  ‘There was no need for that. She’s earned that badge. Take it out and I’ll sign it.’ He paused and took a long slow drink. ‘Haywire’s down the station. We couldn’t find Bassett but we got the monkey. I’ve sent a car down to the deaf school for Mrs Watkins. She can translate. I thought we’d do the interview together – hard cop, soft cop.’

  ‘I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I owe you one.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I can’t tell you but, trust me, I do. Let’s see the skull.’

  I dragged the bag across to his side under the table and unzipped it.

  ‘We thought it might be a monkey.’

  He glanced down and shook his head. He dropped his index finger into the bag and drew it along the outline of the brow. ‘You’d get more pronounced prognathism if it was an ape … It’s human. An infant.’

  ‘You seem pretty sure.’

  ‘I’ve seen some like this before. How good’s your memory?’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘Drink up, I want to show you something you’ll never forget. And then I want you to forget it.’

  Chapter 16

  SOMETIMES, THE SUN sinking out in the bay beyond the rocks was a cool silver penny like the moon, and sometimes a Spanish doubloon that sizzled and threatened to turn the sea to steam, but today it was the colour of a crimson rose petal, the image repeated in every window of the seafront hotels. We drove along the Prom and pulled up outside the old police station annexe, five doors down from the precinct station. It had been locked and unoccupied since the flood. Llunos jumped out and climbed the stone steps to the doors which were secured with a thick chain from which hung a big old-fashioned padlock. He brought out a set of keys and tossed them around in the palm of his hand until the one he wanted became evident.

  ‘Don’t forget to forget you were here. We’re going to have a conversation that never took place and quite possibly we’ll share a phantom tot of rum.’

  He unwound the chain and gave the door a shove with his shoulder. The air that puffed out smelled of wallpaper paste and seaweed. We walked in and closed the door behind us. We were in the old station foyer and it had that same atmosphere you get in rooms that have been suddenly abandoned and remain preserved for ever at the moment of sudden crisis – like the excavated dwellings of Pompeii, or those images of wrecked ships taken by underwater robot cameras. Must and damp and mildew spores filled the air, and timbers fallen from the ceiling lay aslant the dust-covered desk in which the hinged section was raised and would always remain that way.

  ‘Spooky, huh?’ said Llunos.

  He jumped over the desk and opened a small door in the wall. It was a utility cupboard and he reached inside with a practised hand and flicked down the electrical circuit switches. A thin hum started from somewhere and in the ceiling above us a fan started to spin slowly, causing bits of insulation fluff and scraps of newspaper to dance along the floor.

  ‘Come,’ said Llunos.

  I followed him down gritty steps and along a corridor to some some more steps. We arrived at another padlocked door and Llunos found the key on the ring and opened it. He flicked a light switch on the door jamb outside and walked in. I followed.

  ‘Not many people have seen this room,’ he said, ‘even when the rest of the place was occupied. Don’t forget, you haven’t seen it either.’

  It was a lumber room. Most of the floor space was filled with discarded office furniture. Shelves along one wall were piled with books and papers, not in any order but simply thrown there by people who didn’t care and weren’t expecting anyone to come along and inspect their handiwork. Three heavy filing cabinets stood in the middle, positioned as if they were having a conversation. Behind them were two desks, one empty, one laden with old typewriters. They were Remingtons, heavy-duty and robust as iron stoves, with carriages and bells louder than on a district nurse’s bike. Some of the carriages still had sheaves of paper in them, sheaves made up of five or six sheets with carbon sheets sandwiched in between. Dust gave everything a uniform grey coating like volcanic ash and spiders hung on threads and eyed us without blinking. Llunos lifted two chairs from a stack, gave them a quick dusting with his hands, and set them either side of the empty desk.

  ‘I come here sometimes,’ he said simply.

&nbs
p; He took out a hip flask, unscrewed the top, and poured out a shot into the cap and set it down on the desk in front of me. He took a drink from the flask and raised it and made a circular motion. ‘Hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen.’

  We both stopped our breaths and listened. I became aware of a distant rhythmic sighing sound, a susurration that seemed to come from nowhere and then from everywhere, and then sometimes it seemed to come from inside my own head and I wondered whether it was the sound of my soul inhaling and I myself had died.

  ‘Sounds like breathing, doesn’t it?’ said Llunos. ‘Sounds like the whole place is alive and breathing.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Spooked?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the sea.’

  I looked surprised. Llunos took another swig from his flask and raised it towards the ceiling. ‘Right up there.’

  He pulled open the drawer in the desk and reached in. He took out a small skull and placed it on the desk. Then two more and set them beside it.

  ‘They’re human. Infants. All less than a month or two old.’

  ‘Where are they from?’

  ‘The pond. We’ve got a collection, been handed in over the years. Folk at Borth reckon they’re pixies. Calamity was a bit out in her dates – the pond was filled in two years before the Cliff Railway robbery. The loot’s not buried there. And I’ve already examined and discounted the theory that Mrs Prestatyn’s daughter is buried there, in case that’s what you are thinking. The story of the pond is much older than that. Seven hundred years older.’