by Patrick Ness
‘Mehmet!’ he barked, surprising them and the customer. ‘Where the hell are all the notebooks?’
‘I have one,’ Nadine said. She pulled her rucksack from a cupboard under the counter, took out a green notebook and handed it to him. ‘I was going to use it for class.’
‘A-ha!’ George said, triumphantly. ‘You do still do that!’
‘What are you going on about?’ Mehmet said, a little alarmed, as if he’d been waiting for George to crack and was less prepared than he’d hoped to be now that the moment had finally arrived.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ George said, opening to the fresh front page. Nadine hadn’t even started using it yet. No matter, he’d buy her a new one. ‘Thank you,’ he said to her and ‘Sorry’ to the customer and used his body language to indicate he was to be left alone now.
He took out a pen, held his hand over the page and hesitated a moment.
He wrote, In her dreams, she flies.
He felt his heart surge, as if a golden light was flowing from it.
There was a distant sound from somewhere, and a less occupied part of his mind told him a phone was ringing. He ignored it.
Because this was it. Yes. He knew it somehow, knew it as he’d known every right thing about her. This is where he would remember her. This is where she would live. He would tell her story. Not her whole story, of course, but the story of him and her, the story he knew, which were the only stories anyone could ever really tell. It would be only a glimpse, from one set of eyes.
But that would be why it was right, too.
In her dreams, she flies, he read again.
And he smiled. Yes, that was the beginning. A beginning, rather, but one that would do just fine.
He brought down his pen to write some more.
‘George, seriously,’ Mehmet said, holding out the loudly ringing phone to him.
George blinked uncomprehendingly for a moment. But of course the phone was his. The new one from the phone company after the fire. No frills, a ringtone he didn’t recognise, and carrying all of three contacts. His daughter, his ex-wife and his shop’s main assistant.
Amanda, the small screen read.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking it.
His daughter was calling him, as she had at least twice a day since the fire. But yes, this was right, too. He was eager to talk to her. More than eager, excited, excited to speak again of Kumiko, excited to talk about the book he had realised, just this moment, he was going to write.
More than anything, he was excited to speak of the time that had just passed. The time of his life he would look back at with pain, yes, but also with amazement. Amanda was the only one who would understand, and though he could never tell her the whole truth, maybe he could write it in a book.
And maybe that way the Kumiko he knew would live on and on and on.
Yes, he thought, tears in his eyes again.
Yes.
He answered the phone to his daughter with a broken but joyous heart, ready to speak with her of astonishment and wonder.
Notes & Acknowledgements
The original story of the crane wife – which is not at all, by the way, the story Kumiko tells with her 32 tiles – is a Japanese folk tale I’ve known my whole life, having first heard it as a wee blond five-year-old from my kindergarten teacher in Hawaii. She was called Mrs Nishimoto, and I loved her with the deranged abandon that only a five-year-old can achieve. A wonderful person and teacher, she told stories in a way that lingered, like the one of a certain crane rescued from injury.
I’m not the only one who’s been inspired by it. The greatest band in the world, The Decemberists, use it on a brilliant album also called The Crane Wife. The epigraph to this novel is taken from the song ‘The Crane Wife 1&2’, written by Colin Meloy. If you haven’t yet bought music by The Decemberists, I worry for you.
Shortly after giving George his pastime of cutting shapes from books, I was directed (by a perfectly innocent party) to the extraordinary work of Su Blackwell (www.sublackwell.co.uk). To compare what George does to what Su does is to compare fingerpaints to Kandinsky. No overlap is intended, but seriously, check her out.
My thanks to Francis Bickmore, Jamie Byng and all the rather excellent folk at Canongate. Thanks to my agent, Michelle Kass, who doesn’t blink no matter what left-field project I turn in. Also to Andrew Mills, Alex Holley and Denise Johnstone-Burt.
