pomponne 1°4

°3

Had I known how the events of the evening were going to pan out my conversation with Clem earlier that afternoon in The Sinking Ship could have taken such a different course, but that, is of course, an unalterable fact of our existence, a fact there is no point even discussing. And so our chat had started, as ever, with him attempting to pry into the more personal aspects of my life, a habit of his I endured simply because it was I who allowed him this high-ground in the first place. Clem had a mission, it was clear. I was some kind of test case as far as I could tell. He had his own M.O., and that was to see me right … or more specifically, to see me write.

But my problems were as complicated as his goals were simple. He had but one ideal, while I fretted over innumerable troubles, one such example being, “why am I here?” This question was of course at the top of my list, a position it should occupy on any thinking man’s list, but it was followed by issues more specific to myself such as, “why is Trine no longer a part of my life?” and “Just who is Mister Bengivenni, and why, when I think about him, does my head literally feels like it is going to explode?” Is there a greater power trying to steer me onto, or from some cosmic pathway? Unfortunately, for someone who had declared himself to be my official eye, my guardian, it was becoming clear to me that Clem was not going to provide me with answers to these questions, but instead to pretend they didn’t exist at all. Writing, writing, writing. The man had a one track mind, and I had no idea why. Perhaps I owe him a lot of money.

Clem had, that afternoon, been his usual thought-provoking yet unwashed self. His perfectly round face sported a couple of days’ growth and was crowned as always by a woollen winter hat of Peruvian origin, his gargantuan body-mass hidden beneath a wardrobe worth of shirts and coats. He smelled just as badly as you would expect for a man who never washed and always dressed in several layers of thick clothing regardless of the season.

“What do you want to talk about today, Henri?” he had asked after a few sips of his first glass of orange juice.

“My neighbour,” I replied.

“Ah yes, Mister ... uh …” He slumped faintly and rubbed a hand across his sweat covered brow. “I’m sorry, what is he called again?”

“Mister Bengivenni. Maurizio Bengivenni,” I replied with a wave of my arm and an exaggerated Italian accent.

“Yes, of course! Mister Maurizio Bengivenni,” he said in a manner which for a second made me wonder if had been faking his initial ignorance. “Is there anything in particular you wish to say about him?”

“I dreamt about killing him again,” I said. This got his attention.

“Ah right-o, well can I just interrupt there and ...”

“No wait ... when I say killing him, I don’t actually mean killing him, Clem. I just mean ...” I slapped my hands down hard onto the table top and raised my voice a little. “Hell Clem, I don’t know. I find my apartment a bit of a strange place to be sometimes. I ... I think I would like to go and live somewhere else. There’s something wrong about me living next-door to Mister Bengivenni ... something I just can’t seem to put my finger on.”

“Well you’ve got that right,” he muttered. “Give me more details Henri, more info.”

“It’s the pains Clem, those damn pains. As terrifying as they are, I think I’ve pinned it down finally. I think about the man too much and blam! The speed of their arrival renders me helpless, makes thinking impossible. And in my dreams, he’s there. He could reach over and make them stop with just a few words of explanation, but he won’t. And I know I have had them before Clem, I’m sure of it. And now they’re back, Clem, they’re back. And they’re unquestionably more brutal than ever.”

“Brutaler,” he said suddenly. A statement.

“Brutaler? No. More brutal. That’s right isn’t it?” I paused for thought. “Ah damn you Clem, now neither of them sounds right. Brutaler isn’t even a word. What’s going on here?”

“Well ... violent then?” he suggested, impatiently tearing open a packet of crisps.

“No, I wouldn’t say that. Just intense, brutal. Scary.”

“Henri, I’m sorry, but I don’t even know what we are talking about here.” He looked annoyed. “I think you are losing it, my friend. Your eye isn’t on the ball, and at this early stage of everything that’s got to be priority number one.” He stuffed a large handful of crisps into his mouth as he continued to talk, “… and dreams; what do dreams mean anyway? Not very much Henri, not very much at all…”

Unable to deal with his attitude, I chose this moment to excuse myself and leave the table. I crossed the room to the toilets and installed myself in the furthest cubicle from the doorway. Ignoring the light switch, I braced myself between the walls and peed in the dark, breathing deeply, emptying my mind as I emptied my bladder. Being left out there alone would force Clem to have a good think about my situation and come up with some realistic ideas to steer me through this funk, hopefully without any more preaching. As much as he annoyed me with his single-track ideas and this unnecessary faux-ignorance, I knew that without his presence I would forever be stumbling around, voiceless, pointless.

“Henri!” Clement welcomed me back as if we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a month. “Sit down! I’ve been giving your situation some thought while you were relieving yourself, and I have come to the conclusion that you need to go to your doctor. I don’t know about these things, head pains etcetera.” He was frowning hard.

“Well that’s all very well but I don’t have a doctor any more,” I replied, under-whelmed to say the least. “He seems to have left.”

“Henri, they replace doctors. When your doctor quits the practice they don’t just expect all his patients to stay well and healthy, they … oh to hell with it, you can go to mine. He’s excellent. Here.” He reached inside his enormous overcoat and then handed me a card with a telephone number and a name. “Doctor Emilio Douarre,” he said, “an illegal immigrant I suspect and possibly not even a real doctor but worth every cent ... if only for the entertainment value. I’ll make you an appointment. You’ll go won’t you?”

“Yes. Right. Sure. Ok.” I said. I stuck my thumb up and smiled at him, but I didn’t think I would go.

“What kind of pain is it anyway?” he asked, leaning over and staring at me closely, his pupils widening.

“A bad one. It scares me.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s in a scary place, see?”

“Where? Your apartment?!” he burst out, his face finally lightening as he began elbowing me in the ribs, winking and laughing.

“Hell’s teeth Clem! How can you joke about this?” I snapped. “They’re here man, here!” I said, holding my finger to my head, pistol like. “Ba-boom!” I added for cinematic effect. “Imagine a sledge hammer vaporising a watermelon, because that’s what it’s like. Not pleasant.”

“And what has this got to do with your neighbour?”

“Because I am literally bursting to meet him, but he is a phantom, an enigma. He’s … messing with me,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh, right ...” he said, straightening up, looking somewhat surprised to say the least. “And this is why you want to kill him?”

“No, no Clem I don’t want to kill him. I dream about killing him.”

He looked confused. I almost felt sorry for the great fat lump.

“Ok, well if you want my advice,” he said thoughtfully, while staring over my shoulder at the far wall, “and I know that generally speaking you do, I think you should focus all your energies on writing, as we keep talking about.” I slumped back into my chair as he continued, “That should definitely be your first step, yes. Two thousand words a day, minimum.” When his eyes returned to me, they were glazed and, yes ... misty. “Ah, remember, Henri? Remember when you just used to ... write ... all the time.”

“Hmmm...”

“How many books was it?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to know.

“Ah yes. And that last one. Gosh.” He took a long drink, and then slammed his glass back down onto the table. “Yes! That’s it Henri. Writing! Everything else will fall into place then, I’m sure of it.” Then, surprisingly, he added with a series of shrugs, “That’s assuming you really want everything to fall into place of course. I’m beginning to believe that you bring all these problems on yourself …”

“Wha ...?” I was about to start big act, pretending to be shocked and surprised at this statement, but I just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. In any case, he was still talking.

“You obsess over things Henri. Take Trine for example ... there must be some reason why the two of you are no longer together, and just because you can’t remember what that is, doesn’t mean things are going to be any different in the future. Just let it be. I’m trying to help you here. You have to strike her from your mind Henri, her and all this neighbour nonsense, he’ll be gone for sure and you’ll forget all about your pain. Concentrate on what’s important.”

“But that’s just it Clem, what is important?” I spread my arms and looked from one hand to the other. “I had Trine and I wrote prolifically. There must be a connection, as shallow as that sounds. I can get it all back again Clement, all of it! Why should I deny myself the things I want in life? Oh it’s such a mess inside my head.”

“Writing Henri,” Clem continued, “start up the writing again. We talked about it before and you seemed all fired up about it. Everything that’s important will then fall into place, you’ll see!”

“I know, I know.” I looked down at my lap and wrung my hands together. “Nothing has come to me yet,” I said, looking back up at him. “I can’t get it together. But it’ll come, Clem, it’ll come. Ah, let’s face facts here; we both know it’s going to come.”

“Eventually.”

“Indeed.”

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