by Tommy Dakar
John West sat in the dining room watching the rain on the glass. He remembered how, as a child, he had imagined that each drop was a little boat racing to be the first to reach the bottom of the frame. Once there it was all over. Some of them would not make it, just seemed to dissolve into a smear, others would need the help of a newly arrived droplet to push them on their way. In a flush of philosophy he thought that life was like that, arbitrary and pointless, and that his destiny, like that of so many others, was about as important and interesting as that of a drop of dirty water. The raindrops were people, yes, his contemporaries, striving to get down the window, if nothing else, without disappearing on the way.
Through the irregular, rain-streaked panes of the window the street outside appeared sliced and fragmented. The kaleidoscopic cars of anonymous neighbours passed in segments, their headlamps sending shards of shattered light across the walls. It was then, in the refracted and distorted light of the dining room, that he decided he would visit those other lives, wherever they may be, would envisage humanity as a whole, like tears on glass. He was sure he could do it. Maybe his grandfather would have thought it impossible, his imagination limited to dream sequences or sleight of hand. Even his father may have found it difficult, despite superimposed film scenes and air travel. But John's generation had been brought up with this new ability, had been immersed in a world of visual effects and instant, digital communication since birth. He had been given the tools, now it was up to him.
He would have to become a lens, a bird's eye, and pull back from himself so that he could see himself, as patients do in near-death experiences, floating up out of their would-be corpses and looking down upon the green hats of the body mechanics who are unaware that the person they are operating on is in reality hovering just below the ceiling. If he could achieve that he would then be able to observe how he sat in his favourite chair, meditating, entranced by the rivulets that streaked the dining room window like so many distant lives. From there he could carry on up, through the neatly arranged bedrooms to the roof, with its chimney and aerial, its tiny weeds growing from the cracks in the tiles, and contemplate the garden, the blue plastic swing, the driveway. Then higher, until the whole street was in view, the perfectly designed avenues and cul-de-sacs of suburbia, the junctions, playing fields, schools and shopping malls of this blessed corner of the world. Slowly he would rise above the city itself, above the apartment blocks and highways, the river and the industrial estates, until patchwork farms came into focus, racing off in graph like precision towards the next smoke choked metropolis.
Not too fast, though, or he would rise above the clouds, up into the stratosphere and out into dark, cold space, raising the problem of re-entry. If he miscalculated and came in at the wrong angle he would be frazzled in an instant, like an ant in the flame of a cigarette lighter.
So carefully, then, with the cool command of an experienced cameraman.
John hugged the contours of the land, flying low, sneaking under the radar, dipping down into valleys, soaring up abruptly as the mountains approached, then back down again, at cruise speed, out over the glittering waters of the lake. As in his childhood video games he had full control over velocity, altitude, rate of acceleration, range of vision. The tiny rowing-boat was but a speck on the vastness of the lake's surface, but in an instant he had zoomed in and picked out the floral pattern on the young girl's summer dress as she watched the fish gasp and flip and lunge at her grandfather's feet. He was convinced, he had the power. Now he would fly off to distant lands, to distant lives, later to return triumphantly with knowledge and understanding.
For it was true that the world had shrunk. The digital age had screwed up the huge, brown-edged maps that had hung on classroom walls, and crushed them into a small, blue-white ball. From the comfort of his home he had watched typhoons form in Asiatic seas, seen the smoke plumes of Australian bush fires, and the night skies of the first world lit up by a million neon signs while the rest of the world remained in darkness. He had seen how the New Year came in globally, on the hour, every hour, spreading round the world like a crowd doing the wave at a football stadium.
He had travelled before, had dipped his toe into the uncertain waters of foreign lands. Carefully planned trips where the blow of culture shock had been softened by organised activities and comfort, the glare of the unknown made bearable through the filter of expensive sunglasses.
Old grandfather West had never had the opportunity to do the same. A shopping trip to the city, and a brief honeymoon on the south coast were as much as he could boast. 'I don't need to travel to know what people are like' he had said gruffly from under his hairy eyebrows. It had sounded like an excuse. Or envy. Father had been abroad, at least to neighbouring lands, and had brought back the knick-knacks that now filled his parlour. But he had not been convinced, had seen the world as a hostile place, full of petty thieves and liars, poverty and sickness. Now he preferred to spend his free time at his getaway in the country where he could be left in peace.
It was true that in the past he had travelled, like his father, as if the world were a zoo, each new country an exotic enclosure full of strange and colourful animals with unpronounceable, forgettable names. A handful of nuts, a few photos, and on to the next section. There had been pizza en Pisa, tagine in Tangiers, luxury in Luxor. But this time he meant to get beyond return tickets and hand luggage, receptionists and tour guides, medical insurance and travellers' cheques. It was not a holiday he had in mind, but a discovery, an encounter. He would make amends.
He flew up until he could see the contours of the nation below him, the clear cut shoreline, the sugar-coated peaks of the mountain ranges. Below him the world spun slowly on its axis, tilting oceans and continents up for his examination. There were no borders visible at this height, and it was difficult to discern where one land started and another finished, they all just merged together into one continuous stream of green, blue and brown. An optical illusion.
He scooped down at random towards a city, any city, and was disappointed to see the same high rise blocks, ring roads and international brand names of his home town. Taxis clogged the streets of the city centre, whilst across the river, amid abundant vegetation, the larger houses slumbered in well-tended calm. He realised he would need to get closer, to get under the superficial skin of civilisation, to seek out and enter the heart and soul of this culture.
As he glided over the financial district he began to discern the outlines of a shanty town growing amongst the towers like a clump of toadstools in a forest. Perhaps this was what he was searching for. Not tourism, not idle curiosity, but real contact, human contact, eye contact. John removed his sunshades and floated down to street level.
A liquid of sorts, thick and murky, gave off a stagnant stench of sour milk and rotting fish. Eyes watched him through slits as he approached a shabby hut, flimsily slung together with whatever was at hand. He stopped, suddenly afraid. He imagined appearing, literally out of the blue, into the battlezone streets of the badlands back in his home city. It would not be the wisest move, and may be misinterpreted. These places were usually swarming with violent thugs and had little to offer beyond basic survival instincts. Slums that conjured up words like fetid and decay. Ghettoes of disease and desperation. A ribbed, dun coloured dog slunk out from under some boarding and started to circle him apologetically, as if prepared to negotiate a beating for a morsel. A dishevelled child popped her head out of what should have been a window, but which was no more than a hole in a chipboard panel. She smiled, and the sight of her uneven teeth, her tangled hair, her cheerful, unjudging eyes, made him feel uncomfortable, unbearably aware of his origins, his health, his good luck. He needed to leave immediately, to accept that he had made a mistake and fly away before he was cornered by angry, unfathomable faces and forced to explain himself. It had not been his intention to gloat over the misfortunes of others, or flaunt his well-being in their unwashed faces. He had only wanted to understand, and to be
understood. The best thing to do now was to rewind, erase the scene and start again.
John West sat on an outcrop and surveyed the simmering flatlands that spread out before him. He had been too hasty, he realised that now. It had been an error of judgement, a beginner's mistake. What had he been thinking of? How could he possibly relate to people whose entire lives had been spent among squalor and ignorance? What could he have in common with them above mere existence? How could they share his notions of tolerance and compassion if all they had ever known was hardship and injustice? It had been rash, and he felt embarrassed by his naïvety. From now on he would have to avoid extremes, neither shacks nor palaces, only ordinary people leading ordinary lives, people with common concerns, common needs, common yearnings.
He soared over parched earth, slipped unnoticed along narrow alleyways, hovered above squares and fountains looking for a place to linger, a place to dwell. A side street café caught his attention, so he materialised at a table from where he could observe the comings and goings of the town. An alphabet he could not decipher declared mundane things such as No Parking or Home Grown Produce, while schoolchildren in historical uniforms were ushered off, petted and patted, by worrying mothers. The coffee was a small but powerful punch in the guts. Like all unknown languages the unfamiliar sounds that bounced of the whitewashed walls contained veiled threat, which, added to the coffee, made him decidedly uneasy, particularly alert. He tried to read between the lines, to make sense of this man's swaggering, of that lady's demure posture, a friendly greeting, a shady deal sealed with a long handshake. Perhaps if he analysed their movements, their procedures, he could come a little closer to seeing the world through their eyes. Perhaps if he stayed long enough he would begin to understand not only the language, but the way it was used, the nuances, the cultural background that made these people who they were, gave them their unique identity. If he could create his own Rosetta stone of their past, their mother tongue, their religion, their traditions, then, given time, he could begin to understand.
He would imagine he was one of them, belonged to the community, was just taking a break in his favourite coffee shop as he watched his neighbours live their lives. Across the street a woman in long robes walked before a young girl carrying a basket of fresh yellow fruit. Her daughter? A servant? In front of a battered lock-up garage the girl slipped, spilling the fruit, meddlar? on to the pavement, where they rolled in all directions as if trying to escape. The elder woman started screaming wildly at the girl, and thrashed out at her, clipping her several times around her uncovered head. The girl huddled into a ball as she tried at once both to protect herself and collect the evasive fruits. John West could not contain himself any longer, he could not stand by and watch the young child be so rudely mishandled by this ageing tyrant. In a flash he crossed the street and pulled the woman away, grasping her by both wrists.
Leave her alone! She's just a child! It was an accident, for heaven's sake!
These unintelligible, guttural sounds struck terror into the hearts of the old woman, the child, the township as a whole, and within seconds John found himself surrounded by waiters, butchers, policemen, businessmen, shop assistants and bus drivers. Who was this dangerous person who dared to touch a stranger? Who was this uninvited guest who felt he had the right to intervene in things that did not concern him?
John let go of his prey and started to speak. He wanted to explain, to justify his intervention, to teach them that child beating was unacceptable, but at his first words the crowd appeared to grow even angrier, so he decided to fall silent. The girl scrabbled about among their feet until she had collected the very last fruit before finding refuge in the arms of her aggressor. A fat man with a grey moustache and a grey suit began to speak in an animated tone as John disintegrated into mist and fled.
The drops of condensation slowly merged, swelling into 3D until they extricated themselves from the glass surface of the booth and formed the figure of John West. He found himself sitting on a white, plastic seat at one of the Meeting Points of a busy international transport hub, watching the purposeful trudge of travellers. The story went that if he stayed there long enough the whole world would pass through right before his eyes. But time was an element he did not yet control.
He was unsure what to do next. He could visit any corner of the world in an instant, but nowhere particularly appealed to him. Wherever he decided to go he would be met by barriers of flawed, imperfect glass, and try as he might he would not be able to see clearly through its tainted opacity. Perhaps it was time to head for home.
He crept back into his neighbourhood under the cover of darkness, back to himself and his solitary meditation, far too tired to notice how, just streets away from his own door, a terrified daughter made out through her tears the menacing figure of her drunken father, while mother, lost in a trance of incomprehension, stared out the window at the rain which fell, silently, continuously.
UNZIP