The Shape of Clouds

by Peter Benson

  The night becomes day, and the garden of a house in upstate New York. Jane is sitting in a deckchair, birds are singing, leaves are rustling. A woman (her mother) appears from the house, hesitates, then crosses the lawn. She is white-faced, and has been crying. She wipes her cheeks. ‘Oh, Jane,’ she says, and Jane turns, surprised.

  The mother opens her mouth to speak, but the words stick in her throat. Jane says, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘George…’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘I think you’d better come indoors.’

  ‘No! Tell me what’s happened!’

  ‘There’s been an accident. George’s plane. It had some sort of engine failure.’

  Jane’s eyes dim. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘I don’t know. Father’s on the phone now.’

  ‘I think…’ says Jane, ‘I think I will come indoors.’ Need is in her eyes, and in her mouth…

  The birds do not stop singing, but then their tunes change… they are harsh, the light is harsh and the camera is tracking a trail of smoking wreckage, shards of glass, ruptured suitcases. A teddy bear, a paperback book with singed pages. Another squawk, then only the sound of the wind and the gentle crackle of fires.

  We are in the Middle East. Bare hillsides straddle the horizon.

  Slowly, we become aware of the noise of stumbling feet. An electrical circuit in the plane’s cockpit explodes. Sparks fly, illuminating the dead face of the pilot. The camera closes on the face of the man with the stumbling feet, and we recognise him as George. He is staring towards the sound of the explosion. The camera pulls back, and we see his ripped shirt, bruised face, and a bleeding wound on his forehead. His eyes are wide, staring. The camera continues to retreat, revealing more wreckage, smoke, carnage. George stares at the sun and slowly sinks to his knees. The camera is retreating faster now, until we can see the whole scene…

  A bedroom, a single woman’s room. A dressing table, folded clothes on a chair, a picture of horses galloping along a windswept beach hangs over a plain chest of drawers. The light is dim; the curtains waft in a gentle breeze. They are half closed.

  Jane is lying in bed, staring at the moon through the gap in the curtains. Her mother sits beside her.

  ‘Oh, Jane. Jane.’

  Jane cannot speak. She holds a handkerchief to her face. Mother opens her mouth to say something more, then shakes her head. A single violin, a piano chord…

  In the desert, George is walking, dragging his feet. He is concentrating, staring straight ahead. He is willing himself to carry on, to live. He climbs a dune, stops and looks down. He sinks to his knees but does not fall. He must keep going. He has a water bottle slung across his chest. He reaches for it, and takes a swig. The precious stuff dribbles down his chin and wets his shirt. He puts his hand up to catch the drips, and sucks his fingers.

  Suddenly, his eye is caught by a distant light. This wasn’t there last time he looked. It flickers in the evening gloom, but when he focuses on it, it disappears. For a moment he thinks the desert is playing tricks on him. He strains towards the place where the light was, and it reappears. It’s joined by another. George stands and begins to stumble down the dune…

  A thousand miles away, Jane and her mother are walking down a street. They stop at a park gate. We can see a duck pond, benches, a small café. ‘I think,’ says Jane, ‘I’m going to sit down for a while.’ She points to the café, and her mother nods.

  The park… mothers with babies in prams, small children bending down to feed the ducks.

  Elderly people sit on benches and cluck with contentment, and a policeman strolls by. Jane and Mother appear, and come to a foreground café table. Jane sits but Mother does not. Mother says, ‘You’ll be all right?’

  ‘Yes, Mother. Don’t fuss.’

  Mother is going to have her hair done.

  Jane buys a cup of coffee, sits back and drinks.

  Inside the café, a man is sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette. He is looking at Jane, whose sad eyes are following the progress of a little girl who skips around the edge of the pond. The man stubs his cigarette out, stands, drops some coins on the table and goes to the door.

  He walks to Jane’s table. She is smiling at the little girl, and he says, ‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how to smile.’

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘Hello, Jane…’

  And we’re in a Bedouin camp. A group of men are sitting on the ground around a fire. They drink coffee and talk in whispers. Their tents are ranged around, and camels are tethered beyond. The fire and a pair of burning tapers cast a warm but sinister light.

  A camel grunts, then another, and one of the men turns to look. Something catches his eye. He speaks to his neighbour, and the two men stand, gather their robes and walk into the gloom.

  They walk to the edge of the camp, until the firelight cannot penetrate the night. They peer into it. One shrugs and the other mumbles under his breath. They are about to turn away when suddenly, frighteningly, George stumbles out of the gloom and collapses in the sand at their feet. Immediately the men shout for their companions, who come running. George is turned over. His face is burnt and scabby, and his clothes hang in tatters. His shoes are missing. Four men pick him up and carry him across the camp to a tent.

  The tent is lit by oil lamps. Rugs cover the floor; a raised bed is set at one end. George is laid down. One man brings a bowl of water and a cloth, sits beside him and gently dabs at his face. George opens his eyes. They are dim. He tries to focus, but cannot…

  Bob stands on a New York street. He wears a hat and coat, and carries a newspaper. He crosses the road and enters a café. Jane is sitting at a window table. He takes off his hat, smooths his hair, sits opposite her and says, ‘How are you today?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  A waitress comes to the table and says to Bob, ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Jane?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Coffee,’ says Bob. ‘Black.’

  The waitress leaves the table and goes to the counter.

  Jane says, ‘They found the wreckage.’

  ‘I know.’ He puts the newspaper on the table.

  ‘No survivors.’

  Bob reaches across the table and takes Jane’s hand. She makes no move to avoid his touch…

  A string of camels is moving slowly across a barren plain. The sun is low; dust rises. One of the camels is rigged with a canopy. Beneath this, swaying with the motion, George lies, propped by cushions. He is tired but recovering. He has been fed, and his wounds are patched.

  At a cry from the head of the caravan, the camels stop and a boy offers water to the men. He comes to George, and passes a ladle. George manages a smile, the boy beams back, another cry and the caravan moves off again…

  Bob and Jane are sitting on a hillside. The remains of a picnic are scattered around. Jane closes her eyes, leans back to catch the sun on her face. Bob wants to say something. He leans towards her and says, ‘Jane?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He shakes his head. He can’t say what he wants. He gestures at the wreckage of the meal, turns away and mumbles, ‘We should have brought another bottle.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Jane opens her eyes now, and looks at him. He looks so sad. She reaches out and touches his shoulder; as she does, he turns suddenly, and kisses her on the mouth.

  The shock is total, for both of them. She pulls away; he jumps up and takes a step back. ‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry…’

  An oasis. The caravan approaches, the camels stop and kneel. Palm trees sway over whitewashed houses. Goats browse, children play.

  The caravan master calls for assistance, and George is helped down and carried to a house. ‘No,’ he says, and he insists on walking.

  As he is carried, an unshaven European (Alex) watches from a distance. Dressed in a scruffy white linen suit, he scratches his armpits. He looks towards the house where George is taken, but does not move
…

  Jane is driving. She is alone, and doesn’t know where she’s going. She drives fast, her face streaked with tears. Confusion is her companion.

  She approaches a deserted crossroads. She doesn’t notice a red light. She wipes her nose. A truck is approaching. Its driver gives a long hoot on his horn. Jane doesn’t hear. Another hoot, and another. Jane jumps the red light, the truck swerves. She swerves, hits the verge and stops. The truck slews to a halt. Dust settles.

  Jane sits and stares at the night. The truck driver climbs down from his cab and runs across the road. He reaches the car. He’s angry. He yells, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He sees Jane. Tears are pouring from her eyes. She turns her face to look at him. Her features appear to be melting, dripping away.

  ‘Hey, lady,’ says the driver. ‘Are you okay?’

  Jane says nothing.

  ‘Lady?’

  Nothing.

  The engine ticks over. The wind whines. The driver taps the roof of Jane’s car, shakes his head and returns to his truck. He climbs into the cab, the air brakes blow, he drives away. Jane doesn’t move…

  George and Alex sit on a low wall, beneath swaying palms. George says, ‘So the nearest telephone’s fifty miles?’

  ‘Correct,’ says Alex. ‘You can be there in a couple of days.’

  ‘A couple of days? It’s only fifty miles.’

  ‘It’s rough country. You should know that.’

  George nods and says, ‘But I’ve got to try.’ He knows Alex is telling the truth. He was once a respected archaeologist; a doomed love affair with a local girl brought him to this place; a broken heart and palm wine have kept him here.

  ‘The caravan doesn’t leave for a week.’

  ‘A week?’

  ‘If you’re lucky.’

  ‘Then I’ll rent a camel.’

  Alex laughs. ‘Do you know what you’re saying?’

  ‘And you can show me the way. You do know the way, don’t you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’ve got to help, Alex.’ George’s face pleads.

  ‘I’m not the man I was.’

  ‘Please, Alex.’

  The Englishman cannot say no. He can glimpse the possibility of redemption, one last chance. He scuffs his shoes in the dirt, rubs the sweat from his palms then turns to George and nods slowly…

  Jane’s car, parked as we saw it before. She stares through the windscreen, then sits up, turns the key in the ignition and reverses into the road. She drives away from us, into a grey and threatening morning…

  George is in the desert again, this time with purpose. He leads a camel. Alex trudges behind. The camel is loaded with bedrolls, a tent, food and water. The two men say nothing…

  Bob is sitting in an empty bar, nursing a whisky at the counter. The barman, a fat and weary man, moves towards him and says, ‘It’s like this. You move on.’

  ‘Hey, Frank. Give me a break.’

  Frank takes a glass and pours himself a soda. ‘Regret for the past is a waste of the spirit.’

  ‘Are you telling or selling?’

  ‘Just trying to help, Bob. You did wrong. You know it. Life’s a bastard.’

  ‘It’s more than that, Frank.’ He finishes his drink and pushes his glass forward.

  Frank takes down a bottle and pours another shot. ‘How much more?’

  Bob shakes his head. ‘All the way. Problem is, I bought a one-way ticket. I can’t get back.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘I dream about her, Frank. I never did that before. Not with any woman…’

  We are on a bluff overlooking a deep canyon in upstate New York. The moon is full, the silence is deep. Car headlights swing across the scene, disappear and reappear moments later, close now, and bright. The car stops, the lights go out, the door opens and Jane climbs out. She walks to the edge of the bluff, and stops. She stares down. Confusion and guilt mark her face, and the wind blows her hair. A hooting owl crosses the canyon. Its call alarms Jane, who turns to watch its flight.

  She takes a packet of cigarettes from her pocket, and lights one. The owl calls again, distant now. She holds the lighter up, so we can read the words ‘To my darling’ engraved on its side. She lights it again then throws it at the sky. We watch it fall, still alight, tumbling and flaming into the darkness below. It clatters against the rocks, it goes out…

  In the desert, the night comes down, and a chill wind with it. Stars speckle the sky. George, Alex and the camel trudge on. They reach the top of a dune, and stop. George sniffs the air and says, ‘I can smell it.’

  ‘What?’ Alex is irritated, tired and thirsty. He takes a water bottle from his pack, and drinks carefully. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘The sea.’ George drops the camel’s halter and walks forward. ‘Yes,’ he says. Alex comes to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you, Alex.’

  Alex smiles. We haven’t seen him smile much. He needed that drink of water. He says, ‘I didn’t do this for your sake, old man.’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’ George is a perceptive man. He scratches his ear and says, ‘How far is it?’

  ‘One more day.’

  George takes another deep breath and says again, ‘The sea.’ His face is bright, as if illuminated from within. Alex reflects this illumination, shining with the redemption he has been seeking…

  Jane, returned from her flight to the canyon, is sitting at a café table, talking with her mother. The older woman is not wearing a hat. She says, ‘I understand,’ and stirs a cup of coffee.

  ‘I don’t believe George is dead. I’ve got this feeling he’s alive. I want him to be so much. So much…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But Bob… Bob has made me think again.’

  ‘That’s a perfectly understandable reaction. No one’s blaming you.’

  ‘I feel so guilty.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘It’s awful, but I can’t help myself.’

  ‘Honestly, Jane…’

  ‘I think about George, about the things we used to do, the places we used to go, but then Bob gets in the way, and I’m wondering if he would like to see some of those places, do some of those things.’

  Mother leans across the table and takes Jane’s hand. ‘It’s going to be all right, darling.’

  Jane looks up with disbelief in her eyes. ‘Is it?’ she says.

  ‘Yes…’

  George and Alex have reached a busy coastal town. They have recovered from their walk, found somewhere to stay, eaten a meal, and now Alex is taking George to a telegraph office.

  They walk through the thronging streets, past hawkers and beggars, hustlers and priests. Boys play tag, a donkey stands with its head bowed. George stops at a shop and buys something sticky to eat.

  Alex is washed and shaved, and wearing a fresh shirt. He walks with a new purpose. They reach the office…

  Jane and Bob are sitting in a quiet restaurant. Their main course has just arrived. As Bob examines his food, she says, ‘I’m as much to blame as you are.’

  ‘I don’t like that word. It implies guilt, and I don’t think either of us is guilty. If George was here, he wouldn’t accuse us of anything.’

  Jane looks at a potato. ‘I’ve got to know what happened to him.’ She cuts it.

  ‘Of course…’

  ‘But you know what I feel about you.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘I like you, Bob. I really do. And you’ve been so good to me.’

  ‘The other day…’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Jane blushes. ‘Nor can I. But we can’t go on like that. Not until I know.’

  ‘No.’

  She runs a finger around the rim of her glass, picks it up and drinks. ‘I must tell you…’

  ‘What?’

  The drink fortifies her. ‘I’m going to Egypt.’

  ‘Egypt?’

  ‘Yes.’

&nbs
p; ‘What do you expect to find there?’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Probably nothing. But I can’t just sit here, wondering.’

  So much is unspoken. The scene is charged with unasked questions, hesitant answers. Bob says, ‘I’ll miss you.’ Jane drinks some wine. Bob waits; when she says nothing, he returns to his food. She looks at him, then focuses on a couple on the far side of the restaurant. They have finished their meal, and are flirting over coffee and liqueurs. Bob looks up, then follows her eyes to them. He turns back, clears his throat and offers more wine. She puts her hand over her glass and says, ‘I’m fine…’

  George has left the desert port, bound for Marseille. He stands on deck and the salt air bathes his face. The sun is setting in tumbling showers of orange and red. The sea burns. He is joined at the rail by the mate, a burly man who wears a skewed cap and says, ‘It doesn’t matter how many times I see one, they still stop me in my tracks.’

  George nods.

  ‘God had a good day.’

  George agrees.

  Voices shout, and something clatters on deck. The mate ignores the noise. He is transfixed. The shore has disappeared; the sea is immense. It rolls slowly, as if sluggish beasts are moving beneath its surface. A bird passes overhead, and shit drops on George’s hat. He takes it off, smiles and says. ‘That’s lucky, isn’t it?’

  The mate turns and says, ‘I don’t believe in luck.’

  George turns to face the man, and asks, ‘What do you believe in?’

  ‘Work. I like work. Luck I hate. I saw men who died for luck.’

  ‘Did you?’

  The mate says, ‘I did,’ but doesn’t elaborate. George turns away, nodding to himself, thinking maybe the mate’s right.

  The sunset fades, and we fade with it. A familiar chord is heard, and another, and the plaintive melody of ‘Missing You’…

  Jane’s mother is screaming down a hall, waving a telegram. ‘He’s alive!’ she yells, taking the stairs at a trot, rushing along the landing and into her daughter’s bedroom. ‘He’s alive!’ Jane sits up. ‘George?’ she says.

  ‘Yes.’

  The two women embrace…

  A thronging Marseille street. Bars, dockers, land-happy sailors. A man plays a trumpet on the pavement, and a woman sidles up to him. People stop to listen. Before he reaches the second verse, Jane and her mother appear. They are looking for a café.