Two Sketches of Disjointed Happiness

by Simon Kinch

  I reach the bridge. Streetlamps line the river’s path, meaning you can just about make out the row of small jetties further down the bank. I lean over the railings, looking down at the water. I can only see its shimmer – no current, no flow – just dancing glints of light.

  Closing my eyes, I think of Stefani, of that station cafe in Bari, then of her boathouse on the lake in Lombardy, of the jetty that stretches out over its own shimmering water. I push my leg through the railings, letting it hang it over the water, and imagine it dangling over that lake, the sun beating on the water’s surface. The jetty creaks slightly; I can hear children shouting as they play in the water further round the water’s edge. I imagine getting up from the jetty and beginning to walk around the lake. Birds are chirping; there is no one about. It will only be a short walk, to stretch my legs, to get some fresh air. Stefani would be back at the boathouse, waiting for me, engrossed in a novel by some Italian author I have never heard of. There would be something cold to drink in the fridge, for when I return. I snap out of this daydream and look back at my leg, dangling over the river, dangling over the estuary, dangling over the darkness.

  I can no longer live like this, I tell myself, as decisively as I can. I can no longer bear it here, bear being here, being myself, this feeling of isolation, self-inflicted, I know, but unescapable, unchangeable. That impetus I had – and with it, that hope, that direction – faded long ago, no sooner, if I’m honest, than when I arrived back home, shrugged off my backpack and stood in the front yard, Dad’s Honda on the drive in front of me, no sooner, if I’m honest, than when I first set foot in Sevilla and walked out of the station, the heat visibly rippling from the sidewalks and roads.

  All that’s left is to go back. Tomorrow, I’ll buy a ticket, the first flight I can get on. A ticket in my hand, a token of impetus. Visas and bureaucracy could go fuck themselves: I have to go, at any cost.

  My head is spinning. I leave the water’s edge and begin to trudge back through the eerily quiet streets. I dig my hands deeper into my jeans pockets. Tomorrow I am leaving, I know it. Drop everything and head back. My heart is beating faster, yet settled on what I am about to do, I feel calmer.

  I think back to being sat on that jetty in Triana, the sun on my neck, warming every fine hair along my collar. That decision to stay – to go back – for what? To sit passively observing the workings of Señora Rosales’ small business? The green folders and black biros of the office? For those chance meetings with Clara, at the trellised bar serving carrilladas? This self-destructive affliction – made up of both fear and longing – for a chance meeting with Alyson, a chance to tell her – to tell her what? Those desperate attempts to pin some kind of grander meaning onto those lives that briefly passed through my own? Those lunchtime coffees – away from the burrito place – those Friday night daiquiris and the queue at the taxi rank? How naïve I had been, what an idiot I was.

  I continue back towards the old town, back into Madison, head to that apartment from where I’d fled, fleeing to that plaza only to find the waiter clearing up cutlery and unfinished glasses of wine; back towards to her parents’ address, not knowing if she still lives there or has moved out, moved on, or moved in with some other.

  I stand at the end of the drive. All the lights are out. It briefly crosses my mind that leaving without saying a word would be the thing to do. She either has no idea I’m back, or most probably, does know, yet doesn’t care.

  I walk up the drive, but hesitate before pressing the buzzer. It’s no time of night to be calling, but I’ll never see her again. I cave immediately and begin ringing, ringing again and again.

  Nobody answers. Nobody even stirs. I dig around in my pockets and find a scrap of paper. I write a note and slot it into the crack where the buzzer meets the wall, not even bothering to write her name.

  You know I’m back. Or if you didn’t, you do now. In any case, it never crossed your mind to call. So maybe it’s not a question of knowing, but caring. I wanted to see you before I left. Explain myself a little. My mind’s been anywhere but here. I’m heading back to that sky serene and leaving these sun-baked streets – things that should mean something, but with my mind so far from here, what can they? Just as long as you know it’s not a question of not caring, but . . . Well, I’m not really sure.

  Granville

  I try her buzzer one last time, before heading back in the direction of the studio.

  And as I trudge back home, a light breeze ruffles my hair and cools my face, and I think of tomorrow, of the airline ticket in my hand, of heading back to the other side of the Atlantic. Of having that ticket in my hand, of looking at it and, again, finally, feeling I have some kind of direction.

  Acknowledgements

  Although my family knew nothing of my writing until the publication of this novel, it is only because of their unconditional love and support that I have been able to pursue the choices I’ve made in life, and, through those, found my inspiration to write. Thank you most of all to my mother, Elizabeth, who, more than anyone, has understood and embraced my years abroad.

  A thank-you to friends who read the early drafts, and, in particular, to Gloria Sanders, Marta Gebalska, Owen Parsons and Lucy Morel, whose feedback helped shape and refine them.

  Thank you too to Rosa López Martínez and Juan Ramón Gallardo Pozas, who have presented me with unprecedented opportunity.

  The biggest thank-you, though, goes to the team at Salt Publishing, and to my editor, Nicholas Royle. It is the dream of any budding writer to be published, but an absolute privilege to have your book edited by an author whose work you’ve admired.