Story Cities
Page 6
The pigeons will tell you about the woman on whose bench you are sitting. It is their favourite story to tell, even as they defecate on her brass memorial plaque – inscribed in a font the deceased would never have chosen.
The pigeons will tell you about a man who once released a pair of exotic yellow birds into the shaded sanctuary of the square after the passing of his lover, the woman on whose bench you are sitting. They will admit that they were envious of those summer season feathers, these pigeons that are dressed for eternity in drab winter greys.
The day the woman found out she had just months to live, she sat in the square and listened to the pigeons and considered the abyss before her: the cracks in the tarmac of the path, sucked dry by the invisible tree roots on either side; the grass that was soil brown bare – beneath a special tree with initials carved deep with love into its trunk – planted with more footprints of paramours than blades of grass. The pigeons will tell you these amorous carvings were made by the man who set birds free – and the woman on whose bench you are sitting.
There are glimpses of windows through the canopy of the trees – offices, homes. Blinds pulled half down as if there is a tax on nosiness. The pigeons know what lies behind these blinds. The woman often looked up and wondered about the secrets behind the blinds; her viewpoint incomplete as she waited for lunch with her lover on the bench on which you are sitting.
The pigeons knew her as the woman who fed them pieces of her lunchtime sandwich each day, as she sat on a bench picked at random – that then became her bench. The bench on which she was sitting when she met the man; although his choice of bench was not random. The bench on which you are sitting.
The pigeons – if you choose to listen – will tell you that the woman who once sat on this bench could be you.
Close your eyes and listen to the pigeons.
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Maja Bodenstein
It’s the fifth day of Lunar New Year; a dusting of snow rests on the red lanterns strung across the market square. I’m queuing at a bun stall when a voice calls out my full name. I turn around and see my childhood friend barrel her way through the crowd.
We haven’t seen each other for over twenty years, and yet I know her immediately. She’s dressed in a beautiful coat, a slim-fit, accentuating her long lines. She hasn’t grown up beautiful, as everyone expected; but she holds herself with a grace and self-possession that strikes me as rarer than beauty.
‘What a coincidence,’ she laughs.
‘Small world,’ I bring out.
We smile, shifting our feet to stave off the cold. The man in front of me grabs his order; I’m next.
‘My treat. For old times’ sake,’ she says, rummaging in her handbag for change; it’s a Louis Vuitton. I self-consciously rub my shirt collar. It’s a good brand, favoured by golfers, but I look shabby beside her.
The buns are soft and fluffy; I take a bite. A gust of steam escapes, washing me in memory.
We grew up in a village, in a strange time with little food, and few adults. Our mothers had been sent north; nobody knew where her father was. We were both raised by loving grandparents, who fed us rice and made do with coarse grains. There had been hopes linking the two of us, but when her father returned, he moved the whole family abroad.
We eat and trade small talk that reveals nothing but the most superficial aspects of our lives. She is married, no children; I’m divorced. She makes appropriate noises of sympathy. I wonder what her life has been like, to shape her into this slightly-too-formal individual, that our speech should be made up of clichés.
Perhaps she wonders, too. She pauses, mid-sentence, and asks: ‘Do you remember the hawthorn tree in the yard?’
I do. As children, nothing thrilled us more than watching those red buds ripen, holding the promise of candied fruits. Later, it was the site of our first kiss; a hurried brush of the lips, more curiosity than desire.
‘I wonder if that tree is still there.’
‘You’ve not been back? The old plots are all gone. It’s a shopping mall now.’
‘Figures. My father never wanted to go back. I guess I’m following in his footsteps; more than he knew.’
There’s a hint of bitterness at the side of her mouth. Before I can decipher it, she smiles with renewed brightness. I understand; our meeting is over.
‘Good to see you. Really, what a coincidence.’
‘Yes, truly.’
We shake hands – her fingertips briefly brush my wrist, strangely warm in the cold – and I steel myself to rejoin the faceless crowd. I take a step.
‘Hey, wait,’ she suddenly says.
I turn back. She opens her mouth, thinks better of it, and smiles. ‘Happy new year.’
‘Happy new year,’ I reply, and walk away.
HUMANS OF
Belinda Huang
When my boyfriend and I first started dating, the public park was where we spent our time together. In the bloom of a first relationship we lay underneath trees with our legs entwined, kissing desperately while toddlers trampled the tulip displays nearby.
One Friday, we were kissing on a park bench when a man stopped and asked to take our photo. For his credentials, he gave us a business card for a locally popular website. He said he had passed by our bench fifteen minutes earlier to photograph someone else, and on his return noticed that we were still kissing in the same position. Could he take our picture?
This photographer’s arrival was a sign that our very new relationship was meant to be. While he set up his tripod and camera, the man asked, why do you like kissing so much? My boyfriend, the philosopher, started his response with Spinoza and the universal substance of which we are all a part. Kissing, he said, is how we repair the damage done by separating ourselves from each other. I buried my face in his shoulder, feeling his arm move as he gesticulated.
Months later, the picture appeared online. You can see the arm of his denim jacket around my shoulder, pulling me closer. His hair is dark and perfect, and his eyes are closed as our lips come close to meeting. My hair is tied up in a loose bun, and I’m wearing my purple rain jacket. You can’t see my face at all.