I hope you’ve been keeping up to speed, but we really do have to plunge onwards. In the event of death light the blue touch paper and retire. These particular fireworks are of the slow burn variety and may take many years to reach a satisfying conclusion. Did I say satisfying? There must be a more accurate word lying around in this mess of a toolbox. Raymond, bless his cotton socks, would have loved to be a not so secret fan of creative writing workshops . . . noodle head!! – what do you mean noodle head! Raymond – known to his friends as pasticcino. A name that was likely to have been a pointer to his ever expanding waistline, a past of doughy sweetness. These days, of course, if you happen to catch a glimpse of him flitting through some crepuscular evening, a shadow – perhaps of his former self – though it might be a shadow of somebody else entirely. Can we be sure we remain the same person? Possession can take many forms.
Not many realised but he had done the rounds of the postwar creative writing programmes, becoming an acolyte of the wonderfully named Wilbur Schramm. Though making a promising start and exciting no little interest amongst a number of unknown publishers, he found himself on the morning of his deathday peering at his dull reflection in his tiny but determinedly cream bathroom. A blustery and chilly Thursday halfway though the March of 1953. Spring, you might think, but Raymond was not thinking Spring thoughts.
He had noticed a few more grey hairs that morning, enjoyed a frisson of alarm, checked his yellowing fangs, briefly contemplated disgust and fell back into his habitual resentment of a world that promised so much and delivered so little. Brushing his teeth occurred to him but, really, why bother, with only a ghost-like Giulia flickering at the edge of his mind. The only thing holding me here, he thought, are those neatly stacked (and blank) sheets of paper on his desk. On a sudden impulse he turned the cold tap on full blast and bending low over the tiny basin splashed his face time and time again.
Wake up, wake up, he instructed himself, Giulia’s waiting for you, put on your suit, a clean shirt (if there is one), even a tie. Giulia would appreciate that. He checked his face once more in the mirror – dripping and reddened – why couldn’t he have been given blue eyes, cool and penetrating blue eyes, pale blue, forever seeing into the secrets of power. Not these muddy hesitant smudges, looking away, looking down, looking everywhere but where he was yearning to look. Sweeping his thinning (greying) sandy hair back, a grinning cadaver of a face and ignoring the two day stubble he was alerted to what must be inspiration agitating the flux of his bodily fluids, animating his soul, lighting up his spirit.
He might even be able to write a paragraph or two. If only he could bear to sit at the desk.