Cast
The reek of donkey jackets, damp lanolin overlaid with fish from the wharf-side, jostles me as I push through the warehouse crowd.
I edge
to the front of the semi-circle of men and scan their faces, searching for the
nod. Dampness creeps through the corduroy as I kneel, scraping the dice into my
palm, and reach into my pocket for a coin. I throw a pound into the middle of
the semi-circle of grey concrete and a waterfall of clinks follows as coins
rain down, metal upon metal, from the players.
I
fiddle nervously with the dice, rolling them through my fingers, feeling dark
indentations on cold plastic surfaces. My heart begins to race and a faint
trace of sweat forms on my upper lip. An odd mix of fear and hope surges
through my veins.
Gripping
the dice hard I take myself to the place. Blacking out the crowd I fly to the
top of the hill and look down on the city spread out in a net of glittering
lights over the darkened land. A gentle breeze ruffles the ends of my hair,
calming nerves with the warm, earthy scent of damp soil.
It is
time. I open my eyes and regard the shabby coats, the brick wall and the
towering piles of wooden crates. Someone coughs – a harsh, racking from a
work-ruined chest. I blow on the dice and let hot cider-laced fumes slow time
and motion, allowing me to watch my own hand sweep forward through the treacle
air.
The
dice fly in a straight line, with no wobble. They bounce together, clattering,
and glance lightly off the wall. They are cast and I can do no more.
Bus
I scramble amid the crush of locals to get my foot on the step of the dolmuş. Hauling myself onto this cross between a mini-bus, a taxi and a ramshackle delivery van I see that it lives up to its name and the whole spectrum of society is stuffed inside.
Ignoring
the olfactory assault of ripe goat, fermenting raki and lemon cologne, I
squeeze between the sticky, plastic upholstery and ram myself into a sweaty gap
in the rear of the bus, grateful at least of obtaining a window seat.
I share
the back bench with a family of four. Next to me sits father, plainly dressed
in a black suit, with white shirt primly buttoned tight at the throat. Sun-aged
skin hangs in leathery folds beneath sunken eyes hidden by caterpillar
eyebrows. His nose twitches above a full moustache, sniffing out the lie of the
land as we avoid eye-contact. His wife is suitably veiled in a vibrant clash of
florals, topped with a home knitted cardigan, unsuitable, to my mind, in such
heat. Small children, one of each, finish the group, in grubby blue school
smocks, back buttoned, with sleeves outgrown to reveal bony wrists.
Something
alerts me, cries ‘creep’, and I edge further into my corner, holding my legs
away from his in calf-cramping torture. The pot-holed road allows him to bump
closer until we press knees in fetid confinement. The heat of his hand passes
through my linen trousers and I am frozen in surprise. Shock initially brings
out the Brit in me and I ignore him, shake my leg, then tut with sharp
teeth-sucking clicks. When his clammy palm lays claim to my inner thigh I am
galvanised. “Shameful”, I shout, sending a skin tearing stamp down his shin,
and leave his wife to finish him off.
Virtue
I can find no foothold in virtue. It is smooth-faced and unclimbable. My body flattens on its polished marble surface as my fingers seek out a crevice which I can utilise in my desire to reach the holy summit.
Endless
cold seeps into my bones igniting a small hope that the pride and anger and
jealousy that holds me back will be frozen out, no longer to keep me immersed
in my own milk-curdling odour of self-preservation.
Onwards,
upwards, slow stealth wins out and virtue sits above, within my reach.
Imagining her to be tall and beautiful, white robes flowing behind her and eyes
shining like the constellations peeping through a veil of the blackest night, I
am shocked by what is before me. With pale pinched flesh, adorned in rough
squalor, she stoops to lend an aged hand. I let myself slide backwards, unsure
now that the dizzying heights are what I really want if the cost is to be worn
out from toil, residing shoeless and bedraggled on this barren pinnacle.
Hall
Another wave of smoked mackerel washes over me as I lean forward, wincing at the gritty pain in my knees, to rub linseed oil into the ochre and red triangles of floor tiles. With long, curved strokes I inch my way down the hall, bent over, crawling like a supplicant ready to prostrate myself before the altar of restoration.
The
soft rustle of velvet passes close by and hurried footsteps intrude upon the
silence, hussling down the hall. I gasp, sit back on my haunches and swing my
head towards the diminishing sound. Nothing is there. I stare, cloth in hand,
unable to rise. A sense of dread, accompanied by the tingle of electric
ice, assaults me. I am jolted by a silky caress on my cheek, both delicate and
repulsive – the touch of spiders’ webs – which disappears in an instant to
leave behind a faint scent of lavender leaking into the empty hall.
