If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

Nearby, a few streets away and a hundred feet up in the air, the man with the carefully trimmed moustache stands motionless and blind. When he opens his eyes he can see the city spread out beneath his feet, the rooftops of the terraces stretched out across the side of the valley, attic windows flashing in the afternoon sun, traffic circling the roundabout, people stretched out in the park, pinned to the ground like collected butterflies. He can see all of this, and the whole city is shimmering and shining so much that it feels as though he’s standing on a diving board over a swimming pool, waiting to somersault and twist into clear blue water. But when he looks below him he doesn’t see the refracted image of swimming-pool tiles, he sees only the cracked tarmac of the club carpark, stony ground surrounded by a small crowd of people with their faces all turned towards him.

The young man behind him says okay sir, when you’re ready, just relax and let yourself fall forward. He likes this young man, very polite, very trustworthy. He says to him, and you’re certain everything is ready, everything is okay, yes? and the young man doesn’t hesitate, he says absolutely sir it’s all been checked and doublechecked.

Okay then he says, the man with the carefully trimmed moustache and the perfectly straight bow-tie, okay then I will trust you. He swallows, thickly. I will just enjoy the view first okay? he says and the young man says that’s fine sir you just take your time. It’s a nice view isn’t it says the man, it’s a beautiful day for this, and the young man agrees quietly, it’s a lovely day he says.

He looks at his street, the man, he can see a young girl at this end, he can see the boys playing cricket, he can see a man up a ladder and people sitting on doorsteps. He can see a car just around the corner, and he can’t quite tell if it’s moving or not.

Okay then he says, and he shuffles a little closer to the edge, okay. The young man behind him says alright then sir, just relax and let yourself fall forward. And keep your eyes open he says, you don’t want to miss anything.

And the man with the carefully trimmed moustache and the thinning hair nods, looking straight ahead, leaning forward, dropping away from the platform, soundlessly falling like an empty bottle, like the first weighted raindrop of a storm, turning and accelerating towards the ground.

He should be here by now.

I look out of the window, I look at the clock, I look out of the window again and he is none of the people in the street.

My mother says I was in town today I went into a clothes shop, I bought one of those babygro whatsits, a white one, ever so small it was she says.

It took me a while to choose she says, there’s an awful lot of variety these days, there were three or four I couldn’t decide between she says.

I press the phone against my ear, I want to hear her better.

She says it’s a kind of fleece-type material, it looks ever so snug, it’s got a hood with a pair of teddybear ears on it, I thought you might like it.

I say I don’t know mum, it sounds like it might be a bit small for me, and she doesn’t laugh, she pauses and she says yes well I just thought you might appreciate it.

I say no sorry oh I do appreciate it mum, sorry, I say it sounds lovely mum, thank you.

Her voice lightens, she says I got it in white because you don’t know yet, do you?

He should be here by now.

He said seven o’clock, about, and it’s nearly eight and he’s not here, it’s raining and he’s not got his car and it’s getting dark.

She says so when will you find out, is it soon, it should be, they can do all sorts of things now can’t they?

She says not like when I had you.

I tell her I’ve got an appointment soon, I hear a noise in the carpark at the back and I say hold on a minute, excuse me.

I open the door and look, but it’s not him, he’s not there.

I pick up the phone again and she says what sort of appointment, a scan I say, they’re going to check everything’s okay, they’re going to find out if it’s a boy or a girl.

As I say the words, I picture a boy or a girl inside of me, half the size of my thumb, I picture each of its limbs, its fingers, the faint imprint of freshly forming fingernails, each nail smaller than a pinprick, I picture myself a year, two years, three years from now, a child on my lap, saying hold still, carefully trimming those same fingernails.

She says oh a boy would be nice I’ve always wanted a boy.

He should be here by now.

He doesn’t seem like someone who’d be late, not normally, not unless there was a problem.

Maybe he’s got lost, in the dark, in the rain.

Maybe he’s trying to phone and he can’t get through.

I say mum, look, sorry, I should go, I’m expecting someone, they might be trying to call.

She says oh, okay, oh, who are you expecting?