Peeling a Sticker from a Wall is a set of observational narratives written on consecutive days, the idea not to edit subsequently. They have an extended tweet feel to them, but were written a number of years prior to twitter! Published in the Eildon Tree, the Scottish Borders new writing magazine, I'm posting them to coincide with the Eildon Tree 10th Birthday celebrations. I hope you enjoy it!
Peeling a Sticker from a Wall.
Venice, Italy.
You ask how to get back to your house from here, aware a man is dying in the background, a desire to fall backward into sleep overwhelming. He tells you that he’ll be going to get cigarettes and it’s on the way home, so he’ll show you. He stands and speaks to his friend and they are gone. You are told they have gone to get cigarettes.
The man is dead now, the white sheet covering his face, the focal point of everyone’s attention, whether looking or looking away. You walk back through the square, dampened. People are milling now rather than standing, moving away from their focal point, quiet. You find out that he was twenty-five and that his friends thought he was fucking around. He was having a stroke, a massive coronary. It’s three-thirty in the morning.
Pula, Croatia.
She blows into the top of her bottle, a note sounding. She talks about Duchamp and he watches the sea. Her fervour rises and the water breaks. There is no sand only stone.
Alter the number of your house. Where will the letters go? When will the milk arrive? Why will the ambulance never get here? You are scared. Where are they? Try phoning again. They are in another place, looking for another person.
Sitting in the shade, you see a slab of stone set vertically into the ground. Inscribed on it are the words ‘Arheoloski Musej Istre.’ Walking to it you see it is inscribed in crisp new lettering. As you turn away you glimpse the Roman engraving on which the letters have been placed. This is the entrance to the museum.
You arrive, the walk down the hill in anticipation of the return, to find that all the food has been cooked and has been eaten. The alternative is singular and the sky lights up in silence, the storm only thinking about coming in. It begins to rain.
Premantura, Croatia.
Getting out of the car you inhale the blue sea smell, the voices around you you cannot understand. This intensifies your emotions seeing the sea and amplifies the discomfort of strangers. The rocks are sharp and fall away so you dive, eyes open to the streaming salt.
Rovinj, Croatia.
You float in the Lido one metre from the sea. Half price admission to the open air. You think loosely about the wooden steps, cantilevered from the wall, the spaces in between as large. Reaching the top the open space introduces abject fear and you can only turn and retreat. You descend, feeling the sweat drop from your forehead down your nose. You taste the salt in your mouth as you step onto the flagstone floor.
The tape she winds in and out of its cassette as you ask for Cuba Libre. She looks at the cassette, nudging the tape back into place. She brings your drinks and the music begins. You sit, sip and listen to the broken tape.
The Adriatic.
Tune the radio. It buzzes and blisters and you are unable to change it. You cannot speak the language and if you could you would still be without the ability to influence. The radio tunes, a tune comes onto the radio. You wait for it to blister.
Padova, Italy.
The city is brimming with churches so you begin with the biggest. The space is blank cliff face and there is a lone climber. He sits on top of the highest ledge, fixing a light. The cherry picker is a violent green, a contrast to the white space. You trip over the power cable as you look up and the lights flicker.
Verona, Italy.
The café is busy, pushed to burst. There is a bench at the back, occupied only in part. You ask if you can sit and he speaks his own language, not a native one. You understand that he is waiting for his wife. You stand and enjoy your lunch. As you leave, you look at the empty seat. There is no wife.
A list, experiments in culinary terror: horsemeat, minced; veal, undressed. Somehow the real culprits are the mushrooms, recently excavated from the bottom of a tin. You eat all these. You drink your wine with relish.
Brescia, Italy.
The plane taxis and you look past the man next to you and out of the window. The sun is bright. You see he is reading a book on Clinical Dermatology, complete with lavish photographic illustration. In the back of the seat in front of you is a sick-bag.
All text and images ©Alastair Cook 2009
