TCOTNK 2.5 The 15th letter part 1

If you haven’t read the first season of TCOTNK the following writings will not make much sense. I suggest you read those chapters first….

Season 1 is also available as an e-pub (compatible with most e-readers) for paying subscribers.

back to chapter 1 (of season 1)

back to chapter 2.4

The 15th Letter

Charlotte,

I'm sorry, I feel like I haven't written in a long time. So much has happened. I will report like a real writer. Well, try. Why? Because there's something big going on that I'm starting to see (and that —no doubt— we are part of), that's worth becoming a book of its own. It must be told. If necessary because of my scribbling. Just make yourself comfortable, it's a tad bit longer than normal. I'm just going to assume you want to hear everything. Including the part I find difficult to share with you. Remember this, Scarlotte; there is nothing that can break our bond.

I should call this part (because it is probably not the final version yet) 'three dreams and a nightmare'. Although I would prefer to put the nastiest curse above it.

It started three days ago.

Late in the afternoon. I was doing some shopping in the nearby village - it being much too hot during the day - and a car stopped on the square. The woman who got out was not a tourist. She stretched the way people do when they arrive at their destination. You know, after driving for too long and you suddenly realize how tired you are. Judging by her movements, she almost certainly practices some martial yoga-chi thing. From the looks of it, it had been quite the journey. Can I call her a mature woman? Not just her age, somewhere around forty? More her presence. I continued to observe her out of view (which felt wrong because she was also a beautiful woman). She somewhat awkwardly locked her expensive car by deciphering the buttons on the key, which made me realize it was probably a rental car, then walked to the hotel on the square without luggage. There was something about the woman's appearance that made her not fit in with the environment. Like a moonstone on a pebble beach. No, it was more....like a creation by Rose, when you would come across one of those handmade dresses among the everyday second-hand clothing in a thrift store. You immediately know that you have found something special.

She was inside for a while. I was just about to head to the bakery when she came back out, turned left and stopped a little further to check out Al Gusto's sidewalk menu. After which she disappeared inside, ignoring the half-full terrace. She went to eat.

And now it comes. I walked past her car, intrigued and just plain curious like some kind of fake detective (or rather like an old pervert) and peeked inside. You can't really do that inconspicuously, so I did it as naturally as I am capable of. Putting down my ‘heavy’ shopping bag and leaning against the car exhausted. What a terrible actress I am. 

It was as if I had already known. On the front seat were all kinds of papers (who under the age of seventy still uses a streetmap?), an open book entitled ‘Yeshe, Queen of Bliss’, but the most shocking thing was half hidden under some handwritten lists. An A4 sheet with a photo of my one and only bearded face, taken at the festival because you could see part of the parachute roof and the blue shipping container with the paint supplies in the background. What the fuck in hells name? My skin was crawling.

With my heart pounding and my head exploding, I almost left my groceries on the sidewalk. Like a nervous speed walker, I skipped the bakery, took a wrong turn trying to reach my rattling dune bicycle and covering the few kilometers to my beachcamp in record time. Despite my sympathy for the woman (isn't it totally obvious that I liked her a lot?) this new arrival was a threat to my freedom. I had to leave, and before she was sufficiently fueled to inquire about me. Was she already chatting with Al Gusto about that down-and-out painter? Fishing for where the target’s lair was located on the beach? For a quick visitation after one of those nasty good bubbling oval oven dishes with aubergine and cheese that I can’t  remember the name of but which always disappear without a trace in four minutes flat? I expected her to get a night’s sleep before taking action. But wasn’t at all sure. The desire to just meet her and talk to her competed with the need to pack my things and disappear.

I arrived angry and stressed at my settlement. Grumbling to myself that I had lingered for way too long in this place. I had to move. To keep moving. Leave as soon as possible. The pleasant presence of that intriguing woman troubled my mind. Still, after ten minutes of panic packing, I fell silent. I reasoned a little deeper. What would happen if I took off on the next boat north? Would she come after me? I thought so. Not too annoying in itself. Being chased and observed by someone like her. But still not entirely desirable. What if I just disappeared? Left my place and belongings as if I was away for a while. Then she had no choice but to hang around until I got back. That felt like a smart move. However? How long would she keep that up? How important was I to her? One day? A week? A whole month?

At least a few days. I had enough money at the moment. A wee plan nestled up in my head.

Instead of packing, I sat in front of the mirror to shave. With the clippers it was a piece of cake. The beard came off like a sheep's fleece and a strange man emerged. After a slight hesitation, my haircut also had to be replaced. Now I looked like a prisoner who had not seen sunlight for two years. Except for the middle bit of my face, a silly brown tanned superhero mask covered my nose, cheeks and forehead. Sigh. 

I then cleaned all traces of my makeover, took money for a week and hid the rest of my fortune in the ugly Venus’ statue that no one will ever steal and filled a backpack with the bare minimums. No sign of the woman yet. I biked into the pitchblack night with the headlamp on my cold bald head and felt strange. Like I somehow knew what lay ahead.

Back to the village to sleep in one of the derelict beach cabins. Rise with the sun and back to the village.

There is a café on the square where market traders can have early breakfast. From behind a table by the corner window I could keep an eye on the hotel, and even her car. Eating a long and slow breakfast is not particularly strange. I was.

I had prepared some spy gear, notebook, pencils, a baseball cap, ridiculously large female sunglasses, a rented scooter (for high-speed chases) and some clothes and capital to spend a few days somewhere other than the camper.

It was market day, the café busy enough to not stand out among the traders. Anyway, I won't turn this into a detective novel. It took a long time and I felt terribly uncomfortable in my unusual outfit wearing the smooth face of some faraway nephew half my age.

The book on the passenger seat of her car had the name Yeshe written on it. I noticed that I had started calling her Yeshe. I tasted the name again and again. I tried to draw her from memory, but couldn't do her justice with my scribbled sketches.

She came out towards the end of the morning. With her bag. Ready to leave. I did not expect that. And after hours of sitting still, I made the waitress nervous with my sudden rush to pay (which of course I could have done a long time ago). In the meantime, I tried to keep an eye on my shadow crush. She was even more pleasant to see than I remembered. Rested, fresh, full of presence. Why didn't anyone else see her radiance? How the facades changed colour because she was there.

She walked to her car and threw the luggage in the back. I hurriedly stuffed my bag into the suitcase under the seat of my scooter. She crossed the street on foot. To the supermarket. I hesitated. The event did not match my expectations. I took a chance. With sunglasses and cap no one would recognize me at the grocery store.

She bought fruit juice, figs, apples, a piece of cheese with fenugreek, mustard, a baguette, and a bag of salty chips. She studied the label of a hundred items. Then she chose a random postcard from the mill at the cash register and asked for stamps. Oh, that voice. A bit languid and quite deep but polished like a… never mind, I sound like an overheated kebab. I grabbed a toothbrush (which I had forgotten to pack) and paid a few seconds after her.

'Good morning Raido,' said the owner woman with a friendly smile, 'have you been to the hairdresser?'

Oh well, what did it matter that she recognized me. I paid and broke off the impending talk about the record heatwave a bit rudely and walked outside.

Yeshe got into her rental car. I sprinted to my scooter while digging for the key. Luckily my motorcycle was a tourist machine. An iron donkey with a high threshold for abuse. It willingly started and I drove away, sticking out one leg to keep my balance. Just in time to see Yeshe disappear around the corner. The wrong way. Away from my camper.

The coastal meadow landscape is empty and wide. Sparse narrow roads that meander over low hills. The village is the only one that is a bit touristy because of the long sandy beach that starts there and runs all the way to my spot. My subject drove into town, the other way, so it seemed.

I followed the car at some distance. Sounds cool, but I had to really squeeze the throttle to keep up with her. The wind whipped around my naked chin. The sun stung my bald neck. I hunched behind the plastic screen to squeeze extra speed out of my motorcycle. It was another hot, pristine blue day.

The only thing between town and village — also the main reason for my choice of beach — was the ferry terminal. The daily boat to the other side. To the north. She took the exit and pulled into the parking lot for departing vehicles. The ship had already docked. The last passengers drove down the ramp and Yeshe joined the third boarding row. It wasn't busy yet. There were some cars in front of her. I stood under the trees at a safe distance, wiping the dead flies off my sunglasses in confusion.

She would take the boat? To another country? I checked the schedule at the ticket office. An hour and a half before departure. What to do? I used my old ID card when renting the scooter, trusting that the bicycle repair shop would not do much with its administration. But checking in with it on the boat? That was too official and was the big obstacle to crossing with the camper. I took a chance and announced that I had forgotten my passport. The girl manning the ticket booth was not surprised.

“You're an adult,” she said, assessing me, “so you can drink. Are you walking or driving?' She was patient. Waited quietly until I had decided which of the two it was. But I couldn’t decide. "If you are driving, you are not allowed to do so without me at least scanning your driver's license," she said after a while, "as a walking passenger you are allowed on board with me learning just your pretty name."

Then an almost dirty laugh and a mischievous look, 'but you can’t get off at the other shore, because that's where the border crossing is. The boat is a piece of this country. A return trip for the price of a single ticket is very common here. Taxfree booze. No one will be shocked. So would you…” a daring look, “like to get on? In and out once?”

The girl was making me blush.

I decided.

"Yes," I said, "I can't refuse that."

She giggled and started preparing the ticket on autopilot. “Let me see,” she said appraisingly. 'Johann Johansson, thirty-eight, what do you think?' I shrugged my shoulders. "Attractively young," I said.

"Okay," she said when she was done and the printer spit out a ticket, "Cash?"

I pulled out my wallet.

"Well, that's a hundred and fifty."

"But the sign says forty-five for a walking passenger?" I protested, putting down two more notes.

“Yes,” she said, “but that's without me driving your scooter onto the boat when I'm done with my shift. How else are you going to get to the other shore? Walking through customs? And I am short on my holiday budget.'

She waved the ticket and held up her hand.

"I already did give you the money just now," I said worriedly.

The girl grimaced. "The keys to your bike, stupid."

There were no checks on the walkway to the ship. After ten minutes I stood on the rear deck, in a cool breeze on the shady side above the ramp, watching the cars drive in. Yeshe was also swallowed up. And after her another thirty vehicles. A little later, just before the gate closed, my Scooter drove onto the ramp. The girl waved. Now with her long blonde hair down, both bare legs like an Amazon on one side, high-fiving with the customs man. Oh my God.

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You find Michael’s next ‘episode’ here.

It seems to me a nice bunch of you is reading along by now. But I have no way of knowing unless you respond in some way. Love to hear what you think….