TCOTNK Season 3.1
TCOTNK Season 3.1
Welcome to Season 3
New to TCOTNK? Reading along is free for everyone, so you can check out the last chapter of Season 2 that follows here… it will spoil several fictional goodies though. Better start on the first page.
Season 1 and 2 are now both available as an e-book for paying subscribers. For an improved page-turning experience. Tip: go for the 7-day free trial, read the first Seasons and then decide if it is worth paying for…
back to chapter 1 (of season 1)
October 13
Yuna has become a stranger to me. I think we both choose to keep it that way. It gives her the integrity that suits her environment. Nothing and no one can separate me from Yuna! That's what I shouted. Six years ago already. And I meant it. The me of that time meant it to the depths of her soul. That me no longer exists.
Too much came between her and me. A whole world. An imaginary world that only exists in our heads. The world of the outer appearance, of weight, time, of everything that has gone before. Where all cause is tied with steel and stone to a sure future. The Great War deeply entrenched the desire for certainty. And as the years pass, the space created by bombs has been filled with the hope of a bright future. The same hope for better that drove both world struggles.
There is so much between me and my child. Insignificant things like money and distance. The family in which she grows up and the entire construction of safety that is being built. But also my failed studies. My illicit wanting to know. Wanting to understand is taboo in her world. There is a wall of books around me. I can climb over to reach them, they simply can’t get to me.
And there is that one book. The unborn book that is taking up more and more space in me. There's no way to convey how important that might be to us. How important it is for me to bring this into the world. The lonely path leads away from my daughter. Away from my family. There is so much misunderstanding there. So much fear to see what I see. They can't imagine it. I can. That's what I do. Imagining it. They don't understand. To them they are castles in the air. I am on my way. They wish to stay in place. That's the biggest obstacle.
Me, them, here I go again.
She turned eleven today. The last time I celebrated with her she turned five. For this birthday she had written the invitation herself. Very sweet. Without her parents knowing, as it turns out.
When Karen opened the door I saw the hesitation. Her cloudless sky darkened. She let me in, walked back to the kitchen and sent me into the living room with a wordless index finger. It was full of neighbouring women and low-hanging cigarette smoke. Menthol. Interrupted conversations. Frugal nods. The noise of the children in the back fills the resulting silence.
There she is. Yuna. Among the younger children who are busy territorializing. She stares at me. A straight face. I almost don't recognise her. She is tall, has small breasts under a white blouse. A frumpy haircut. Too old for her age. She's afraid of me, it occurs to me, as I smile at her. They warned her about me.
I wrote a poem for her. Calligraphed on an older drawing from my made-up heads series. Supplemented with micro illustrations. The face always reminded me of her. About what I expect her to be when she grows up. It is beautifully framed, real craftsmanship by Giotto, who was a frame maker in a previous life. Yuna barely looks at it. She puts it on the table and asks, "Are you alone?" Then she looks past me for my invisible company, "Mama says you," she hesitates, "livewith a pack of monkeys." Horror, disappointment and hope mix a shade of indeterminate shadow green on her face. Then the next birthday present is shoved in between. Slender woman, practiced smile. The heavy perfume of depression hangs about her. She doesn't stay for unpacking. Duty done. She lights a cigarette from the glass on the table. Pours herself something. The large present is a pan set for dolls. Yuna is also flat about that. "Just what I asked for."
I am not offered anything else after I say no thank you to coffee, cake and filter cigarettes. Nobody talks to me. I drink water from the kitchen tap. The long bus journey made me thirsty.
There are no men. Only women and children. Wednesday afternoon. I'm listening in on a conversation about a television program. Something very bad has happened. In a distant land, they don't know which, are not exactly sure what happened either. They agree it was really terrible. I ask a woman across from me if she sewed the dress she’s wearing herself. She looks as if I speak Japanese. Maybe I insulted her "real" factory clothes.
Yuna has disappeared. I just want to leave. Yet I patiently endure the silence until a man noisily walks into the room. Big moustache, billiard ball head, little bright eyes, huge belly. Retired? He pulls up a chair, sits down opposite me as if on a toilet bowl and leans towards me.
"Dusty wombs," he says conspiratorially and just audibly. Then he leans back and shouts towards the back door, “Yoen?! Where are you girl?”
In the meantime, he digs into a trouser pocket where all sorts of things are rattling around. Stretching out his short leg to reach under his paunch.
Yuna comes in, "Hi, Uncle Toek."
"Yun the Pun, I have a moving present for your eleventh cycle."
He holds his small closed fist out toward her.
“What is it?” she asks matter-of-factly, a little impatiently.
It must be something lame, like uncles do, I catch myself thinking.
Uncle Toek purses his lips. Then shows the sewn doll with a key attached to the long braided hair. A bicycle key.
“I already have a bicycle,” she says, “and it is new.”
She walks back to the garden.
Uncle Toek looks at the key.
“It's purple,” he tells me. He snorts. You can’t see he's disappointed. I do feel it though. There is such a large dent in his right flank that it brings tears to my eyes. He sees my reaction, smiles kindly with half his face and softly says; 'Do you have a daughter who appreciates a perfectly refurbished bicycle? From before the war, with grown-up wheels.' The key lies on his outstretched hand.
That was my daughter, I want to say, but I just nod.
His smile widens and his eyes flick to the backdoor for a moment, as if making the connection.
"If your parents go to the eternal hunting grounds, you are an orphan," he says as if talking about the weather, "and when your loved one incarnates somewhere else you get a title that sounds like woe, but if your kid checks out, you are simply left without a word until you've had enough.”
All with the same relaxed smile.
“Karen my heart,” he sings opera style, struggling to get on his feet, “won’t you be my birthday tart?” He throws the keychain for me to catch and gives me a wink. Annoyingly slowly he moves through the gossiping mothers on his way to the kitchen. One hand on his round belly, one supporting his aching back. He throws me a serene and arrogant glance. I smile, his impression of pregnancy is flawless.
The lucky doll is handmade. Felt. Long body, 1920s swimsuit, no face. It looks like she is holding her hair while hanging from it.
14 October
Toek opens the door without looking to see who rang the bell. I stand on the steps of the dilapidated villa. The purple bicycle is behind me in half a meter of autumn leaves. Locked. I'm going to bring it back. I have the key in my hand. The wind is blowing hard and rain is not far off, mid-October.
"Are you still coming?" It sounds from the semi-dark interior of the large house. The hall is full of stuff, old stuff. There is a path available. The parquet floor is dirty. Really nasty. It smells like a lot inside. A bouquet of matured notes from which you have to choose which one you dislike the least.
The living room is a cavern. I don't see him anywhere. There too, the floor space is almost gone. Banana boxes. Les gorges profondes et mystiques de la Touque, it sounds in my head. French makes everything more beautiful.
I find him in the kitchen. The classic checkered kitchen is sparkling clean. He's staring at a massive typewriter. A long blank sheet sticks out. A stack of fresh folio to his left. A black teapot on a light to his right. Furthermore, the kitchen table is empty.
"Tall tales," says Toek and continues meditating.
I place the key ring on the shiny wood. Here I mainly smell the wax and black tea.
“If you want tea, you have to get a cup yourself. I don't drink it.”
I look past the cupboards. Doors with windows. Other than battalions of long-term supplies, I don't see any dishes. Toek opens a countertop cabinet accessible from his chair.
"There," he says and starts typing. It sounds like a machine gun. I see fifty identical metal mugs.
The tea is tasty. Fresh and hearty. It contains herbs I can't place. Toek types tirelessly. I wait patiently. My image of Uncle Toek needs to be adjusted. And I like looking at things.
When I've finished my tea, I wander around the table and then naturally move on. The boxes in the living room are full of books. Magazines too, but mostly books. The letter bombardment is still in full swing. Abstract rhythmic phrases, irregular regularity. I'm going up the stairs. A graceful lazy spiral staircase. There is only an occasional foot of space on the wide steps. Start with the left. There are diplomas and certificates on the wall, hundreds of them, from just as many names.
There is a stuffed bear on the landing. Many more dead animals hang on the walls. Antlers, horns, skulls, even human skulls. It's almost dark there. Although the doors are open, the curtains in the bedrooms are drawn.
Typing stops. I'm listening. It remains quiet. I retrace my steps.
"I live at the back," says Toek, standing turned away from the kitchen window and drinking vanilla custard from a clear glass bottle.
“I have no business working at the front anymore. It was fun, will you come round the back next time?”
He leans over the table and reaches for the key puppet. I get it shoved into my hands again. “If you get it,” he says, “youhave to take it. When you hear it, you obey. If you see it, show it. If you know, you pass on the key.”
The next moment he was typing again.
