Through Bullion Glass

[“Do you want the truth or something beautiful?” — Paloma Faith]

March 12th

I blushed as I listened to the olive-skinned pair get to know each other in an easy exchange of colloquialisms, my words faltered before they had even been formed. “Piacere”, I said, and immediately regretted it. Their expectations would be high now, I had once called myself fluent but now felt vulnerable. It had been too long since that language last left my tongue. Smiles and torrents of words poured forth from the two Italians as they generously brought me into their conversation and I wanted so badly to answer but the vowels all came out misshapen.  He was a northerner, and I couldn't fathom his vernacular. I bowed my head and resumed an embarrassed silence.

I yearn for that language, the key that unlocks so many memories of the place where I felt complete. That year, the Sienese had truly taken me under their wing. As if connected straight to my heart, my ears swam happily as I listened. It couldn’t last, though, and as the other boy left, a great wave of nostalgia rushed over me, swallowing my sad heart whole. Take me back, portami via.

March 15th

A long, lethargic run in the sun, stopping at intervals to drink in this new landscape with a quick toe dip and splash in the lake. I still harbour that longing for the familiarly worn, red stones criss-crossing the piazza, either scalding or cool as shadows tick across the shell-shaped square like a sundial. Yet, I am contented here now, too. Lake Travis.

Today, we’re going to see Hamilton’s pool. I sleep until we take an off road detour to avoid a traffic jam.  Our short cut took us straight to the cause of the jam. Police cars peppered the highway, left unoccupied at odd angles as their drivers had pulled up hurriedly and leapt from them. I swallowed as my sleepy eyes took in the scene beyond them. Everything seemed paused as a helicopter buzzed in the hot air overhead, also surveying the wreckage. Cars, crumpled like empty soda cans were strewn everywhere, unrecognisable. No survivors, I concluded: there could not be.

March 15th

Hamilton Pool was an alter world, with the dripping overhang stretching on as though my eyes were of bullion glass. I took a long gulp of damp air and discarded my shirt and shorts, discarding my insecurities along with them. I needed to feel alive, for those who were not, as well as myself. I dug my toes into the chalky mud, my soles gripping the stone as I clambered my way under the pelting water. Bowing my head to it, I sat foetally until I felt new again and the others joined me.

March 16th

In San Antonio we booked a cheap hotel room between the five of us. The stale air of the room reminded me of that night alone in Rome, my last night in Italy. The man had asked me how I wanted to pay, and then I couldn’t lock the door so I spent the night sitting on the Spanish Steps and sharing a bottle of wine with strangers. Gini had called them “socks-on hotels”; that was another person who had died too soon… I’m back at Emmett’s Grange, a child clinging to her jacket as the wind tore at my hair, bumping across the moors on her faded red quad bike. Mossy limping along beside us and the Scottish Blackface ewes stamping at the old dog with defiant eyes. Then I’m at number 35, home alone after school having excitedly opened an appealing-looking letter addressed not only to my mother but also to me! My jaw ached as my face contorted and great sobs shook my body, hot and cold: An invitation to her funeral.

As the evening draws in, we go downtown. Sleeping horses plod the streets with their cinderella carriages dripping in neon fairy lights and fake flowers. Perusing the River Walk, we finally settle down at a table outside at The Iron Cactus. Conversation flows and we are all at ease again, enjoying ourselves. I savoured a very good martini that slid up to the salted rim like an oil slick with every sip. Laughter cures everything.