et cetera
A Latin expression meaning ‘and other things’ or ‘so forth’ or ‘the rest of such things’. The poem, ‘Swimming Home’, was mostly made up of etcs; he had counted seven of them in one half of the page alone. What kind of language was this?
My mother says I’m the only jewel in her crown
But I’ve made her tired with all my etc,
So now she walks with sticks
To accept her language was to accept that she held him, her reader, in great esteem. He was being asked to make something of it and what he made of it was that every etc concealed some thing that could not be said.
Kitty was waiting for him on the terrace of Claude’s café. To his displeasure he noticed that Jurgen was sitting at the table opposite her. He seemed to be playing with a piece of string, weaving it between his fingers to make a spider’s web. It was becoming clear to him that Jurgen was a sort of guard dog to Kitty Finch, not exactly baring his teeth at all intruders but he was protective and possessive all the same. He seemed to have forgotten that it was she who was the intruder. All the same Jurgen was obviously there to make sure anyone who came near her was a welcome visitor and not a trespasser. He did not seem to elicit much affection from her. It was as if she knew he must never be patted and cuddled and made to feel anything less than alert on her behalf.
‘Hi, Joe.’ Kitty smiled. Her forehead looked as if she had pressed it against a hot iron. She was a redhead and the sun had been brutal to her pale skin.
He nodded, jangling the coins in his jacket pocket as he sat down. ‘You should use sun block, Kitty,’ he said paternally.
Claude, who knew he looked more like Mick Jagger every day and worked quite hard on this happy genetic accident, strutted to their table carrying a large bottle of mineral water and two glasses. Joe saw this as an opportunity to pass some time and avoid talking about the poem he had kicked under his bed with the cockroaches, etc.
He turned to Kitty. ‘Did you order this?’
She shook her head and made a glum face at Claude. Joe heard himself bellowing at the pouting waiter.
‘What’s wrong with tap water?’
Claude stared at him with blatant dislike. ‘Tap water is full of hormones.’
‘No, it’s not. Bottled water is a trick to get more money from tourists.’
Joe could hear Claude laughing. The only other sound was the birds. And the nervous hum inside Kitty Finch, who was a bird or something fairyish anyway. He couldn’t look at her. Instead he fixed his eyes on Claude.
‘Tell me, sir. Is your country incapable of processing water that is safe to drink?’
Claude, with the flourish of a low-rent pimp showing off his new diamond cufflinks, unscrewed the cap on the ice-cold bottle of water and walked towards his dogs, who were sleeping under the chestnut tree. He winked at Jurgen as he poured the water into the chipped ceramic bowls that lay by their paws. The dogs lapped at the water indifferently and then gave up. Claude patted their heads and strutted back into the café. When he came out again he was holding a glass of warm cloudy tap water, which he handed to the English poet.
Joe held the glass up to the sun. ‘I assume,’ he shouted to the caretaker, who was still untangling his string, ‘that this glass of water comes from a putrid swamp.’ He gulped the water down in one go and pointed to the empty glass. ‘This is water. It can be found in oceans and polar ice caps … It can be found in clouds and rivers … it will …’
Claude snapped his fingers under the poet’s nose. ‘Thank you, monsieur, for the geography lesson. But what we want to know is have you read the poetry of our friend here?’ He pointed to Kitty. ‘Because she tells us you are a very respected poet and she says you have so kindly offered to give her an opinion.’
Joe had to finally look at Kitty Finch. Her grey eyes that were sometimes green seemed to shine with extra radiance in her sunburnt face. She did not seem in the least embarrassed by Claude’s intervention on her behalf. In fact she appeared to be amused, even grateful. Joe reckoned this was the worst day of his holiday so far. He was too old, too busy to have to endure a village full of idiots more fascinated with him than he was with them.
‘That is a private conversation between two writers,’ he said quietly to no one in particular.
Kitty blushed and stared at her feet. ‘Do you think I’m a writer?’
Joe frowned. ‘Yeah, I think you probably are.’
He stared nervously at Jurgen, who appeared to be lost in the puzzle of his string. The dogs were now lapping up the expensive bottled water in their bowls. Claude danced into the café, where he had pinned up a poster of Charlie Chaplin standing white-faced in a circle of light, his walking stick between his legs. Underneath it were the words Les Temps modernes. Next to it stood the new rubber model of ET, his baby alien neck garlanded with a string of fake plastic ivy. He started to fry yesterday’s potatoes in duck fat, peering out of the window to see what the poet and Kitty Ket were up to.
Kitty leaned forward and touched Joe’s shoulder with her hand. It was a strange gesture. As if she were testing that he was there.
‘I’ve got all your books in my room.’
She sounded vaguely threatening. As if by owning his books, he in turn owed her something. The copper curls of her long unbrushed hair falling over her shoulders resembled a marvellous dream he might have invented to cheer himself up. How had she managed to hog so much beauty? She smelt of roses. She was soft and slender and supple. She was interesting and lovely. She loved plants. She had green fingers. And more literally, green fingernails. She admired him, wanted his attention and intrigued him, but he need not have bothered to read her poem because he understood it already.
Claude, with new humility and even-handedness, placed a bowl of green salad and fried potatoes on their table. Joe picked up a potato and dipped it in mustard.
‘I’ve been thinking about your title, “Swimming Home”.’
His tone was offhand, more nonchalant than he felt. He did not tell her how he had been thinking about her title. The rectangular swimming pool that had been carved from stone in the grounds of the villa reminded him of a coffin. A floating open coffin lit with the underwater lights Jurgen swore at when he fiddled with the incandescent light bulbs he’d had to change twice since they arrived. A swimming pool was just a hole in the ground. A grave filled with water.
Two paragliders drifted on yellow silk between the mountains. The narrow cobbled streets of the village were deserted. The paragliders were landing near the river instead of the usual base five kilometres away.
Kitty stuffed her mouth with lettuce leaves. A thin cat purred against her ankles as she threw her potato chips under the table. She leaned forward.
‘Something happened to me this year. I’ve forgotten things.’ She frowned and he saw that the burn on her forehead was beginning to blister.