‘Yes, Henry. That is a bit shit.’
I’ve been looking in the Letter Library for any clue of George’s mystery guy, but so far, I’ve found nothing. Rachel’s cataloguing is really coming along, though, so I distract myself on Tuesday by looking through the database. There are so many people in the Library, so many people who’ve left parts of themselves on the pages over the years. Some afternoons, I lie on the floor next to Rachel, and share the lines that I love, almost all of them marked by strangers before me.
‘You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since – on the river, on the sails of ships, on the marshes, in the clouds,’ I read. It’s Pip’s speech to Estella, and I know my dad underlined it. The copy I’m holding is the copy he gave Mum. He’s written a note to her on the title page.
‘The speech, it’s all about Pip, isn’t it?’ Rachel asks. ‘She’s part of him. There’s nothing about who she is.’
‘My dad’s love for my mum isn’t all about him, though,’ I say, and Rachel tells me that’s not what she means.
‘I was thinking aloud, that’s all.’
‘People’s love is always about themselves isn’t it?’ I ask. ‘I mean, pretty much?’
‘Maybe. It’d be nice if it wasn’t though,’ she says, and I think about Amy, and find myself agreeing. It’d be really nice if it weren’t.
On Wednesday, in an effort to distract myself from Amy and Rachel and Martin and George and Dad’s failed great expectations, I challenge Frederick and Frieda to a game of Scrabble. They’re playing together against me, and we’re sitting at the counter in case a customer comes in.
As it turns out, George told them earlier that Rachel kissed me, so my plan to distract myself fails early in the game when Frieda asks if we’re a couple now. ‘We’re not. But it’s confusing, because it was good and I don’t know what that means.’
‘Sometimes kisses are just good,’ Frieda says. ‘And they don’t mean anything.’
Frederick studies the tiles. ‘Yes. However, in this case, Henry has known Rachel for a very long time.’
They go into quiet discussion before placing account on the board.
‘But I like Amy,’ I say.
‘I don’t like Amy,’ Frieda says.
Frederick remains neutral.
I look over at Rachel. If she hadn’t kissed me, everything would basically be the same. I just have to forget that she kissed me.
To distract myself from thoughts of her kiss, I ask Frederick if Dad’s given him any information about the sale. The two of them are good friends. Chances are, Dad will run things past Frederick before he tells us.
‘There’s some interest, but I don’t think your mother and father quite agree.’
‘Because the price isn’t high enough?’ I ask, putting my tile down to form blind.
‘I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think your father wants to sell to developers.’
‘Mum wouldn’t sell to developers,’ I say, and then there’s a run of customers so I take a break from Scrabble. Frederick and Frieda keep playing the game, against each other now. By the time I’m done serving, they’ve moved into the reading garden and Lola’s taken their place at the counter.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her since Sunday morning. She didn’t say much then, but the gist of it seemed to be that Hiroko felt Lola was being unbelievably selfish in asking her to stay. ‘Music obsessed’ was the phrase Hiroko used.
‘Do you think I’m music obsessed?’ Lola asks. ‘I mean, obsessed to the point where I care more about music than people?’
I make a movement with my head to avoid answering. ‘Have you spoken to her since then?’ I ask, and Lola shakes her head.
‘What? Not even to apologise?’
‘Maybe if she’d told me she was applying, I might have applied as well.’
‘You’ve never wanted to study.’ As long as I’ve known Lola, she’s had one dream – being on stage, playing her own way.
‘She’s ruined everything,’ she says.
Sure, if the roles were reversed Lola would tell me I was sounding like a self-centred dick. But fuck it. Lola’s lost her dream, and I’m not telling her that.
‘Hiroko won’t play the last gig on Valentine’s Day. We’ve played our last gig.’
In an effort to distract Lola from Hiroko, I tell her about what I’m trying to distract myself from. ‘You know how Rachel kissed me the other night?’
The question shocks her out of unhappiness momentarily. ‘That, I did not know. Wait. Why hasn’t she told me?’
‘Because it didn’t mean anything,’ I say, staring at the triangle of skin that’s showing while Rachel reaches for a book. ‘She said she was doing it to help me out by making Amy jealous.’
Like I’ve said, Lola has a terrible poker face. She can keep a secret, but her face can’t lie. ‘You think the kiss meant something?’
She chews a mint to buy herself some time. She chews another to buy herself some more.
‘Tell me,’ I say, but she stands up to leave.
‘This I can’t tell you,’ she says. ‘This, you have to work out for yourself.’
Cloud Atlas
by David Mitchell
Letters left between pages 6 and 7
10 February 2016
Dear Rachel
I don’t think I thanked you quite enough for the kiss. It’s actually the nicest thing that a girl has ever done for me.
I’ve been searching for more Derek Walcott this week. I’ve ordered some in but I don’t get the feeling that I’ve found Frederick’s copy.
I’ve been reading my way through an edition of Tennessee Williams’ plays. I finished ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’ last night. Very sexy. Very sad. It made me feel like love is a thing that could fall apart in my hands. Desire, on the other hand, is alive and well. But I know you’re not interested in either of those things, being dead on the inside as you say.
I actually think you’re the opposite of dead. I think you’re trying to be dead so you don’t think about Cal. Is that why you haven’t told anyone about him except for me?
Henry
Dear Henry
I don’t think I phrased it exactly like that. I’m not completely dead on the inside.
I don’t know why I haven’t told anyone but you about Cal. It can’t be so that I don’t think about him because I do that all the time.
At the moment I keep going over the week leading up to his death. I told you some of what happened, but not all. This giant bird arrived in town. Cal and I were sitting on the beach. We’d finished eating fish and chips and were licking the salt off our fingers when it landed in front of him.
He held out his last chip, but the bird wouldn’t take it. It stared right at him, with eyes that were different to any bird eyes I’d seen before.
I didn’t like the way it looked at him, or the way it followed us home, a low grey lash on the sky. I didn’t like that it was there when we arrived.
Mum’s a crazy birdwatcher and she was outside with her books trying to locate the exact species. She studied the eyes and the beaks and the claws, but we couldn’t pin it down. Its wings were luminescent in the darkness, like a pearl shot through with the blues and greens that come out in certain lights.