Apex Magazine Issue 57 by Sigrid Ellis

Apex Magazine Issue 57 by Sigrid Ellis

Author:Sigrid Ellis
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Apex Publications
Published: 2014-02-01T05:00:00+00:00


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Artificial memory or no, it’s impossible to avoid clichés: flood–of–memories, changed–yet–unaltered scenery. The wharf completely submerged by the high tide, the avenue of statues almost buried in the sand. The terrace with its old wooden furniture, the varnish peeled off by the salt air. An unfamiliar black and white cat on the mat in front of the double doors, slightly ajar to show the living room beyond. Not a sound. The porcelain vase with its blue dragon, full of freshly cut flowering broom. I should call out, but I can’t, the silence oppresses me. Perhaps she won’t recognize me. I’ll say anything, that I am a census–taker, that it’s the wrong house. Or simply go… But, «Hello, Manou,» I didn’t hear her coming, she’s behind me.

Small, so small, diminutive, like a bird. Was she like this? I don’t remember her being so frail. The hair is quite white, tousled, she must have been having an afternoon nap. The wrinkles, the flabby cheeks, chin, eyelids. And yet her features seem clearer, as though purified. And the eyes, the eyes haven’t changed, big and black, liquid, lively. Try to think: she recognized me, how? Make out her expression… I can’t, it’s been so long that I’ve lost the habit of reading her face — and it’s not the same face. Or it’s the same but different. It’s her. She’s old, she’s tired. I look at her, she looks at me, her head thrown back, and I feel huge, a giant, but hollow, fragile.

She speaks first: «So, you recuperated yourself.» Sarcasm or satisfaction? And I say, «I’m going into the Hamburg zone, I’m catching the six o’clock train,» and it’s a retort, I’m on the defensive. I thought we’d chat about trivialities, embarrassed perhaps, before speaking about… But it’s true she never liked beating about the bush, and then when you’re old there’s no time to lose, right? Well, I haven’t any time to lose either! No, I’m not going to get angry in order to stand up to her; I’ve learned to control that reflex. It kept me alive, but it’s not what I need here. I don’t, absolutely don’t, want to get angry.

She doesn’t make it easy for me: «Not married, then, no children?» And while I suffocate in silence she goes on: «You left to live your own life, you should have been consistent, lived to the full. With your gifts, to become a recuperator! Really, I didn’t bring you up like that.»

I can’t mistake her tone. She’s reproaching me, she’s resentful!

«You didn’t make me like that, you mean! But perhaps you didn’t make me as much as you think!»

There we go, fighting. It can’t be true, I’m dreaming; fifteen years, and it’s as though I left last week!

«So you actually took the trouble to find out? If you’d taken a little more trouble, you’d have learned that artifacts are not necessarily sterile. True, the Institute buried the really pertinent data, but with a little effort… You didn’t even try,



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