More by Austin Clarke

More by Austin Clarke

Author:Austin Clarke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-03-15T00:00:00+00:00


It seems as if Jesus’s body is coming alive; his raised hand seems to be moving, conferring some benediction upon her, as she is slouched on the small throne of the toilet bowl; and it looks also as if he is saluting her, personally, with two fingers, shaped in the salute of a Boy Scout. It is her unseeing understanding of this gesture of comfort that causes her to say, “Thank you.”

“Going to work, the other day, I am holding on to the metal bar in the subway coach, standing over a woman who had just asked a teenager, a girl wearing a school uniform, sitting beside her, ‘to please take your boots off the seat, if you don’t mind. I am sorry to have to ask you to…’

“The snow on her boots was melting. The student put her other foot on the seat…and then this student tells the woman, ‘And fuck you, bitch! You’re not my fucking muvver!’ And the other passengers hear the girl. And they hold their heads down. Some were looking into their newspapers. Some were reading their paperback books. Some placed their hands with knitted fingers in their laps. And the girl in the school uniform says, ‘You’re not my fucking muvver.’ For the second time. And the woman turned redder in her face. She looked as if she had put too much strawberry powder on her face; and meanwhile, still the passengers remained silent, for the next two stations, until the girl pulled her feet from the seat and dropped them on the floor, and dropped her winter boots on the floor too. The snow on them flew off. And the passengers remained silent. And the girl’s footprints formed by the sludge and the snow on them remained on the leather seat. The schoolgirl stood up. She came to her stop. Bay. She adjusted her backpack. And she walked to the door. Just before she stepped onto the platform, she turned around. She then raised the middle finger of her left hand. She made it look like a small prick. She thrust it, with so much violence, into the air, like a symbol, right into the woman’s face, as if she wanted the woman to feel it, to physically feel it, as if it was being pushed up the woman’s arse; or her other private parts…that I shed tears, for her…

“The subway door closed behind the little girl. She was still thrusting her finger in the air. She was talking and walking backwards. At the same time. On the platform. Thrusting the middle finger on her left hand in the air.

“And then the passengers in the coach immediately began to talk, amongst themselves, saying what they should have done, if…and what they would have done, if…

“And the lady who had spoken to the girl broke down in tears…”



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