South of Forgiveness by Thordis Elva

Author:Thordis Elva
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BIO026000, BIO022000, SOC051000, SOC010000
Publisher: Scribe Publications
Published: 2017-02-26T16:00:00+00:00

From Tom’s diary

Sunday

There were so many stars out tonight. Familiar stars too. I made out what I believe to be the distinctive red binary star Antares, sitting low in the night sky. I visualized the world from a distance, and imagined myself walking on another land mass of the Southern hemisphere, far away from my native Australia but still on the lower portion of the earth and facing the same stars. It is truly strange to be here.

I walked back to my villa after accompanying Thordis to the Ritz. It’d become a familiar route so I didn’t need to give much thought to the lefts and rights. Instead I just lazily tracked down the middle of the back alleyways and listened to the gentle slapping of my flip-flops on the tarmac.

The sharing of my ‘black box’ went relatively well. Not pleasant but deeply necessary. I was glad to bring those things with me, and showing her the photos and ticket stubs felt like maybe the last time I will have any use for them. It was good to voice how they’ve weighed on me, but it now feels like those keepsakes from my year in Iceland are inessential. I’ve stared at those things too many times, trying hard to re-inhabit the body of my 18-year-old self. Now that we’re actually in each other’s presence, and able to discuss the events of ’96, that small packet of prickly memories seems to have lost some of its intimidating force.

Albeit I did feel a sense of being misunderstood. She seemed to dismiss my collected traces of that year as merely ‘just paper’, and the utility and power of all their embedded, dark connections seemed to be somewhat lost on her. At one point, I felt kind of silly explaining them. Little does she know though, those pieces of paper conjured such fear that they’ve been reserved for when I’ve felt calm and strong enough to try to uncover my memories. Even just the word ‘Iceland’ can fire me back into history when I hear it in the news, but those thin little pieces of paper can do worse. They connect me to it.

But maybe she didn’t see that? Maybe she and I work differently? Maybe the work that she has done in dealing with the traumas connected to that night did not need to be aided by photos and old passes to nightclubs?

Perhaps her memory isn’t as foggy and unclear as mine.

Actually, I know it is not.

I know she doesn’t have to try to remember like I do.

On many occasions she’s remembered words and moments with crystalline clarity. More than once I’ve been astounded by her ability to recount the small and not-so-small details. In all truth, the quality of her memory has helped us both.

And yet, I learnt the other day that, like me, she’s also suffered from the suppression of memories. For once, the tables were turned and it was me helping her recall something.

It’s one of the things I do remember well, that bizarre and erratic relationship we had in 2000.

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