took off into the clean, unhurried city isolated on the other side of the planet. He found himself walking up and down St. George’s Terrace and Hay Street, cutting through connecting malls and side streets, staring at passersby and into shop windows.
The West Australian spring weather was pleasant, and he experienced the strange but inviting food smells from the stalls and restaurants. At one point he found himself walking past a small used-book store. He veered spontaneously inside, walked a few aisles and was about to leave when he spotted a hand-printed sign for a section: Poetry.
Browsing through a pile of books, he spotted a hardcover with a colorful dust jacket depicting a battle scene. The book’s title was War Poetry . Dennis smiled, picked it up, looked at the index, and found an entry for Owen, Wilfred.
He tried to read one of Owen’s poems, but struggled with the odd verbiage and strange sentence endings, amused and curious as to why Garder would possibly find this stuff interesting. Dennis was about to put the book down when he noticed an Owen poem titled “Anthem for Doomed Youth.”
Reading slowly and patiently, he found himself drawn to the simple, stark language. It created images he found oddly compelling; it was cynical and angry—feelings that he knew well:
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Dennis read on, repeating verses slowly, letting the images appear and disappear like on an old-fashioned slide projector:
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
He closed the book, took it to the register, and paid for it. Ten minutes later he stopped at a small coffee shop and found himself in the alien position of reading poetry while he sipped a cup of coffee. The strangeness of it was both liberating and worrisome.
***
It was a nondescript building, and Judy had to recheck the address to make sure.
“Yes,” she said. “This must be it: The Western Australian Bureau of Mines. Surprised there is no sign outside.”
Judy and Dennis went inside and asked the receptionist for Drew Pearson. The matronly receptionist picked up the phone and dialed an extension. She announced the guests to Pearson.
“Please take a seat,” she said after hanging up. “He’ll be right out.”
They sat, and Dennis tried to stop sneaking looks at Judy. He was increasingly fascinated with the attractive, shapely Australian, though her attitude toward him seemed to waver between boredom and outright irritation.
“So what did you tell Pearson?” Dennis asked.
“Just that his return message to Jansen was found at the consulate, and we were simply following up on that. He said he hardly knew Jansen.”
“Did he say why Jansen called him?”
“He said he called him to get information on mining operations: arcane information on the permits a particular company had taken out, details like that.”
“Hello,” a man said, standing next to them.
Dennis was surprised to see a man wearing a white short-sleeve shirt, blue tie, beige shorts, and pale kneesocks. He had never seen a grown man wearing kneesocks before.
The man invited them to his office, which was very small and cramped. Pearson borrowed a chair from an office next door, and the three of them were compressed into the very small space.
Judy reintroduced the reason for their visit, but Pearson interrupted. “Yes, yes, of course. Yes, the American fellow: quite tragic, yes? I read about it in the newspaper: just disappeared—quite tragic.”
Judy pressed ahead with several detailed questions on Pearson’s contact with Jansen, but he cut her off quickly.
“I only met him once, really. He sat right there.” Pearson pointed to the chair Dennis sat in. “Good heavens, he had a million questions about mining interests in WA. I pointed him
The West Australian spring weather was pleasant, and he experienced the strange but inviting food smells from the stalls and restaurants. At one point he found himself walking past a small used-book store. He veered spontaneously inside, walked a few aisles and was about to leave when he spotted a hand-printed sign for a section: Poetry.
Browsing through a pile of books, he spotted a hardcover with a colorful dust jacket depicting a battle scene. The book’s title was War Poetry . Dennis smiled, picked it up, looked at the index, and found an entry for Owen, Wilfred.
He tried to read one of Owen’s poems, but struggled with the odd verbiage and strange sentence endings, amused and curious as to why Garder would possibly find this stuff interesting. Dennis was about to put the book down when he noticed an Owen poem titled “Anthem for Doomed Youth.”
Reading slowly and patiently, he found himself drawn to the simple, stark language. It created images he found oddly compelling; it was cynical and angry—feelings that he knew well:
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Dennis read on, repeating verses slowly, letting the images appear and disappear like on an old-fashioned slide projector:
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
He closed the book, took it to the register, and paid for it. Ten minutes later he stopped at a small coffee shop and found himself in the alien position of reading poetry while he sipped a cup of coffee. The strangeness of it was both liberating and worrisome.
***
It was a nondescript building, and Judy had to recheck the address to make sure.
“Yes,” she said. “This must be it: The Western Australian Bureau of Mines. Surprised there is no sign outside.”
Judy and Dennis went inside and asked the receptionist for Drew Pearson. The matronly receptionist picked up the phone and dialed an extension. She announced the guests to Pearson.
“Please take a seat,” she said after hanging up. “He’ll be right out.”
They sat, and Dennis tried to stop sneaking looks at Judy. He was increasingly fascinated with the attractive, shapely Australian, though her attitude toward him seemed to waver between boredom and outright irritation.
“So what did you tell Pearson?” Dennis asked.
“Just that his return message to Jansen was found at the consulate, and we were simply following up on that. He said he hardly knew Jansen.”
“Did he say why Jansen called him?”
“He said he called him to get information on mining operations: arcane information on the permits a particular company had taken out, details like that.”
“Hello,” a man said, standing next to them.
Dennis was surprised to see a man wearing a white short-sleeve shirt, blue tie, beige shorts, and pale kneesocks. He had never seen a grown man wearing kneesocks before.
The man invited them to his office, which was very small and cramped. Pearson borrowed a chair from an office next door, and the three of them were compressed into the very small space.
Judy reintroduced the reason for their visit, but Pearson interrupted. “Yes, yes, of course. Yes, the American fellow: quite tragic, yes? I read about it in the newspaper: just disappeared—quite tragic.”
Judy pressed ahead with several detailed questions on Pearson’s contact with Jansen, but he cut her off quickly.
“I only met him once, really. He sat right there.” Pearson pointed to the chair Dennis sat in. “Good heavens, he had a million questions about mining interests in WA. I pointed him
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