battlefields without even a wooden cross to mark them. History has become a factory, its heroes no longer have names.”
“Would you like your name to go down in history, Pierre?”
“That’s a foolish ambition and if Deuchar had thought that way he would never have jumped in. He cared only about saving life, even if it meant losing his own. As I said in my speech, Jessie, it’s what capitalism can never explain nor comprehend. The industrialists made no sacrifice in the war, only profit, through making others sacrifice themselves.”
Jessie is shivering. “Let’s return.”
They walk with hands pushed inside their pockets. He tells her, “After the Paris Commune fell, when Blanqui had been in solitary confinement so long he could barely speak, he wrote a remarkable book. It says the same arrangements of atoms must come up again and again throughout space, in every possible variation. There must be a planet with another you, another me.”
“He was a romantic after all,” says Jessie.
“On one of them right now I’m making the speech in the meeting hall. On another I’m…”
“With Yvette?”
“I suppose. Every moment is an eternity in space. Blanqui says it in his book.”
“Prison drove him mad.”
“It made him see circumstances differently.”
“Like your earthquake in the park?”
“There are worlds where Deuchar drowned and others where he survived.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“But don’t you understand, Jessie? There’s a world where he goes back and saves another child, and another. He walks into burning houses, collapsing buildings, and escapes without a scratch. There’s a world where Deuchar knows himself to be immortal.”
He seizes and kisses her.
“Stop it, Pierre.”
“Don’t you feel the eternity of the stars?”
It fills her body, she longs to surrender to it, but not now. She breaks away and they continue in silence to the hall, arriving there as the crowd are preparing to leave. A new world has been born inside her.
She doesn’t see Pierre again until the weekend. It’s Saturday afternoon and she’s at the piano, hasn’t played for months, the instrument’s in need of tuning but she’s been gripped by a renewed urge to touch those yellowed keys whose vibrations are like a secret acknowledgment of her thoughts. Father is reading, she hears the occasional turning of a page behind her, and in her mind the words of the song she plays. You have loved lots of girls in the sweet long ago and each one has meant heaven to you. She doesn’t notice the knock at the front door; father tells her to go and see who it is. She finds Pierre waiting on the step, straight from the end of his shift, and feels herself redden. But he hasn’t come for her; it’s John he’s looking for, there’s urgency in his voice.
“Is something wrong? Come inside and tell me.”
“I expected to see him at the factory. The strike’s going ahead.”
“At Russell?”
“Everywhere. All of Glasgow will be out on Monday.” Pierre brings in cold air with him and removes his cap. “Scobie, the shop steward, told us this morning, says the union still won’t back it though everyone I’ve spoken to is willing to walk out. Where the blazes is that brother of yours?”
It’s as if none of it ever happened. She knows it has to be this way. “My father’s in there, go and say hello.”
Dr Quinn has heard Pierre’s raised voice though not his words. “ Bonjour , Monsieur Klauer,” he says from his chair, pleasantly but with cool detachment, his professional bedside manner. “If you’re looking for John I don’t know where he is. You could always try again later.”
“Are you hungry?” Jessie asks from behind Pierre’s back.
He turns. “That’s very kind.”
“We’ve eaten already,” says her father. “I suppose Jessie could fetch you something.”
She goes to the kitchen, Pierre waits for an invitation to sit but none comes, so he perches on the piano
“Would you like your name to go down in history, Pierre?”
“That’s a foolish ambition and if Deuchar had thought that way he would never have jumped in. He cared only about saving life, even if it meant losing his own. As I said in my speech, Jessie, it’s what capitalism can never explain nor comprehend. The industrialists made no sacrifice in the war, only profit, through making others sacrifice themselves.”
Jessie is shivering. “Let’s return.”
They walk with hands pushed inside their pockets. He tells her, “After the Paris Commune fell, when Blanqui had been in solitary confinement so long he could barely speak, he wrote a remarkable book. It says the same arrangements of atoms must come up again and again throughout space, in every possible variation. There must be a planet with another you, another me.”
“He was a romantic after all,” says Jessie.
“On one of them right now I’m making the speech in the meeting hall. On another I’m…”
“With Yvette?”
“I suppose. Every moment is an eternity in space. Blanqui says it in his book.”
“Prison drove him mad.”
“It made him see circumstances differently.”
“Like your earthquake in the park?”
“There are worlds where Deuchar drowned and others where he survived.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“But don’t you understand, Jessie? There’s a world where he goes back and saves another child, and another. He walks into burning houses, collapsing buildings, and escapes without a scratch. There’s a world where Deuchar knows himself to be immortal.”
He seizes and kisses her.
“Stop it, Pierre.”
“Don’t you feel the eternity of the stars?”
It fills her body, she longs to surrender to it, but not now. She breaks away and they continue in silence to the hall, arriving there as the crowd are preparing to leave. A new world has been born inside her.
She doesn’t see Pierre again until the weekend. It’s Saturday afternoon and she’s at the piano, hasn’t played for months, the instrument’s in need of tuning but she’s been gripped by a renewed urge to touch those yellowed keys whose vibrations are like a secret acknowledgment of her thoughts. Father is reading, she hears the occasional turning of a page behind her, and in her mind the words of the song she plays. You have loved lots of girls in the sweet long ago and each one has meant heaven to you. She doesn’t notice the knock at the front door; father tells her to go and see who it is. She finds Pierre waiting on the step, straight from the end of his shift, and feels herself redden. But he hasn’t come for her; it’s John he’s looking for, there’s urgency in his voice.
“Is something wrong? Come inside and tell me.”
“I expected to see him at the factory. The strike’s going ahead.”
“At Russell?”
“Everywhere. All of Glasgow will be out on Monday.” Pierre brings in cold air with him and removes his cap. “Scobie, the shop steward, told us this morning, says the union still won’t back it though everyone I’ve spoken to is willing to walk out. Where the blazes is that brother of yours?”
It’s as if none of it ever happened. She knows it has to be this way. “My father’s in there, go and say hello.”
Dr Quinn has heard Pierre’s raised voice though not his words. “ Bonjour , Monsieur Klauer,” he says from his chair, pleasantly but with cool detachment, his professional bedside manner. “If you’re looking for John I don’t know where he is. You could always try again later.”
“Are you hungry?” Jessie asks from behind Pierre’s back.
He turns. “That’s very kind.”
“We’ve eaten already,” says her father. “I suppose Jessie could fetch you something.”
She goes to the kitchen, Pierre waits for an invitation to sit but none comes, so he perches on the piano
Similar Books
