"I should have just gone out and bought one when I had the money," Fred is saying, his voice gruff. The manual typewriter that I brought the day before has not worked out either. "I saw one that I liked just fine, a Royal." He looks at me.
"Do you remember where?" I ask. "There really aren't typewriter stores around anymore."
"Oh, some big general place, like a WalMart," he says. "Sometime last year I think it was."
"Okay," I say. "I'll keep my eyes open for something." I pause. "Shall I try reading some Neruda poetry?"
"Sure," he says, and I take the beautifully illustrated oversize copy of Neruda poems, a gift from a forgotten someone of many years ago. I sit on the edge of the bed, leaning over the book, and read out loud, slowly, projecting my voice so he will hear every word. And immediately, I feel his attention like a tangible presence in the space between us. I know he is listening, grunting softly now and then, absorbed in the images of sea and sand and waves, all watched by a man alone on the shore.
"Is that enough?" I ask after the second one. I want to stop before the tangible presence of his attention fades.
"Well," he says slowly, acknowledging that we are running out of steam. "Why not one more?"
I join the narrator in the room with Fred. I'm tense and nervous. I had a feeling yesterday's typewriter wasn't going to do the trick either. How many typewriters will it take? I am not betting that a Royal typewriter will somehow magically appear, and even if it does.... Thank God for the Neruda poems. A little respite. And a bit of hope.
ReplyDeleteThe typewriter has become the rift, the irretrievable…but also the symbol for the writing—it’s a machine that no longer works for him. So powerful. Thanks to our narrator, words from Neruda still reach him and briefly engulf them. Beautiful
ReplyDeleteAlways those heart rending times when the item itself is not the issue...and so wise of the author to turn to the things so loved before...the sure thing of poetry that creates and re establishes the bond that is always there,
ReplyDelete