Читать книгу Nicky & Lou - Nataniël - Страница 15

When I was fourteen years old, Jim Morrison appeared to my grandfather in the storeroom one Tuesday afternoon at 4:30. It was called the storeroom, but it was more of a garden shack filled with seed potatoes and bottles and bottles of cheap wine that my grandfather drank between meals.

Jim Morrison had no hands or feet and was hovering above the potatoes. Grandfather said you could see right through him. He told Grandfather he could not rest in the afterlife because of his guilt. He said he never wrote ‘Light My Fire’, he stole it from a boy who sold him sleeping pills, Grandfather should go to the radio station and tell the world.

Grandfather waited until late that night before he told Grandmother.

It’s a miracle, he said.

It’s indigestion, said Grandmother, All people with too much alcohol in their bodies see ghosts in broad daylight.

Say what you want, said Grandfather, Tomorrow I’m going to the radio.

Please do, said Grandmother, The world has been waiting for an old man who sweats white wine to tell them the truth about Jim Morrison.

Why can’t you believe in a miracle? said Grandfather.

I do, said Grandmother, It’s a miracle you still have a liver.

Say what you want, said Grandfather, Just because your sister’s knees turn blue the day before it rains, you think my side of the family is not good enough for a miracle.

That night, like many others, they slept in separate rooms, snoring like two dragons after a long war, neither of them suspecting a real miracle was about to happen.

In the world of large or overweight people there are two kinds. One kind is large from top to bottom, the other kind has only one body part that is large. Our second cousin, Suzette, was one of those people. Everything about her was normal except her legs. She had the thickest two legs on earth. She looked like one of those circus people who walked on petrol drums.

To control the unnecessary trembling of those two gigantic thighs, she wore nylon pantyhose every day of her life. When she had to walk fast, she wore two pairs. You could hear her thighs rubbing against each other from 100 metres away, swish, swish, like soldiers marching through mud. The real problem was the friction. Each time Suzette gave more than ten steps, the nylon would heat up and become static. Drawers would open and doorknobs would turn. Small pieces of paper, coins, screws and other metal objects would lift from the ground and fly up under her dress. When she sat down, the pantyhose would become less magnetic and objects would start falling from underneath her dress. We could never wait to see what her crotch would release next. One Christmas we picked up a hamster and a radio that could get signals from the police.

Grandmother always said if that girl climbed a mountain, she could suck up a small town. Once we pushed her down the street on a bicycle and her legs moved so fast that her pantyhose made sparks. But that was not the miracle. That happened to Suzette’s mother.

Aunt Cilla was my grandmother’s cousin, and like her daughter, Suzette, she also had one large area. She was overweight under her arms and looked like those fat people whose arms hung like dead flowers from a vase. They always look like they’re saying, I don’t know.

One night we were all together for somebody’s birthday when Suzette’s father phoned and said we should come to the house because every time they turned off the lights, Aunt Cilla started to glow.

It’s radiation, said Grandmother, She sits too close to the TV and she watches the food go around in the microwave. Once, when she opened her umbrella, voices came from her blouse.

Say what you want, said Grandfather, It’s a miracle. She had been chosen.

We all drove to the house. Suzette came running swish, swish through the front door.

She’s in the bedroom! she screamed.

We all ran to the bedroom. Aunt Cilla was standing in the corner.

Switch off the lights, said Grandfather.

Aunt Cilla’s husband turned off the lights. For a moment everything was dark. And then Aunt Cilla started glowing, light green like the sign above the petrol station. Grandfather fell to his knees.

Did you see him? he asked.

Yes, said Aunt Cilla, I danced with him.

Who? asked Grandmother.

Jim Morrison, said Grandfather.

Grandmother turned the lights on.

Phone the doctor, she said, Jim Morrison doesn’t make people go green.

We all sat in the sitting room. Suzette’s crotch dropped a stapler and a small torch. Finally the doctor came out of the bedroom.

It’s yeast, he said, Too much bread, too many doughnuts, too many buns. It builds up until the mould turns you green.

On the way home Grandmother sighed.

We all want a miracle, she said, Sometimes it never comes, sometime we miss it, sometimes we have no more patience. That’s why we drink, that’s why we eat, that’s why we hold our breath.

Two weeks later Grandmother lifted from her bed and floated in the air. Grandfather said it was a miracle. The doctor said it was gas.

(from the Songs for August stage production, 2010)