Free Translated Accounts by James Kelman Page A
Authors: James Kelman
kissing, grasping her hand, looking to one another, kissing, returning to my table, my hand on her hand, she whispering to me, How are you?
I smiled to her, waving my hand, ordered coffee for her, one more brandy for myself, and she said, I also, brandy, thank you, if there is not money for food?
There is not money for food, but food smells from the kitchen are free. I also was hungry. We would eat later. We would wait here longer, twenty minutes.
These waiters watching her. Yes, beautiful woman. I saw the elder waiter observing also, not antagonistic, inventing our story. He would say it to his wife this afternoon, home for two hours,
again returning here for evening. Yes, now he wondered, perhaps I was a different one to what he supposed, suspected. The waiters knew that she was not a tourist, not foreign, they knew that, only
seeing her. And now of myself, observing how we were together. I had the second cigarette then, gave it to herself, she smoking it, having her peace, later returning it to me, sipping her coffee.
Yes and soon all attention was gone of individuals, frantically, oh what upheaval now waiters and customers, the disturbance proper had come from the designated building and onto the street, beyond
proper eyeview, people crowding to the windows overlooking the harbour, all action, screams and more shooting, rapid fire, more rapid fire, now pistol shots. We remained in our seats. Outside was
further activity. I continued talking to her, she staring away from me to those who stood by the window watching the scene beyond, customers also, and securitys, I saw them arriving down from our
side and farther along men were carrying a body and many securitys now rushing here, there, to there, to here, again. We also were moving, up from the table, bag over my shoulder, leaving money for
the drinks, the waiters by the door shifting slightly, one staring to us, them allowing us to squeeze our way past, as if not seeing us, not seeing us. The elder waiter did not notice our
leave-taking, his face turned towards the extraordinary event now taking place on the street beyond their window, and it was wonder there, his eyes were wide, how such a thing might happen! yes,
how so, it is extraordinary, how life may be, for many it is so, always.
We walked by the promenade, away from these other places, and I spoke of my time in the restaurant, impressions of the waiters, the boy and the elderly fellow, great-grandparent, silver brushes,
uncles in America, what future, no future, if within these areas perhaps already dead, but such is a common story and I said so to her. She hesitated a moment, looking to me, her hand to my arm. I
saw that we passed a modern bar now and at the entrance women were sprinkling something and it was onto a liquid thick liquid, a rancid liquid, as buttermilk, something, that odour. They sprinkled
onto this liquid, a disinfectant and methodically, their mind elsewhere, worlds lost.
8
“words, thoughts”
I had risen early, unable to sleep, and was preparing to leave. My companion was sleeping. I saw her box there and looked into it. I had given the box to her, having found it
in a place I cannot remember, it was wooden, decorative. She kept articles there, trinkets, also her notebook. She said notebook, it was not notebook, child’s diary. I opened this
child’s diary to read, as she said, as her thoughts were there. I read, now seeing my thoughts also were written there. She said to me she would write down my thoughts and had done it. I did
not want her to do this. I told her. She smiled, if I was pretending, I was not. It gave a strange feeling for myself. She said, You are superstitious, I did not suppose you were. She smiled and
touched my face but something now in myself and she withdrew her hand. What is it?
If you write then you write, what I may say to you, I cannot stop you.
It is to keep our thoughts by me. You have your mind, your memory.
I can lose my memory. What is
I smiled to her, waving my hand, ordered coffee for her, one more brandy for myself, and she said, I also, brandy, thank you, if there is not money for food?
There is not money for food, but food smells from the kitchen are free. I also was hungry. We would eat later. We would wait here longer, twenty minutes.
These waiters watching her. Yes, beautiful woman. I saw the elder waiter observing also, not antagonistic, inventing our story. He would say it to his wife this afternoon, home for two hours,
again returning here for evening. Yes, now he wondered, perhaps I was a different one to what he supposed, suspected. The waiters knew that she was not a tourist, not foreign, they knew that, only
seeing her. And now of myself, observing how we were together. I had the second cigarette then, gave it to herself, she smoking it, having her peace, later returning it to me, sipping her coffee.
Yes and soon all attention was gone of individuals, frantically, oh what upheaval now waiters and customers, the disturbance proper had come from the designated building and onto the street, beyond
proper eyeview, people crowding to the windows overlooking the harbour, all action, screams and more shooting, rapid fire, more rapid fire, now pistol shots. We remained in our seats. Outside was
further activity. I continued talking to her, she staring away from me to those who stood by the window watching the scene beyond, customers also, and securitys, I saw them arriving down from our
side and farther along men were carrying a body and many securitys now rushing here, there, to there, to here, again. We also were moving, up from the table, bag over my shoulder, leaving money for
the drinks, the waiters by the door shifting slightly, one staring to us, them allowing us to squeeze our way past, as if not seeing us, not seeing us. The elder waiter did not notice our
leave-taking, his face turned towards the extraordinary event now taking place on the street beyond their window, and it was wonder there, his eyes were wide, how such a thing might happen! yes,
how so, it is extraordinary, how life may be, for many it is so, always.
We walked by the promenade, away from these other places, and I spoke of my time in the restaurant, impressions of the waiters, the boy and the elderly fellow, great-grandparent, silver brushes,
uncles in America, what future, no future, if within these areas perhaps already dead, but such is a common story and I said so to her. She hesitated a moment, looking to me, her hand to my arm. I
saw that we passed a modern bar now and at the entrance women were sprinkling something and it was onto a liquid thick liquid, a rancid liquid, as buttermilk, something, that odour. They sprinkled
onto this liquid, a disinfectant and methodically, their mind elsewhere, worlds lost.
8
“words, thoughts”
I had risen early, unable to sleep, and was preparing to leave. My companion was sleeping. I saw her box there and looked into it. I had given the box to her, having found it
in a place I cannot remember, it was wooden, decorative. She kept articles there, trinkets, also her notebook. She said notebook, it was not notebook, child’s diary. I opened this
child’s diary to read, as she said, as her thoughts were there. I read, now seeing my thoughts also were written there. She said to me she would write down my thoughts and had done it. I did
not want her to do this. I told her. She smiled, if I was pretending, I was not. It gave a strange feeling for myself. She said, You are superstitious, I did not suppose you were. She smiled and
touched my face but something now in myself and she withdrew her hand. What is it?
If you write then you write, what I may say to you, I cannot stop you.
It is to keep our thoughts by me. You have your mind, your memory.
I can lose my memory. What is