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in this issue
Three Names, One Tradition
Robin Llywelyn
Robin Llywelyn was born in 1958 in north Wales. He is Managing Director of the Italianate village of Portmeirion created by his architect grandfather Clough-Williams Ellis, where he lives. He is the author of two novels. His first novel, Seren Wen ar Gefndir Gwyn (White Star, Bright Sky), (Gomer, 1992) won him the National Eisteddfod Prose Medal and the Arts Council of Wales Book of the Year award. It was seen to mark a new departure in the Welsh-language novel. His second novel, another highly inventive work, O'r Harbwr Gwag i'r Cefnfor Gwyn (From Empty Harbour to White Ocean), (Gomer, 1994), won him the National Eisteddfod Prose Medal for a second time in 1994 and the BBC Writer of the Year award in the same year, and confirmed Robin Llywelyn's reputation as one of Wales's most significant contemporary authors. A collection of short stories, Y Dwr Mawr Llwyd (The Big Grey Water) followed in 1995 (Gomer). To date, his work has been published in English, French and Italian.
The Scratching at the Window
Before switching off the bedside lamp, Scilingo, a retired navy captain, decided to get out of bed to put a stop to the scratching at the window. The heating had been off for quite some time and so he put on his slippers and dressing gown before crossing the room. He peered through the glass in an effort to make out the little devils but could see nothing. There was nothing to be seen save the dark outside. This was the source of some surprise to Scilingo because he imagined the street lamps would still be burning at this time of night. But since he seldom rose this late he thought no more of it. Night made his window shine like a mirror, showing the detail of his face, and he proudly observed that not a hair was out of place. He hadn't seen himself in the mirror for a very long time. Since he had stopped shaving, what was the point in keeping a mirror in his room? Tonight he saw a pair of eyes peering at him. He saw the deep shadows under his eyes. Since when had his forehead been scored by those deep furrows? A hand appeared, his right hand, raised to his face, stroking his unshaven features.
When he had closed the curtains, things returned to normal. It seemed the scratching noises had stopped. They were noises he could not tolerate, especially at this hour of night. The faintest whisper of sound was enough to keep him awake or to awaken him if he were asleep. He had not been sleeping well, even before the scratching started.
But now that this wretched scratching had come to torment him constantly...Who was behind it? Whoever it was would have to reckon with him once he caught them. He would have the full weight of the law behind him. They would see that Adolfo Scilingo was a man of consequence. He tried to think what time it might be so as to make a note. As a rule, he could guess the time to within five minutes. But for some reason tonight he realised he did not have the faintest idea what time it was. He did not keep a clock, of course, because the incessant ticking would have driven him insane in no time at all. And in any case, hadn't he worked for the clock all his career long? Why shouldn't he forget the tyranny of the clock's hands now that he had retired? He pressed the button on the side of his radio set, but perhaps because the batteries were spent, all that he could hear was the hissing of the sea's waves. He adjusted the round knob but the sound was the same on all frequencies. And when he turned the television on, all he could find was fine snowy feathers on every channel. He picked up the telephone receiver to call the talking clock. He flew into a temper when the hissing of the sea's waves came down the line like the sound from a hollow seashell. Why could nothing work properly in this shoddy country? Hadn't he paid all his bills on time? What was their excuse for these shortcomings? He decided he would go out immediately and telephone from the public phone to complain. But when he tried to open his bedroom door the handle turned in circles like a bicycle pedal and the door refused to open.
He beat the wood with his hands until he realised that nobody could hear him. There we are, he thought, I'll wait until morning then and shout from the window and then help will come. Such was his temper he would have tried to climb from the window onto the tree's branches, but he had already seen to it that the tree be cut right back so as to keep its extremities from reaching the window. The birds must be to blame then. It was a disgrace that soundproof glass couldn't even keep the scratching of the birds out. The double glazing had served very well to dampen the dawn chorus. But not the scratching at the window. That's one thing it would never ever stop. One might think the window was wrapping paper, not thick glass. So it seems. After all, don't the birds nest in spring and turn very nasty indeed on all feathered intruders in their territory? Even on their own reflections in the glass. No doubt that explains all the noise at the window. Small feathered bodies hurtling against the glass. A silly blue tit or a witless robin. Not worth worrying over. Scilingo had little respect for birds. And their antics were driving him wild. How dare they deprive him of his sleep each night! These things would be resolved once and for all in the morning when dawn had come.
He went back to bed. Eventually, pillows placed comfortably beneath his head, he pushed the button on the bedside light to turn it off. Darkness washed over him and now his head was full of red and yellow sparks dancing before his eyes.
An almost imperceptible noise stole past the scratching at the window and entered his ear. It was a sound of sorts coming from inside his mouth, like the ticking of a clock. A rush of sound like bubbles in seething water. Nevertheless, his breathing was regular, like the breathing of prisoners in a deep sleep. Their breathing was always regular and smooth as they flew through the night air. The breathing of each of them followed a particular pattern. There were fifteen of them in his charge, seven men and eight women, all lying naked on the aircraft floor, all breathing nicely. The aircraft roars its way through the night. It purrs above the ocean as the voices speak in his helmet, giving him orders. The rear doors open: a nail-hard wind meets his face and white of moon his eye. Far below the waves embroider cross stitches on the sea. He helps drag the sleeping naked one by one to the point of exit and one by one pushes them out. He doesn't watch them fall. Once his foot slipped and he came within an inch of following one of the sleeping into the abyss. Tonight he plummets again through layers of cloud and sees the waves wink at him under their brow of white and the moon like an eye above the sea. But before he wakes he slows and sinks easily down through chestnut leaves as raindrops pick-pock him on the head. He fills his lungs with smells of rain and watches the water leave snail-trails on the leaves. His is standing in the middle of a stony path between the fields and a wood. In the distance, a blanket of clouds shrouds the mountains.
Perhaps his destination lies beyond the mountains? He asks the walker who is resting in the shadow of the hedgerow. The man does not answer. He does not raise his eyes to him or acknowledge him in any way. Answer me, he shouts, you must answer me. He remembers the shouting and screaming at night from the inquisition cellars. The walker is still ignoring him. What can Scilingo do but walk the path towards the looming hills? He reaches a castle, its doors wide and its towers many. Not a soul comes to greet him as he wanders through the foyers. From hall to hall he searches the castle, finding each hall bare, each hearth fireless. Soon he comes to the summit of one of the towers. Beneath him he sees a rural patchwork of fields and wood. In the distance, dark storms near the mountain tops. As he looks down, he is suddenly overcome by vertigo and the tower stones seem unstable under his feet. He dries the sweat from his brow and staggers back towards the steps. Again he hurries from hall to hall looking for an escape route. When finally he reaches the ground floor he finds the doors heavily locked. A key hangs in a box beside one of the doors and he reaches for it. Only with his fingertips does he succeed in touching the cold metal. Why does he always feel so cold? Now he remembers: he has been here before. And as he remembers, he realises that he has woken. It is pitch black in his room, and the scratching at the window has ceased.
He reaches for the bedside lamp and presses the button. Damn, the fuse has blown, or the bulb has had it. Does he have to be in the dark now on top of everything else?
His mood darkening, he has no choice but to pick his way from the bed and feel for the main light switch. His slippers are not where he left them at the foot of the bed. The rug is not where it should be on the floor under the bed. Instead of the rug, there is cold stone which numbs his feet. He reaches out to find the light switch but all his fingers meet are the rough stones of a castle wall. Very slowly, hand outstretched, he walks around the room expecting at any moment to come to a window or a door. But, finally, he abandons hope and finds himself reduced to lying down on the floor to get his breath back. And cold comes to consume him to the very marrow. In his misery, he asks why he must suffer like this. All he did at work was to follow instructions, like everyone does. He was not the one who devised the policies. He was not the one who injected the aircrew with a sedative. All he did was follow the evening's rota. According to the rota that evening his work was to help with the pushing out. If he wanted to see his career advance, he knew he must participate. There could be no hope of promotion to the rank of captain without helping on the Wednesday night plane. And he almost paid dearly for his services, did he not? He is flying once more now. Perhaps it's a different plane. He is sitting next to the window just behind the left wing. The sun is bright on the metal wing as the flaps on the wing's edge open and close.
Crossing the mountains, roads come into view below, winding their way through the gaps, and the sun splashes occasionally on the windscreen of a motoring vehicle. Here and there in the valleys, the network of roads reaches some villages. On the mountain tops, snow shines bright in the sunlight, blue where in shadow. An occasional lungful of cloud passes over the mountain pastures. It's lunchtime on the plane, and a black gloved hands arrive to distribute sustenance. A plastic tray is placed on the shelf in front of him. A lid of foil is closed tight over the four-sided dish which contains the main course. This is the only hot food he has been given, best open this first, he decides. Carefully, he pulls upwards on the flaps of the foil cap so as not to spill any onto his lap. The forks and knives are a bit mean, but at least they are not plastic. He chooses a half-bottle of wine, wine of the country over which they are flying. He notices the fistfuls of cloud which are beginning encroach on the window like sheep's wool caught on barbed wire. The aircraft has encountered some turbulence, the voice announces in a number of languages, and coffee will not be served until they have emerged on the other side. The mist swirls thick outside Scilingo's window and he imagines angels flying through it, their white robes loose, their feet bare. All the others are wrestling with their dinner. He looks out again only to see a face staring back at him from the mist. All self-control abandons him and he screams at the top of his voice.
Everyone turns to look at him in surprise. The scream lodges somewhere in his breast. What he sees turned towards him are not heads but skulls leering at him with large white teeth, black sockets staring at him instead of eyes.
Each time Scilingo woke from his disturbed sleep, he would try to erase the dream from his mind. He would hurry to wash and dress, and then step out into the street. From his table on the café pavement, he would see the mothers and grandmothers wearing black, and knew what their banners said, but he never approached them to tell what he knew about the desaparicidos. Perhaps he should explain, perhaps then the irksome scratching would leave him in peace. He decided he would go to them in the morning, though morning was slow in coming tonight. In the meantime, he is stretched out on the floor, freezing in the dark, and the scratching has returned. The scratching comes closer with every passing moment. The scratching approaches him along the large stones. The scratching whispers the old questions in his ear like the salt waves questioning the rock and fifteen thousand and fifteen souls carry him like a coracle on a high tide and finally he comprehends that they are not questioning but accusing him. He knows he is not sleeping, and he knows too that neither shall he wake again. The scratching has reached his breast and the long claw is stripping his body of its night dress. He is naked now, and the gloved claw seizes him tightly by ankle and wrist, dragging him over the stones. The scratching at the window has ceased, and Scilingo can already feel night oust his blood and flow through his veins.
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