Not so long ago in the spring I sat in my favourite cafe on West Broadway and, on a whim, I drew little stick figure scenes from Airmail on napkins. Ok I'm clearly no artist. But I hope you enjoy them.
AIRMAIL (p3): On Sunday afternoon, I’m catching the subway with two friends, and we’re heading up to see the Yankees play the Tampa Devil Rays from the eleven-dollar seats out in the bleachers. I notice her as we go to board the train, just in front of us, and we end up sitting three seats down from her. And she’s still wearing the pink tracksuit! I don’t look sideways, so I don’t catch her eye, but I know she’s watching me. It’s starting to freak me out. We lose her at the stadium, but I know she is there somewhere, probably in the bleachers.
AIRMAIL (p9): Four o’clock in the afternoon was post time. As soon as the mailman motored away up the hill, the old man shuffled out to the boxes. He opened his and found nothing. Closed it. He opened it again and felt around inside in case a letter was lying flat in the box, and he missed it the first time. Nothing. Closed the box. Gathered all the detritus of junk mail that lay scattered over the top of the boxes and sticking out of the slots and on the ground around them, picked it all up, and took it to the recycle bin.
Hissed and stomped at the tabby on his way back inside, sending it scuttling into the laundry to hide.
Hissed and stomped at the tabby on his way back inside, sending it scuttling into the laundry to hide.
AIRMAIL (p13): Bats flapped low in the Sydney dusk, fooled by the light rain into thinking the clouds were night. From a distance, each was a silhouette, black and evil shaped, sharp. But as they drifted over The Colonnade, the old man could see the fur on their underbellies, tiny feet tucked back, wings translucent, almost blending with the storm clouds (blue, grey, white, he noticed). They emerged in haphazard bunches from The Domain park, flying crookedly, still groggy with sleep. In drowsy formation, they swooped around the tall buildings, crossed William Street without waiting for the green, aimed straight along Yurong and Riley, and then made a left into Stanley Street. It began to rain.
AIRMAIL (p18): That night, though, once again, Anouk couldn’t sleep. She read a fashion magazine for a little while, and then she sat up in bed with the two cats and watched reruns of The Bachelor on TV. There was a knock at the door.
AIRMAIL (p24): The old man slowly traced his fingers over the small video library on the bottom shelf in his lounge room and pulled out The Great Escape. He settled back on the chair to watch, and the portrait could almost see him consciously not thinking about the letter in the box underneath.
AIRMAIL (p34): Something has just occurred to me: I don’t know where to get stamps. How will you receive my letter? Maybe there are thousands, or millions, of dead people all writing to their loved ones – or to strangers – that they can never send because there are no stamps in Hades.
AIRMAIL (p59): The girl emptied two sachets of sugar into her coffee and stirred without looking at the cup before she sipped deeply. Joseph watched her small back and her long, dark hair tangled in curls past her shoulders. He wasn’t really thinking about much, although whatever was in his mind was pleasurable when she spoke again. This time, though, it wasn’t to him.
AIRMAIL (p79): When the old man grew tired, he returned to room 23 at the top of the stairs, dragged the room’s vinyl chair under the window, and watched the city pass by. One day, the old man pulled out his camera. He carefully dusted the lens, adjusted the settings, and even cleaned and oiled the leather strap, using olive oil gleaned from the hostel kitchen. The next afternoon, he leaned out of the window and started taking pictures of people as they walked underneath him.
AIRMAIL (p84): The old man kept finding marbles in the street, especially around Midtown. True, he had trained his old eyes to see them; they were fine-tuned to respond to the quick flash of glass in the sunlight despite the transformation the marbles gradually underwent, dulled by months of dirt and smog and grease. Some were just plain marbles, lost debris of a child’s forgotten game, but most belonged to Anouk. She was alive and inhabiting the entire lower half of the city.
AIRMAIL (p96): I am presently an old man, although I believe I am growing younger. I was born in 1935, and I am sure you are capable of making the necessary calculations.
By the time I was old enough to go to war, it was over, but I spent several decades preparing for the next one. Not as a soldier, but as an observer. I make an excellent, thorough, fastidious observer.
By the time I was old enough to go to war, it was over, but I spent several decades preparing for the next one. Not as a soldier, but as an observer. I make an excellent, thorough, fastidious observer.
