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The World at Sagres

by EMMA KEMPSELL

1

The cold came quickly, and we were unprepared. We had been staying up late, with the windows open, not wearing enough clothes; we had grown used to icy drinks.  All at once we were too hot, and then too cold. The snow fell like sleep and was pushed to the sides of the streets, and we tried to stay indoors. The city seemed deserted, but it was quietly alive; amber streetlights shone against the white, pavements crunched gently underfoot, sparkling in the burning glow and fairy lights hung from the trees which lined our street. We made a tent with soft blankets, and fell asleep with old movies on TV. When I couldn’t sleep I would try to align my breathing with yours, but I could never keep up and I always ran out of air. The house often creaked, and it scared me, but you said it was simply ‘settling’. 

2

My brother’s eyes appear to be blue. However, on closer inspection they are predominantly grey. He is a conglomeration of our parents’ features. His voice is much like our father's, and grew more so with age; sometimes, for a split second, hearing him say, ‘hello’ on the phone can be startling. He is lean, on the taller side of average height. His hair is dark, with a few stray premature greys. It is short, thick and needs cutting. He has a short beard, which he grew to hide a scar on his cheek after reading that Paul McCartney had done the same.

3

I wait for you. Patiently at first, but with growing unease. I was lying with you on the couch watching the news on TV, but I wasn’t watching. I was trying to remember, for the future, what was happening now; not like a memory frozen in a photograph, but alive like flowers pressed in a book, more physical and less painful to look at. I had my back to the couch, my head on your chest and one arm over your stomach. My eyes kept closing; you were wearing black. We sat up past one, waiting, and then you had to leave. Something in me told me that you weren’t coming home, but you wouldn’t listen, and I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking. I lay there for a while, half asleep, angry at you for not understanding what I wasn’t saying, and a little grief-stricken at the thought of you not being there, and then I went to bed. My eyes wouldn’t close until I heard you at the door.

4

Despite my initial protests, on my foot she wrote that I loved him. It washed off quickly in the bath that night. 

5

She lay in the rose-colored bathwater, while the last of the day’s sun glimmered through the window, picking up cylinders of dust dancing in the air. Under the rippling water, the light threw shooting stars delicately across her skin. Dipping her head back, she filled her ears with water; as her heartbeat grew louder,  the sound of Eva Cassidy singing grew softly into the distance. She lifted the plug with her foot and felt the water rush from under her. Everything has water under it, she thought, as she felt herself grow heavy. She lay there until the bath was empty. When she stood up, she squeezed the water from her hair; it wasn’t exactly clean, but smelled so good that she couldn’t bring herself to wash it. She picked out the flower petals from the drain, but instead of throwing them away, placed them on the windowsill to dry out. Looking in the mirror, her face was dewy and pink, the water had been a little too hot to begin with, and was still warm when she got out. With a towel around her lithe body she fixed a drink with a little too much gin, and dropped some raspberries in it. She went up to the roof to cool down and sat under the blue unclouded skies, smoking unselfconsciously, until she began to feel a little heady, the cigarette died, the ice melted and the raspberries sank to the bottom of the empty glass. 

6

We were stuck uptown in a cab when it started to rain. The city had been hot and buzzing in technicolor for a week, now it was dull and only waiters were on the streets, bringing tables indoors. It was late afternoon on a Friday, and everyone was leaving at once. Red tail lights gleamed on the wet roads, flags hung heavily on the street. A fire engine sped past wailing, and you pulled at your tie. With the windows rolled up, the silence and the meter running, it felt like we were drowning, so we got out. You took my hand and we walked all the way downtown, in the rain. 

7

The air smells differently at night, as the world settles and the wind cools. My brother used to describe it as having a ‘taste’. As a child I would smell it as I got out of the car, returning from long trips away from home. I would be half asleep, even newly awoken when I was lifted, or in later years, led out of the car and into the house. The smell of the air at night stays with me, but the sense of security from those days is long gone. 

8

That smell still sends me running back up the stairs of the house that I grew up in. To the landing where we used to hang the holiday rainbow lights. To the hallway where I tied my shoelaces for the first time, as we were rushing to leave the house; where the phone sat under pictures of us in the garden - running, laughing, picking apples, making snowmen. To the living room where we danced and watched cartoons in the morning. To the car where we sat in the back and listened to R.E.M. and watched never ending green and yellow fields, where seeing my parents sitting in the front seat gave me such a feeling of security.  She said we were too young to understand, but we’d seen the end of the world at Sagres. We’d seen more than she had. We had understood more than anybody wanted to admit. That smell still makes me cry. 

9

When dawn came the sky changed very quickly and the clouds moved swiftly, like incandescent waves on a cobalt blue sea. The sun glimmered diffidently between the hours of three and four and was replaced at five with billowing clouds of grey and white. At dawn, it feels as though you are the only person alive, and yet it is anything but lonely. There is no noise of technology and other sleepy peoples who have yet to be awakened. In a couple of hours, billions will have joined in the fight to claim the world as their own, but for now, you have a head start. Save for the birds, the world is yours. 

10

The only light comes from the candles on the cake. The camera zooms in and the flame glows and blurs, just like the memory will later. Everybody sings ‘Happy Birthday’ without trepidation, but there’s still a tension hanging in the air. Red paper cups are held tightly, nervous smiles exchanged. Loud voices, silliness and sometimes even hands over faces, cover up real feelings in front of the camera. As the candles are blown out, kids shout, ‘Lights! Lights!’ and they flicker on as if they are unsure, as if the darkness was in some way better. Smoke lingers and the camera accidentally zooms in on his head, on the hair covering the new scar above his ear. In less than five months, the real darkness came. 

11

I heard someone yell something that sounded like my name, and within five seconds, my mind tried to convince me that it was you. But that’s impossible. Sometimes all I want is to see your face smiling, for you to dance with me, or stroke my hair to get me to sleep. Once, when I was a child, my brother and I ran to meet someone we hadn’t seen for years. I want to dream that it was you. I run down the street that we grew up on. We used to walk it together, your hand enclosed around mine. I see your figure looming in the distance, it has been years; it feels like forever. My hand drops from my mother’s and my feet slap hard, painfully on the ground, my hair flies behind me. Tears are running down my face as quickly as I am running towards you. But it feels like slow motion. Purple flowers in nearby gardens blur; the sun is shining, like it always did, as you get closer and closer. My blue eyes are swimming. Everything is a hazy mess of gold light, green, and purple flowers. I see you clearly, wearing jeans and an old pale red sweater that I still keep in my closet. I can almost feel you hugging me. How small I’ll feel, enveloped in your arms, my eyelashes wet, and the smell of your neck. But we don’t live there anymore, and no matter how hard I try, I almost never dream of you. The house that I grew up in burns slowly, enveloped in red flames. But I remember everything and everything stays the same. Through the constant blaze, I can see it all, and it feels like there is something burning inside of me.

Emma Kempsell is a contributor to This Recording. This is her first appearance in these pages. She is a writer living in Aberdeen, Scotland. She tumbls here. Photographs by Lina Scheynius.

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