Author: Elruade

Chapter 5






        When I tried to approach her I ossified and my left leg wouldn’t come from the ground. When I add some teaspoon to a larger mix it is as if the water that was held up by the paper fell through and merged with the spoon.

        A large handle fell out of my mouth; I picked it up and started adjusting my framework. Today the cold will be unseasonable and the weight in tons will be too much for your back. In a shop I purchased a ruler and a metal plate and fastened it to my back. It would keep me upright.

        Dramatic visions when I saw him standing across the street. He didn’t move a muscle and was all covered in dust. I walked along the road until it broke off and I was left with a crooked back. My wrist adopted a symphony reminiscent of my youth; I flexed it in season.

        Temperature remained about the same. I scooped up the chips and put them in the bag. I closed my zipper and the lights were turned off. The man came up to me and congratulated me. It offended me so much I walked out on him. Even outside it was cool. The curtains were attached to poles that were stuck in the dirt and waved in the wind’s direction. From behind me I heard the door creaking. He yelled and called me an asshole. This is the last time I go out.

        I drove the machine right up to the water’s edge and I pulled on the handbrake. Even in hightide it wouldn’t reach the wheel. And my knees were held in place by a bar. She patted me on the shoulder and left. I locked all the doors. The inside of the car filled with my tears as well as the water from the river.

        From the surface came the crystal clear message that we were to depart at once and not even have time to say goodbye to our kids. Well I put him in my coatpocket and sneaked by in any case. We were soaking wet and the crabs had settled down before we could get a chance. My son says how shapely the sun is. It appears cut and dissected, ready for inspection. We will have to be brave.

        On Wednesdays there were special lectures one could attend for free. This was very convenient for us as we had no money and were desperately trying to gain something in a city such as this. We were nervous as hell.

I bit all my nails off and a paper was going around onto one had to sign his name. We were at a loss. We sat together; our section fell down into the ground with the paper acting as a makeshift roof. We were safe for now. You could hear the footsteps of the teacher. I couldn’t see the others anymore. Then I realized they had settled on the four points of reference; I had failed to learn.

        A knock on the door lifted me from my book. I grabbed another and hastily wrote in it ‘JAMES BOND’ and put it on the shelf. The door opened of itself. I pressed myself up to the wall in a clueless attempt. But he was carrying a fly in his hand and he was talking to it about the sanctity of enclosed spaces. He showed it around the room, counter-clockwise. He stopped in front of me and sniffed his nose. Then he suddenly started to cry. He held a hand above the fly.

        The alarm sounded while we were drinking tea in the backyard. The fences all fell down and the neighbors at once started insulting my father, saying it was his fault. But the siren’s howling came closer and closer; it appeared above our heads as a red light encased in a shell of porphyry. It was aiming something at us that appeared like words; father pulled me away and we hid among the bushes. Then the neighbors each shared a pomegranate and delighted in the latest gossip.

        Anyway when the siren faded we were left with alienation. The street had turned purple and everywhere were little green leaves with pins attached to them. There were yellow walls separating the morning from the afternoon. In this way we kept time well enough, and we ate in the early evenings.

        James drank Martinis throughout his life and throughout the working day. The last one on Thursday was special; he’d picture himself being inside a Martini. And I mean inside the feeling of ‘Martini’. It is dry as a desert. Bond walks in a straight line and focuses on a point of extremely concentrated matter. He will ignore the lights that pass and slowly, over the years, he becomes attached to the ground and the rock that is his Creator’s first deed. The flavor emerges as a ball on his wrist. It is his to keep. A new Martini is being made behind the stage. It is stirred by a cognac master. He has made an exception, not without much force, and his Martinis are so dry as to kill off your cock. Stick to cognac!

        The next day the bars are all empty and the barman shuffles out from the back and puts on the televised re-enactment of Clapton’s Life. Bond enters. There is smooth talk about weather. What is it? The rain; it won’t really stop, you know? They have to think about it in a vague manner. Bond asks; where is everyone? They just left. Bond can understand if that was the case. He didn’t question crowds. A bar-full of people is as good as a crowd.

On TV, Clapton emerged from a limousine and just his leg sticking out was in the picture. Underneath was the caption, ‘He doesn’t change and only changes’.

        The latest Scripture was released last August to a much-pleased people. It was sent to homes in tubes and handed out in the streets in little boxes. I came out of the subway and was on my way to meet someone when a guy sneaked it into my pocket. Only after I had met this person did I realize I had it. It was a nice little box, decorated with images from the Last Hunger and the Recital. Inside was a crumpled up piece of paper. I unfolded it in a crowded café and spread it out on the table. Before I knew it there were people standing around me. They said to me, read it. I got all nervous and misspelled a lot of words, and my carrot cake was soaked. I didn’t understand why—if they were so interested—they didn’t get their own scripture. Anyway, what it said was more or less a summary of the last 50 years; a very spot-on summary at that. When I had finished reading, the people resumed their former positions and continued talking in a soft and soothing hush. They looked over at me from time to time and nodded, as if to say I was alright.

        I have collected all the James Bond books, all the screenplays, I have several of the original scripts still in their original plasticwrap, and I have all the movies in every region. I keep this collection in my library, in a corner. Even if it’s old I don’t think it’s lost any of its relevance at all. What Bond is to me is hard to put into words. The collection has assumed almost an air of Bond himself. When I enter the library it feels as if there is someone standing in the corner. I have even arranged it so that it resembles—however slightly—the shape of a man in tuxedo. When I invite people into my home it is the first thing I show to them. Some call me the ‘biggest Bond fan in the world’; and they are very likely right. No other fan can boast owning a bootleg Chinese copy of Quantum of Solace. Why? Because bootleggers generally refuse to bootleg a James Bond movie. I know it’s simply because the police will get you in a day should you try it. The aura around Quantum of Solace is very special.

        Yes, I’ve heard they are shooting a new one as we are speaking now. Am I excited? I’ve never seen a Bond film, I only collect them. But needless to say, I will do my utmost to get all of the material upon release. That’s right, I have the unfinished script. I can’t tell you how I acquired it; rest assured it was fair game. Or should I say; the amount I had to pay was unfair to me, hahahahhaha!! Am I worried that it’s the only copy? It is written by hand but I very much doubt it is the only one. Of course, from a collector’s point of view that would be a dream come true. But as a fan I can honestly say that I hope it is but a copy.




        When the man left on an errand you hang around the place and discover the script. It was in a cupboard in the living room, beside the sofa. It is dirty and has some water damage. It’s heavy as a rock. The title page reads:


                                           21ST BOND—THE ESCAPEHATCH



        A strange title page indeed. How many movies have been shot in Paris? Big deal; in today’s movie business, how are you going to impress people with that?

        Suddenly a bitter taste landed on my tongue; I felt a heavy sensation of danger. I felt at that moment that this was the only copy of the script; it was the first and only copy. With shaking hands I turned to the last page. There it is: page 1000. And it’s not finished. Yes, this is it. This is where Bond is thrown into the river and the water turns orange. Did the collector read this? Surely not. I don’t think he could keep his collection if he knew about this.

        There was a sound at the door. Hurriedly I placed the book back into the cupboard. My face was tinted red as I looked in the mirror on the wall (man in the mirror). I greeted the collector like everything was so great. He asked me why I was still there; he appeared apprehensive. What did he do on his errand anyway?

        I didn’t mind leaving at all. I thanked him for showing me his collection. He shut the door behind me. The sky was a deep orange.









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