‘You will turn right at the crossroads.’
‘Will?’ I repeat, irritation creeping into my voice.
‘There is no other way to turn.’
‘A crossroads has four ways. I could go back on myself, straight on, left or, as you insist, to the right.’
‘You must never go back on yourself.’
‘Even if I were to re-tread the path, it will not be the same. The sun will be behind me, my shadow will be long.’
‘You must turn to the right.’
‘My politics are left.’
‘This has nothing to do with politics. You ask me the way, and I give you information. Why ask if you do not wish to know the answer?’
‘What if I should turn left?’
‘That way leads nowhere.’
‘It must lead somewhere.’
The man coughs and fiddles with the silver fastening on his cloak. I wish now I had not stopped and spoken to him. ‘That roads leads to Nowhere. A barren place. Without dwellings or water.’
‘And if I continue straight?’
He peers at me. His eyes are so dark I feel I am being sucked into a vortex. I focus on the silver fastening. A cross is etched on its surface.
‘Is this what you want from life, the straight and narrow?’
‘Does the right turn lead me to where I wish to go?’
‘Of course. It is right. Therefore correct.’
‘Why this bias against the left? Is that way sinister?’
‘Do as you wish,’ he says.
At the nearby crossroads I hesitate, feeling his eyes on me. There is no signpost. To the right an empty, treeless and dusty track. Ahead distant mountains, jagged as bad teeth. Behind, the life I have walked away from. I turn left, walk briskly. A bird sings from a pine tree. I sing back to it.
No comments:
Post a Comment