Frozen Whispers in the Polar Night

 October

 

            I have been living alone in Grandpa’s cabin for over a month now. The long days with golden sunsets have gradually faded, and the nights are getting longer and longer. Yesterday, when I turned on the satellite phone, I found three messages from Mum, asking me how I was. My reply was very dry: “I’m fine, don’t worry.” She had tried to dissuade me from embarking on my arctic pilgrimage to the island of Svalbard from the very start. She had told me that for a young woman like me, accustomed to living in a bustling city, that remote place would turn into a nightmare. She hated anything that reminded her of dad. But the more she had discouraged me, the more my resolve had strengthened. For once, my two halves, the Norwegian and the Italian, had been in agreement. The Norwegian half had insisted that I should visit the land of my father’s ancestors, while the Italian half had hard-headedly wanted to show everyone, especially my cheating ex-fiancé Milo and that backstabbing bitch Shira (whom I had thought to be my best friend), that I was perfectly capable of living alone on my own terms. Even, if that meant living in a godforsaken place without another human being in sight for miles.

            I must say though that Grandpa, God rest his soul, had good taste. The cabin is a wonder. It is warm and comfortable and has large glass walls overlooking the fjord and the icy mountains beyond. When I first came, last August, I had supplies delivered to me by boat from town, enough to last me through the whole winter. So, as you can see, I’m totally self-sufficient. The silence at first felt deafening, but I am gradually getting used to it now. As my pen scratches lightly against the pages of my journal, I can hear my true voice in my head, reading every word as it is created. After years spent trying to please others, I am finally reconnecting with myself and finding my inner peace.

 

November

 

            It is now pitch dark all day long. I have shortened my walks to within a few hundred metres of the cabin, for safety reasons. Polar bears are known to wander amongst houses from time to time, and although they should be hibernating during this time, I don’t want to take any chances.  Besides, I’m afraid that if I wander too far, I might get lost. I never had a good sense of direction, so I have always needed someone to lead me and show the way.

            I hate to admit it but to be completely honest, I have begun to feel lonely. I would never ever say so in front of anyone but writing in this diary I can voice my inner thoughts without fear. For a couple of weeks, I tried leaving the satellite TV on for hours, just to hear the voices of other people. But I soon grew tired of the rants and shallow conversations. The chatting figures seemed to be mocking me from behind the glass screen, often giving me scornful looks which they hid behind forged smiles. I killed the TV and it has never seen the light since.

             I feel like I’m living on another planet now, in a deserted, far-away galaxy. There is no gossip to be found here, no small talk. In my newfound freedom, I have decided to try out a little experiment. I shall assume two personalities, switching at will between them. When I am in a good mood, I shall be the original Ada, as my parents have named me; the young woman who loves reading, is often cheerful and friendly, but also naïve (as you must have already realised). When I feel angry at the world, betrayed, and harmed (and I often get those bouts when I remember how I was betrayed by those who were closest to me), I shall become Visna the shield-maiden, an indomitable female warrior inspired by the Norse sagas I have recently read.

            Three days ago, I found a message from Milo on the sat phone. It was like a stab to my already wounded heart. He said he was sorry and pleaded with me to give him another chance. He even sent a picture of himself, posing with puppy eyes. So, first, he cheated on me weeks before our marriage with, of all people, Shira, who would have been my maid of honour. Now, he even hinted that he would like to come over and spend some time with me, “to make up,” he said.

            Milo’s message has filled me with rage. It is not a feeling that I’m not accustomed to. It’s as if I’m not me anymore.

            Kind and loving Ada goes to weep in a corner of the living room, mulling on what-could-have-beens. Visna quickly takes her place. She switches the sat phone off, after telling that good-for-nothing to go screw himself. Visna opens the large sliding door of the living room and treads barefooted over the frozen decking of the large front terrace. The frigid wind cuts her face to shreds, but she does not flinch for a second. She gazes longingly at the night sky dotted with myriad tiny jewels. They are her crown. This land is her kingdom. She is the queen. Her coronation is sealed by a cascade of emerald-green ribbons that fill the sky like an ethereal waterfall from the heavens. Tendrils of pink and magenta blend seamlessly with the royal gown, snaking and dancing to the tune of Odin’s breath in the obsidian sky. Visna sits on the freezing wooden deck, energised by the cold touch of her kingdom, and spends hours looking up at that heavenly display. She shuns the warmth of the crackling fire inside the cabin. Ada and her woes have been completely forgotten.

 

December

 

           The polar night is long and deep. In the clasp of its dark mantle, dreams and nightmares intertwine playfully with reality. Ada has found it hard to adjust to the dark loneliness, but she has found a good friend in Visna, who pulls her along when she is feeling down. They have started to watch the aurora together. Ada sees it as nature’s work of art, a beautiful tapestry set against a bejewelled canvas. Visna sees it as a war banner, a constant reminder that the courage of a warrior shines against the darkness of a world filled with dangers and enemies.

           I am glad that Ada and Visna have learned to coexist in peace. They are so different, yet they both know in their hearts that they are each other’s counterparts – as light is to darkness, as warmth is to cold. 

           Milo has not given up and is still sending messages to Ada. Ada’s heart has softened, and she has forgiven him. She has even forgiven Shira. Visna is not angry at Ada’s good-heartedness. On the contrary, she has encouraged her to invite Milo and Shira to come and spend a few weeks in the cabin to experience the savage beauty of the polar night. They have agreed to come over a day before New Year’s Eve. From the tone of their messages, they seem very excited at the prospect of starting the new year in the Arctic.

            Ada and Visna are both looking forward to the arrival of the guests.

            Ada and Visna are the two faces of the same coin.

 

January

 

            The Polar Night is coming to an end. Visna expects to see the nights turn blue and pink horizons marking the first daybreaks. She is feeling tense and perhaps, though she would barely admit it, a bit frightened too. She cannot imagine the purity of that fathomless black night besmirched by daylight. She will die of heartache if that happens. She is a creature of the darkness.

            Visna has not seen Ada lately. Unlike Ada, Visna is not afraid to wander in the icy wilderness. It is, after all, her kingdom. She roams about every day, far from home, exploring the nearby shores and mountains, the priceless gems of her icy kingdom.

            Yesterday, she walked to the frozen lake five miles north of the cabin for the second time. Perhaps, a bit of sentimentality from Ada has brushed off onto her, after all. The lake was covered in a thick, white blanket. There was no trace of the hole she had dug in the middle of the lake to allow Milo and Shira to take their ice dip. The two had been so ecstatic at the thought of showing off their arctic exploit to their friends upon their return home. It was obvious to Visna that the two had taken a free ride on Ada’s kindness. They were vultures who fed on the vulnerabilities of others.

            Visna could still see the panicked looks on their faces as they tried to get out of the dead-cold water. Their hands had slipped off the thick ice each time they tried to heave themselves out of the hole. They had cried for help and had begged Visna to help them, obviously mistaking her for Ada. It took less than half an hour for them to slide helplessly into the dark belly of the lake.

            Ada had wanted to raise the alarm immediately, but Visna did not allow it. She had to pull her weight on Ada, for both their sakes. They fell out, and Ada ran off weeping like a child. Visna had raised the alarm a week later, informing the authorities in town that the two guests had insisted on going out for a walk and had not returned. By the time the helicopters had scrambled in a frantic search, the hole in the lake had already frozen over, and a thick layer of fresh snowfall had covered it completely.

 

February

 

           I am on my own again. Visna has gone, chased away by the first rays of light that made it over the horizon. Or perhaps, I simply got tired of playing the game of two. I must say that I miss her impulsiveness and unpredictability. I wish I was a wild card like her.

            I have decided to go back to Italy and spend some time with Mum. In her last message, she told me that journalists had been chasing her, asking her if she could somehow arrange an interview with me. It seems that people are dying to know more about the ordeal I have been through, with the tragic disappearance of my fiancé and my best friend. The vlog that I started a week ago has already registered 21000 followers, and I am receiving emails from hundreds of curious people every day. I ignored most of them, but one of the emails piqued my interest. It was from a publisher in Milan, who asked if I would be interested in writing a book about my arctic ordeal. He told me that it would definitely be a bestseller. I’m seriously thinking of taking up his offer. It will keep me occupied during the coming year’s Polar Night. I am almost certain that Visna will come back and help me out.

A Very Special Typewriter

Sandy Wright waited until the chitter-chatter of his students abated. “All right,” he said, “settle down!” He raised one eyebrow at the class and quickly the remaining hubbub fizzled out. “For the Christmas holidays, you have a short literature assignment. You are to write a 250-word paragraph about your favourite minor character from “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”

            A freckly-faced boy with a permanent gap-toothed grin raised his hand.

            “Yes, Robbie,” said Wright, rolling up his eyes and sighing.

            “When you say a minor character, Sir, do you mean one like Professor Digory Kirke?”

            Most of the students giggled, while a couple laughed out loud.

            Sandy Wright clenched his teeth for a moment, then thought it was better to let it go. After all, in a short while he would have two whole weeks off work. The children had coined the nickname “Professor Digory” for him, and, come to think of it, it kind of made sense. He was a bachelor, just like C. S. Lewis’s character, and also employed a housekeeper. One of his students, Paul Page, lived with his parents in the same street, where everyone knew everything about everyone else.

            “Yes, Robbie,” he answered with a hint of annoyance. You can choose Professor Kirke or any other minor character you fancy.”

            “I shall choose Mrs Macready,” said Wendy Burns, raising her hand as an afterthought. “She is the Professor’s housekeeper.” More giggles followed.

            “I know perfectly well who she is, thank you,” said Sandy. “You don’t need to tell me which character you are going to choose. But if you can, try to read the book a second time. I am sure that you will notice lots of details that you missed out during the first reading.”

            The shrill cry of the school bell brought the term to an end.

            “Off you go, folks,” said Sandy. “Merry Christmas to you and your families.”

            The kids dashed out of class with a splattering of, “Merry Christmas, Sir!”

            When all students had left, Sandy Wright heaved a sigh of relief. He scratched his grey, unruly mop of hair, then started packing up his things in his battered leather satchel. He opened the desk drawer and picked up the letter he had received a few days before from nearby Oxford University.

            “Dear Dr Wright, we regret to inform you that you have not been selected for the post of Assistant Professor in English Literature at the University of Oxford. We thank you for your interest and wish you luck for your future endeavours. The interviewing committee.”

            He sighed and his eyes fell on the four yellow lions on the University coat of arms. They wriggled and squirmed in a mocking dance, and Sandy thought that they looked more like cackling hyenas than lions. In what he would describe as a fit of indignation, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it in the wastepaper basket.

 

***

 

Sandy Wright’s head and neck were clammy with sweat by the time he reached the cornflower-blue door of his dinky redbrick terraced house. The old typewriter, stuffed in a discarded box of baked beans, felt like a big lump of lead. He had bought the ancient machine from a bric-a-brac dealer at the covered market and had been foolish enough to carry it on foot all the way back home. He had not wanted to ride a bus and risk meeting some of his students.

            The dealer, a scruffy tramp with a long white beard who had reminded him of the wizard Gandalf, had boasted that the old typewriter had belonged to none other than C. S. Lewis, one of the most influential authors of the 20th century. Sandy had not believed him, and when the shifty salesman declared that he would not part with that venerable typewriter for less than 5oo pounds, he decided to walk away. However, his legs disagreed and remained glued to the ground. The old typewriter beckoned to him like an alluring nymph, and his softness for nostalgic items got the better of him. Like the obsessive collector that he was, he immediately recognised the model as a 1950s Remington Rand. The salesman’s beard quivered as he said, “It’s worth every penny, Sir. You will not regret buying it, I promise.” Sandy exhaled like a bellows and forked out the hefty sum in cash, knowing that he had probably just been ripped off. He would not be buying a new laptop after all.

            As he pushed open the front door and crossed the threshold, the air inside his home felt comfortably warm on his cheeks. He threw his thick coat into a pile over the settee and hobbled up the creaky wooden stairs to his matchbox home office. He pulled the typewriter out of the box and placed it in the centre of his distressed mahogany desk. He felt the same sweet delight that he used to feel as a child, whenever he received a Christmas present.

            The typewriter’s frame was painted in textured steel-grey paint. The black keys were the same shape and size of 5p coins, with slightly faded characters painted in white at their centre. Sandy pulled out a white sheet of paper from the open packet he kept near the printer and fed it into the old machine. He then sat down on his battered swivel chair, that gave way an inch or two under his weight, and started flicking his fingers on the keys at random. With each key he pressed, one of the metal typebars flicked out from the huddle of its companions to hammer the black ribbon on the paper and leave its black imprint with a satisfying clack. The keys were surprisingly supple, as if they had been recently oiled. He used the fingers of both hands to type out more random characters, and he realised that after all those years, the skill of touch typing, which his father had insisted that he should learn as a prerequisite to any modern job, had not left him.

            A soft ding signalled that he had reached the end of the first line. With a little trepidation, he pressed the carriage-return lever to the left and, as if by magic, the paper rolled up just enough so that he could start typing on a fresh line. He closed his eyes and smiled as he remembered how, as a kid, he used to hear the clickety-clack of his father’s typewriter as he finished off his office reports at home. The vanilla smell of his old man’s pipe tobacco came back to him. He remembered the glee he used to feel, when, in his rare, good moods, his father would allow him to do some playful typing on the back of a used sheet of paper.

            Sandy ran the fingers of both hands over the course paint. It felt like used sandpaper that had gone almost smooth. On the right side, he felt a shallow scratch. He brought his face close to the machine’s side, to see how bad the scratch was, but he discovered that it was no scratch at all. Someone had inscribed the initials J.L. in the paintwork, using curvy cursive characters.  

            “It must be the salesman’s work,” he thought, “to make the machine look authentic. On the other hand, it would have been much more likely the shifty seller would have inscribed C. S. L. instead.”

            Sandy had been teaching English literature for decades, and “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe” had been on the curriculum for as long as he could remember. He had an intimate knowledge of Lewis’s biography, so much so that he knew for certain that none of Lewis’s friends called him Clive, or Staples, or Clive Staples (which, to be honest, sounded a bit ridiculous to the modern ear). Lewis had coined Jack as his own nickname, and it had caught on amongst his friends.

            Sandy felt a slight tremor course through his body as the seed of a mischievous idea sprouted in his head. With trembling fingers, he replaced the first paper with a fresh sheet. His fingers then danced playfully over the smooth keys.

 

Dear Mr Lewis,

 

Although we have never met, I feel like I know you better than my own relatives (who never care to visit me). I have been a teacher of English Literature for more years than I care to remember, and I had the privilege of introducing your splendid Narnian tales to generations of young students.

 

As a child, I myself was initiated into your books by my much-missed mother, and I often revelled in daydreaming my way into your adventures in the company of the Pevensie children. Some of my teachers even thought that I suffered from catatonia, because, they said, I used to stare in class for unnaturally long periods of time. I admit to you that although I am now past fifty, I still find your tales enticing.

 

I have just bought an old typewriter from a peculiar antique seller who claimed it belonged to you, but I have a strong suspicion that it was all just a ruse to sell it to me very dear. Still, I am happy I bought it as I know it might have been around when you were a don at Oxford or Cambridge.

 

I hope that wherever you are now, you are happy and perhaps, still conjuring some good stories.

 

Yours truly,

 

Sandy Wright.

 

             Writing that letter to a man who had been dead for over sixty years felt oddly therapeutic to a man who had been living on his own for thirty years. He rolled out the letter and left it face up on the desk by the Remington. He then placed another fresh sheet in the machine and was tempted to write a reply to his own letter, pretending to be C. S. Lewis, when his belly decided otherwise and grumbled persistently to remind him that he had not eaten anything since lunch. He hobbled down to the kitchen and fixed himself a ham and cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. Then, tired as he was, he went up for an early night, taking with him C. S. Lewis’s first Narnia book. Within minutes, he nodded off as “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe” eased out of his limp hands and made its way between the warm sheets.

 

***

 

            Sandy peeked at the luminous numbers of his bedside clock. It said six. Although he was on his Christmas vacation, he could not shake off his habit of waking up at the crack of dawn. He yawned, stretched out for good measure and got out of bed. He padded to the study to snatch a glimpse of his treasure. The venerable machine stared back at him. He smiled fondly. Then he noticed something that made him look twice. He was absolutely certain that he had placed a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter the night before. He rolled the paper out of the machine and angled it to the light.

 

Dear Sandy,

 

It was awfully nice of you to write. I have not had a good conversation with a fellow soul for a long time. I am very glad that you found my books enjoyable, and I am sure that as a teacher, you do your best to highlight the underlying themes to your students.

 

You remind me a lot of myself, my dear chap. I used to ramble the campus at Oxford with my head in the air, to the amusement of the students who nonetheless bore up with my quirks admirably.

 

I would also like to reassure you that you have not been swindled. The typewriter you bought really belonged to me. My brother Warnie gave it to me as a gift and he even inscribed my initials on it. However, I only used it a few times. I always was a pen-and-paper man. Who would have told me that I would get down to the business of typing in my new life?

 

I am fine, by the way, and thanks for asking.

 

Faithfully,

 

Jack

 

            Sandy’s heart raced and he laboured to breathe. Was he the victim of some elaborate prank? But how? Being a man of habit, he realised that not a single item in his small study was out of place. He did not know what to make of the letter. Was he really communicating with the long-dead Jack Lewis? His initial shock was gradually subsiding to be replaced by inquisitiveness. He was gripped by a scholarly urge to investigate the matter further, in the best tradition of Conan Doyle’s Holmes. He firmly reined in his conflicting emotions with a number of deep breaths and long sighs. Then he put on, metaphorically speaking, his rational hat. He realised he had to formulate a plan of action to investigate this matter further. Firstly, he needed to get out of his house for a while because he was feeling utterly spooked. He decided to spend a day at the Christmas market to mingle with people (which to him meant talking to the waiter who would take his order at the restaurant). In the meantime, he would mull over his course of action. After taking a spot of breakfast and dressing up, he made sure that all the windows were firmly locked and shuttered. He also locked the front door with three turns of the key, the full monty, rather than his customary two.

 

***

 

Sandy’s heart was racing as he sat before the old typewriter once more. He had ticked off all the prior steps of his plan. He had inspected all the windows a second time and deployed the metal security bar behind the front door. His home was now airtight. His rational self was almost certain that whoever the prankster was (as that seemed the only logical explanation), he would find it impossible to write an answer to his letter this time. That thought gave him a bit of comforting reassurance. After all, the thought of communicating with a ghost was quite disquieting. When his heartbeat had abated to brisk-walk level, he let his fingers dance on the smooth black keys.

 

Dear Mr Lewis,

 

It was very kind of you to answer my letter. I was totally overwhelmed. I stumbled upon it soon after I woke up, and I must admit that it was quite an unexpected treat. Last night, I dosed off after reading the first few pages of “The Lion…”, and I never imagined that in the morning I would read a letter from the great author himself. I am speechless.

 

Today I went to visit the Christmas market. You see, I am a bachelor and I live alone, so if I don’t put in an effort to mingle, I would spend most of my Christmas holidays on my own. Not that I had many interactions with other people during my ‘mingling’. Most people nowadays are too engrossed tapping at their phones, surrounded by an impenetrable bubble.

 

I believe that your time as a university professor was much better than the present day, especially when it comes to social interaction. Come to think of it, you held a post in two of the oldest and most prestigious universities in the world. May I ask which one was your favourite?

 

To be honest with you, I have read for a PhD in English literature a few years ago, although I have told no one at school, not even the headmistress. My wish is to leave middle school and move on to a teaching role at a university, where I could immerse myself in researching literature. I have actually applied for a lecturing post in Oxford, but I botched the interview badly and was rejected. You see, when standing before a class of teenagers I fare fairly well, but when I faced the interviewing board, I felt like a mortal sinner being judged by the Holy Inquisition. I began stuttering like a fool and in doing so murdered my own dream.

 

Anyway, I’ve ranted too much. Please excuse me.

 

Wishing you all the best,

 

Sandy.

 

 

***

 

            Sandy woke up at five in the morning, an hour before his habitual waking time. He had slept badly, anxious about what he would find in the study in the morning. His mind had raced all through the night, filled with a jumble of conflicting thoughts. He waited a whole hour, pressing his eyelids shut in a vain attempt to snatch a little sleep. At six, he yawned, stretched out as usual, and bolted out of bed. As he reached the door of his office, his hands were shaking like the wings of a bumblebee in mid-flight.

            “Come on,” he said to reassure himself. “You know that this time there will be no answer. Use your barmy head!”

            With a slightly steadier hand, he opened the door and flicked the switch. The bare lightbulb, that dangled from a wire from the ceiling, came to life with a couple of flickers. In his head he pictured the blank white sheet of paper lying snug in the typewriter. He tiptoed towards the ancient machine, holding his breath. Spindly black words wriggled out of their white background like curvy worms, giving him a start. 

            Sandy pushed the carriage release and slipped the paper out. His heart was thumping so hard that it could have easily popped out of his mouth. He gaped at the black worm-words which gradually stopped wriggling, stood to attention and came into focus.

 

Dear Sandy,

 

Thank you for reciprocating the nice surprise. To be completely honest, I had not expected you to write again. But please, would you do me a big favour and call me Jack?

 

I am sorry that at times you feel lonely, and I totally sympathise with you. However, simply trying to mingle with strangers will not make you feel less lonely. I am afraid that you will need to find a special person if you want to solve that issue, old chap, even knowing that there will inevitably come a sad parting for a while. As you probably already know, my own solitude was punctuated by three shining beacons: Mum, Minto and Joy.

 

There is something you wrote that piqued my interest. What did you mean when you said that most people often go about tapping on their phones? I am accustomed to turning a dial to operate a phone, and usually phones are left at home, not taken about.

 

Now, about your questions regarding universities, my heart was in Oxford. I spent some of my best times there with my gang of like-minded friends. I am sure you heard of the Inklings! However, Oxford always closed its doors to me when it came to academic opportunities. On the other hand, at Cambridge I was treated as a celebrity and was welcomed on a bed of roses from the very first day. Perhaps, you too should try your luck with Cambridge!

 

My dear friend, you have clearly been given a talent, and it would be a pity to let it go to waste. Don’t give up so easily upon yourself. You deserve better from life. I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds, but you know, I was a timid person too, so I can understand how you feel. Loneliness is not a cheerful companion.

 

May I ask you a very personal question? Do you have a housekeeper who takes care of your needs? What kind of woman is she?

 

Sincerely,

 

Jack.

 

 

***

 

            Sandy Wright sat in front of Jack Lewis’s Remington Rand, a cup of tea steaming beside it on its coaster-pedestal. He picked up the leatherbound document holder from the desk and leafed through the numerous typed letters that he had received from Jack during the first week of his Christmas holidays.  He had written every day before going to sleep, and Jack Lewis had answered every letter during the night. His lips twisted in a fond smile. Then, his fingers, as if possessed by a will of their own, started prancing lightly over the smooth keys.

 

Dear Jack,

 

I’m so sorry for taking so long to write, but a lot has been going on in the last few days. A while ago, you had asked me what kind of woman my housekeeper Mrs Stapley was. Well, your question got me thinking about her, and I realised that, apart from being kind and hard-working, she was actually quite an attractive woman, a fact that I had completely ignored during the three years she had been working for me. As I watched her while she scrubbed the dishes with her strong, shapely hands, I felt a sudden fondness for her.

 

It took me three days to fire up my courage and ask her out. All the while, I prepared myself for the inevitable rejection. I had only asked two women out before, and they both had seemed appalled at the suggestion. I was sure that this time it would be no different, and I was afraid that afterwards she would refuse to work for me anymore.

 

Anyway, as she was dusting my office, I approached and cleared my throat to attract her attention. She had just cleaned the typewriter with a soft cloth. I asked her if she was free on Christmas day, and if so, whether she would like to have lunch with me at a restaurant. When she blushed, I braced myself for the inevitable “No thank you.” She spent what seemed an eternity staring at the wall, and then, without looking at me, she simply said “Yes,” and continued dusting the office.

 

Sandra and I have met every day since Christmas, and we even went out for a cabaret on New Year’s Eve. With a couple of glasses of wine in my head, I was brazen (or foolish) enough to ask her whether she wanted to spend the night at my house, and this time she accepted without a flicker of hesitation. After that, things moved on very fast, and she has now moved in with me. Lately, we have also talked of a simple marriage ceremony.

 

I cannot thank you enough for opening my eyes, Jack.

 

On the subject of phones, nowadays, people are using mobile phones. They are not connected to the line like old phones, so you can take them anywhere. The old dial phones are obsolete, and few people use them anymore. Mobile phones can do lots of things, and now people are calling them smart phones. You can phone someone and see their face. You can even do research on your phone without using books because of a system called internet. Although this technology has fantastic potential, it is also making young people ever more distracted and impatient.

 

I am in the process of applying for a teaching post at Cambridge. Perhaps, as you said, I will have better luck there. I will let you know how I fared after I sit for the interview and the results have been published.

 

Yours truly,

 

Sandy

 

 

***

 

            Sandra, formerly Mrs Stapley, now Mrs Wright, woke up in the middle of the night to find that her husband was not in bed with her. She tiptoed out of the bedroom and saw a sliver of light coming from the door of the study. An erratic drumbeat of clicks and clacks cut through the dead silence of the early hours, punctuated by an occasional ding.

            “Sandy,” she whispered softly as she opened the door.

            Sandy Wright was seated in front of the typewriter, hitting the keys with alternate forefingers. She was surprised to see a pipe angling down from his beefy lips. He had never been a smoker as far as she could tell, and the pipe made him look odd.

            “Sandy,” she said in a louder tone, but her glassy-eyed husband went on with his two-fingered typing. When she moved closer to look over his shoulders, she felt a blast of cold that made her shudder. She squinted at the paper that was coming out of the typewriter.

 

Dear Sandy,

 

I am ecstatic at your good news. First of all, allow me to express my heartfelt congratulations to you and your newlywed wife. Secondly, congratulations for obtaining the much-deserved post of assistant Professor at Cambridge. I am absolutely certain that fully fledged professorship will soon follow…  

 

           

            Sandra observed her husband for a while. He seemed totally immersed in writing that letter to himself. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped typing. When he turned his face to look at her through marble eyes, she shivered.

            “I am pleased to meet you,” he said in a resonant voice that was definitely not his.

            Sandra began trembling and walked a couple of steps backwards.

            “Don’t be afraid,” said the voice. Her husband’s face did not twitch, and only his jaw moved while he talked.

            “Who are you?” she said. “What have you done to Sandy?”

            “Don’t worry, Mrs Wright,” said the voice. “I would never harm Sandy. Your husband and I have a very unusual but sincere friendship.”

            “Are you Jack?” said Sandra, realisation dawning upon her. Sandy had told her that he regularly corresponded with a friend called Jack, whom he looked up to and had helped him turn his life around for the better. She had always thought that Jack lived in a far-flung country.

            “Yes,” said the voice.

            “Jack speaks very fondly of you,” said Sandra. “He told me that you have helped him find happiness.”

            Sandy’s mouth quivered for a while, and then he uttered a low moan. “I owe your husband a lot,” resumed the voice. “He has reminded me again of the warmth of friendship. Many blessings upon you both. Farewell, until we meet again.” With those words, Sandy turned his vacant look ahead and resumed his ragtag typing.

            Sandra left the room and closed the door behind her softly. She was still shaken, but her initial fear had diminished. Her eyes were watery and as she entered their bedroom, they overflowed, and a couple of tears streamed down her cheeks.  When she could not sleep, she turned on the reading light. A battered book lay on her husband’s bedside table. She reached out for it. It seemed to be a children’s book. The cover showed two girls dancing playfully with a large lion, a picture that Sandra found reassuring and comforting.

            She opened the first page and started reading: “Once there were four children whose names were…” Before she had reached the end of the first page, she had gone into a deep, dreamless sleep, her face serene. “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe” then slipped smoothly from her hands, as it had the habit of doing when it felt contented, to snuggle its way into the comfortable warmth between the soft sheets.