Original source material
Away from the main street, cobbled and trimmed with medieval buildings still living. Away from the street performers and tourists I ducked, the colour and noise becoming too much.
And there was the large wooden door old and maybe rotting a little and the cobbles were not so light or easy to walk on. I heard piano music. On opening the large door to the courtyard I found a child who was almost not Italian, playing a dull but beautifully pitched piano. I was so moved, for his fingers were almost too small to stretch to each key – he played without error.
The man, who had seemed to be a drunk asked me ‘what do you want?’ and I thought of my writing which is becoming a stranger to me; ‘I wish to convey silence.’
‘Look for Badelaide.’ So I did and I found the old play in a musty leather volume with no title.
‘Act III, the last act.’
‘Page 38?’ He nodded. The page was sparse, the dialogue was sparse.
– There is a drip
The silence came from the page to me but I was disappointed. It was no good, I don’t write dialogue. There was silence, silence sat in between the lines of speech, silence took the pauses in the words. The man had slipped and I was calling to companions in dialect who stumbled to us full of words. I left them. I left Badelaide too.
And then I was naked, the sky overcast and standing on shingle. She and I agreed, and she advised me to plunge into the water quickly so as to experience the cold in one shock, I was sure of my decision. I was pulled out by the waves, I tried to put my face in the water. It was at this point that I changed my mind and did not want to die after all. I called and suggested we let the sea take as back to shore. We did and were spat onto the beach where we lay waiting to awake.