creative writing: letter to George

Dear George,

I thought I would write you a story. I met this guy a few months back or maybe years, I don't know. Whenever I try to remember I start coughing up weird turquoise steam.

I met him when I was on my annual walk in a deciduous forest. I go just before the winter when all the leaves have fallen and it makes a pleasing sound when you step on them. This particular forest is special, when you turn around two times anticlockwise a mysterious music starts to play. I call it String trio no. 5 in C minor. I believe Beethoven has a similar one. We used to be friends, Beethoven and I, I would read oriental recipes to him but then he went deaf and our friendship lost its magic. He died a few months after the last recipe. Moon cakes. He couldn’t remember the amount of red azuki beans to put in so he accidentally overdosed. It was a Monday.

If you turn around three times clockwise while patting your right shoulder with your left ring finger, Bach's Sonatas and partitas for solo violin start to resonate in between the trees. Me and Bach used to be friends too. He would paint my face as the notes. In some of his late pieces if you look close enough, generally using a quality magnifying glass or a little microscope, you will see my miniature faces instead of the note heads.

This time I tried something else. I turned around two times clockwise and pushed my nose like a car horn with my right palm. The forest went quiet and a dim turquoise light appeared. I came closer and realised it was a man in a dark beige Sherlock-Holmes overcoat, hovering peacefully above the ground. I couldn't see his face. He gestured something and started moving away sideways. I followed in the same manner. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. We walked for quite a while, probably the distance between Liverpool and Glasgow. He never turned around. It was growing dark. I felt like an bull in a china shop, stumbling and getting hit in the face by invisible branches. His steps were noiseless. I didn't find it strange back then but when I think about it now I know I should have escaped the very moment he started muttering words in a language that vaguely reminded me of French. He was saying “merde” quite a lot.

We got to a little opening. It was completely dark, one of those moonless nights. There was something big and pink in front of us. I was surprised to recognise my old felty hat that I had lost eight years ago but twenty times bigger. “This is it,” he said without turning. The voice sounded oddly familiar. I was confused. “What's the point of taking me to my hat if I can't wear it?” I asked. “Go put it on,” he answered, moderately annoyed. There was something in his voice that made me trust him. I approached the hat and touched it. It felt the same, maybe a little more asperate. I stood there not quite knowing what to do. The man was nervously stomping on the ground. He had obviously somewhere else to be. I tried to figure out what I was expected to do, I racked my brains but that only made me realise I forgot to iron my socks that morning. I just stood there in that awkward position, my right hand on the hat. “If you do a handstand it will look like a boat,” he exhaled loudly. I was saddened by the fact that I didn't think of it myself. I tried to do a handstand but unfortunately I was never really good at it. My arms were too weak and I hit my head a few times. The man was frowning and gesturing wildly. He was furious because I didn't understand. I gave him an apologetic look. He turned around. I could see his face now.

Turns out it was you.

I must say I am a little surprised. You smile and we talk about Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and how we should perform it in the London Underground. It's hard to set the date, you're still trying to speak French. After a while you get bored. We go home, I take the hat with me. At home you make me a cup of tea. We're sitting at the dining table and I get lost in thought. I am knitting my brows. I say: “George, we have a problem. The hat doesn't go with my burgundy winter coat.” You look at me sympathetically. We doze off.

I dream about 18^th century paintings and brain surgery, you dream about hair dye. In the morning we discuss the plan how to invade the London Underground with our music, you suggest we pretend it's the 1970s but I never really liked hippies. I do the laundry hoping the hat gets smaller with washing. We go buy a new coat. It's green. When we come back the washing machine is still going. I open it after it finishes with a roaring sound. The hat is the perfect size but it's purple now. It reminds me of the one aunt Eliza gave me when I was little. I hated it, it was itchy and I didn't want to have a purple head. It also doesn't go with either of my coats. I throw it out the window.

You make beef stew and we dine together like old times. I'm a fan of your roasted vegetables, you like my trifle. We converse about the civil commotions in the Middle East. You claim the problem is religion, I say it's the US. I have a quick google to prove you wrong. It works and I am squirming with joy. You sit by the piano and play the Fifth Symphony. It's in C minor.

We then go to sleep.