Morse Code
by Stefan Gonzalevski
— Will you write tonight?
He looked around him, trying to see beyond the blinding lights of the projectors.
— I don’t see any window.
The young journalist squinted a second, obviously trying to decide if he was mocking her question.
— Do you need to see outside to be able to write?
He smiled.
— Almost. I wanted to see if it would rain tonight.
She felt slightly relieved: he wasn’t evading the question. She clung to this clue, a weak branch above rapids. But if it would hold her long enough, she might grab a stronger one and reach the shore.
— The rain inspires you?
He nodded.
— More than you may think. The rain talks to me.
She wrote it quickly in her notebook and underlined it. No doubt there was a potential title here. At least a heading.
— That’s a very poetic way to say it. Is that why you decided to live in Scotland?
He had a slightly disappointed grin. She seemed happy about her witty comment. He just felt he had wasted a confession to an unmindful ear. Rostropovich playing for the birthday of a spoiled brat.
The rest of the interview was about his last book, and he recognized the material that his agent had distributed to every redaction whose issue had a literature section. She had dared to step out of the back cover path, but had quickly and fearfully came back to the soothing editorial road of her magazine’s policy.
That night, it rained. He opened a window, and he wrote.
The next day, after a light lunch, he left his apartment with earplugs, an umbrella and a raincoat.
He sat quietly on a deserted café terrace, under the canopy. He had chosen this place for the sound that the rain produces, undisturbed by the noises of the city.
He nodded at the waiter who brought him a long coffee. He opened his notebook on the table, scribbled a few lines to ensure that his Cross pen was well inked.
Then he removed his earplugs and looked at the sky.
— Now you may come, please. I’m listening.
His agent had tried many times to convince him to write before summer, in order to have a book ready for September. He replied that it was not up to him but to the weather.
He always said that he just had to listen to be able to write. That his role was to only pass the words. He never explained where he got them from, though.
It seemed endless. It was a continuous process of listening carefully to the rain, the drops falling in a Morse code rhythm, and sorting them to create words that would make some sense in this universal cacophony. That was his method.
These last weeks, he seemed preoccupied. His agent had to repeat her questions to catch his attention. Although he didn’t want to open up to her, she had many concerns. She was responsible for many major authors and the profit they generated for the publishing company. Writing is a money game. Only beginners and geniuses ignore that.
She never knew how to approach the sensitive matter of health. She couldn’t just ask how he was doing. She had met enough authors to know that they wouldn’t write brilliantly if they weren’t, for the most gifted, on the verge of collapsing.
So she always postponed the moment when she would ask if there might be another manuscript.
As he got older, he seemed to age at an alarming rate. He got his first white hair before turning 40. Now approaching 50, he seemed to fade away from the living world.
He knew he was decaying. He wasn’t afraid of the word. Because he could write it. He was scared by the fact that his hearing was declining. Slowly but surely.
And the drops never stopped falling. He could not be the only listener. He had to teach someone. The message was incomplete. He couldn’t accept the silence of the rain’s voice.
The task required someone young and in good shape. The method was odd, at best. The concentration was crucial. The candidate had to be chosen carefully and qualified in deciphering Morse code.
But how to explain what sounds like the delirium of an old man? Where to find an attentive and receptive ear? Should he let fate decide and place on his way the prodigy child? Fate was rarely benevolent. And usually kicked good fortune’s ass continually.
He never met anyone adequate in his favorite café. He had to admit that it was not the cradle of universe’s talents, rather the lair of two or three nomad workers dressed like lumberjacks, thick like an authentic ax, a couple of Japanese tourists, and two retired ladies flashing their favorite outfits, outshined by the constant smile they sported since the morning of the day they know they’d meet.
However, he was absolutely sure that he brought his umbrella this morning. The waiter hadn’t seen it. It had simply vanished.
Now he had to wait in a lull, and had lost his desire to listen. He put his earplugs back in. He wondered where he could find an umbrella store.
With an idle mind, he stopped at the Old Town bookshop. He nodded at the owner.
— You know that I never could stand the abominable sound of your bell?
— Then why do you keep coming?
— I really have no idea. If only you would sell something I have an interest in. I’m sure you don’t even sell my books.
— Of course not! I respect my clients.
He grunted with a smile.
— Nice to see you Steve. How are you?
Steve shrugged.
— Not too bad. Except that people don’t read.
— Maybe because most of the books are lame.
— You mean apart from yours?
— They are as old as me, Steve. They don’t count. Besides, I don’t know if there will be many more.
Steve looked at him.
— What? You want to stop writing?
He shrugged.
— If I can’t hear my muse talking to me…
Steve half-smiled and gestured in his direction:
— By the way, you forgot your umbrella?
He looked at himself and repressed the urge to shake his trench coat.
— It properly disappeared.
Steve pointed to a bucket next to the door.
— Pick one. Clients always forget umbrellas.
He walked to the corner and leaned, hands in the back. He observed them closely, seemed to smell them, and picked one.
— I hope this one will help me make it home dry.
And it did. Quietly. Although it started to rain again, the drops fell almost silently above him. Of course this one couldn’t render the perfect soothing sound that his previous one produced.
Once at home, he observed it more carefully. The fabric seemed handmade, by an artisan. And a skillful one. But no brand or label was visible.
When the name Steve appeared on his phone, he was usually not really surprised, although he didn’t remember ordering a book these last few days. And it was later than 10 pm.
— Do you harass all your clients like this?
— Only the nasty thieves.
— What do you mean? I always pay for your overpriced books.
— The umbrella.
— The umbrella?
— Yes. Its owner came back to the store.
— I understand that. It’s of undeniable quality.
— I believe you. So, stop your career as an outlaw and bring it back.
— And what would I have in exchange?
— Well, first of all, I will prevent the police forces of the whole country from hunting you down.
— You’d like to see that, admit it.
— What I would enjoy is for you to meet the owner and give it back to her yourself.
— Her?
He had a hard time fathoming why he felt so nervous.
He didn’t want to make it obvious, though, so he chose his usual gray blazer but with a shirt he rarely wore and nice shoes. He knew women pay attention to the shoes. Not that he cared so much. But he wanted to make a point of being respectful. Wouldn’t that be a bit old-fashioned, though?
The sound of the bell made Steve raise his head.
— Here is our criminal.
As if it were a call, what seemed to be a giant blue parrot appeared from behind the foreign literature shelves and expressed herself with a very cambridgian singing accent:
— Steve honey! Is this the friend you told to tread lightly?
— Indeed, replied Steve joyfully as he introduced them to each other.
They both simultaneously responded with a harmonic “Pleased to meet you” while shaking hands.
And a sudden silence ensued.
Only disturbed by cracks of the old parquet and the vibrating humming of the city life outside.
Steve didn’t dare to move, a large smile on his face.
Until his friend simply said while looking at her:
— Did you hear that?
She raised an eyebrow and simply answered:
— Yes, I did.
He capped his pen, and put it down on the table before asking:
— I have a question.
She was observing the café, its discreet and efficient waiters, its scarce fauna.
— Oddly enough, me too, she said, as she turned her eyes on him.
He made an inviting gesture.
— Well, I… Steve told me who you are.
He tilted his head as she went on.
— Will you really stop writing?
He chuckled.
— Steve talks too much. Even my agent isn’t aware.
— You lost your inspiration?
He sighed.
— I can’t hear it anymore.
He leaned forward on his chair and asked:
— I have two questions now. What did you hear?
— I beg your pardon?
— In the bookstore, when we met.
She looked at the ceiling, as she seemed to recollect her memories of the moment.
— Words.
He did his best to contain a smile. She looked down on him.
— I can’t explain how, but sometimes they come to me. I guess I’m a good listener.
She paused, as he stared at her.
— Anyway, what is your other question?
He smiled frankly now.
— Would you, by chance, know Morse code?
For ten years, they sat at this café table. While sipping her coffee, she used to note the letters that were falling from the sky.
He had explained everything to her: assigned to the Royal Signal Corps during the last conflict, he had learned Morse code. One night, a shell fell on their post. Injured, he had been evacuated. In a half-sleep, he heard the raindrops falling on the tent roof of the field hospital and, knocked out by the painkillers, he took this sound for a Morse message. He got hold of paper and pen, and started to take notes. This is how he completed his first best-seller.
Back to civilian life, he pursued his writing career using the same method.
Now, almost deaf, he relied on her, who passed him small pieces of paper covered with letters, which he used to create words, phrases, chapters.
Until that day when she realized that he hadn’t touched any of the papers, slowly piling in the middle of the table.
She gently tapped on his forearm to catch his attention, and showed her a piece of paper:
“You don’t write. Something wrong?”
He held the paper with both hands and looked at her with weeping eyes.
She immediately grabbed their affairs, helped him with his coat, and led them home.
She led him to his armchair and made tea and a nice meal.
After eating, she handed him a glass of Oban and made themselves comfortable on the sofa, in front of a subtitled movie.
She waited until he decided to express himself:
— I can’t write anymore. I just can’t.
— How is that so? What do you mean?
He shook his head, eyes on the screen where Gregory Peck was struggling with the ocean.
— The rain tells me nonsense. I can’t make anything of it. I can’t rely on it anymore. I’m lost.
She nodded and sighed.
— Dear, I have something to tell you.
He turned his head to her. He usually disliked this particular arrangement of words.
She went on:
— After a while, I realized that I didn’t have to listen to the rain. I just wrote letters, and you made words from them. It made no difference whether it came from the rain or not.
His eyes opened wide. Before he bursted, she said with her light, singsong voice:
— The words took form in your head. The talent is inside you. It has always been. You don’t need any rain. You are the creator of all your books. You wrote your own sentences. Nobody, not even the rain, can dictate what you write.
He looked up as if the ceiling had opened up on a starry sky, and he wiped his face with his hand.
He took a sip of whisky to face and accept this small apocalypse. He felt like his sentence ended. He was made free. He turned his eyes on her and articulated:
— Would you mind still giving me more letters?
About the Author
Stefan Gonzalevski is a photographer and writer. Born in France, Stefan studied literature and photography and worked for photo exhibitions and luxury brands in Paris. Stefan recently moved to Budapest and is interested in architecture, history, politics and art. Stefan writes in French and English.