Lost Properties
‘I’ve lost my hearing,’ she is shouting at the man behind the desk. He looks up from his papers slightly taken aback, irritated even, but then his worn face resigns itself to the task and he asks her, ‘Where?’ She sees his lips move and his face shapes a question, but nothing comes of it.
She looks at him raising her eyebrows and leans in.
They pause.
‘Where, ‘ he says again. ‘Where did you lose your hearing?’ She looks at him blankly. The irritation is back in his face.
‘Where? Where was it lost, where?’ He repeats.
Another pause – until she guesses and shouts, ‘Oh where, where? Well... everywhere, I’ve lost it everywhere.’
His eyes widen, and then narrow. He’s caught off guard. Never had that one before.
They pause.
It now takes him a while to fathom her words. He says finally, ‘you can’t lose something everywhere; you have to lose something somewhere. If it was everywhere it would not be lost.’ He moves his head with a slight tilt to mark his smart logic and the self-satisfaction that rides on it.
Oh dear, she thinks. Steps back, checks she is in the right place and steps back in towards him and shouts, ‘What?’
‘You can’t lose something e-v-e-r-y-where; you have to lose it s-o-m-e-where. If it was e-v-e-r-y-where it would not be lost,’ He repeats, feeling his argument grow stronger.
Of course he is saying something; he is talking to her. All the parts of a conversation are there: the head and hand movements, the expression on the face, the mouth forming shapes, but not the critical bit – the sounds. They promise much – those other parts: the tilted head, the eyes, the clever lips - but without sound they lose their purchase and sense slips softly away. They become hollow - inadequate gestures without the canvas of noise from which we scratch our language.
‘I can’t hear you!’ she shouts louder, ‘I have lost my hearing!’ ‘I know madam. You have said that. There is no need to shout. I want to help you, but first I need to know where you have lost it.’
Shaking her head she digs in her bag for a pen and something to write on. On a scrap of paper she scrawls, ‘I can’t understand what you are saying.’ And shows it to him.
He knew his logic was hard to follow, bit too smart for your average, he thinks.
‘Ok,’ he says, ‘what I want to do is find it for you. Locate its whereabouts and return it to you. But first you have to fill out a form’
She stares at him, looks down hard at the piece of paper and offers him the pen gesturing for him to write. He stares at the pen for a moment, then, reaching down below his desk he brings out a form. ‘Ok, we’ll go from the top. Fill in The Form please.’
She looks at it and then at him and with a sigh, she carefully fills in the different sections and hands it back to him.
He reads it carefully and his eyes widen, and then narrow.
Most details are fine and make sense but in the section that asks for information about where the property was or could be lost, she has written – Anywhere. And in the section about time and dates she has put – Now. He looks at her and sees the sincerity on her face; her imploring almost desperate expression. He wants to help, but she is making it difficult. He tries once again.
‘We’ll starting looking for it if you can help us by telling us where you lost it’ She’s never going to get through to him - he acts like he is saying something to her but when she watches his mouth it looks sharp - vicious even; his lips like two pieces of flint.
She bangs the counter to stop him. He looks up and she has tears in her eyes. There is not much he can do. He often sees this. The moment something precious is lost - perhaps forever.
He takes the form and stamps it. Tears a ticket from a pad and notes down the reference number. Gives it to her, she turns and walks away.
He listens to her weeping. She rounds a corner out of sight and the sound of her crying slowly fades until he cannot hear her anymore.