Don't Wipe Your Chin I Couldn't Take It

Océane stands up to take off her shimmering blue raincoat. It's warm on the train.

Underneath it, she wears a green dress, with white spots and creamy lace edgings.

She sits down, and takes a bottle out of her handbag. A yellow sports drink, electrolytic.

All the beautiful colours of the ocean. Pablo wonders how much more he can stand.

Arthur seems unaffected.

The Lion of Flanders, says Arthur. What was that about?

Oh, I don't know, says Océane, twisting the lid of her bottle.

Pwoosh. A few bubbles ooze out.

Yes you do, says Arthur.

All right, I do, says Océane. My famed ancestor Hendrik Conscience wrote this book about the victory of a Flemish peasant militia over French knights in 1302.

Merde! How boring. Arthur has no desire to hear more.

But Pablo wants her to keep talking. Her lips are wet, with a sheeny tint of yellow. A sticky drip rolls down her chin.

Was he French, or Flemish? asks Pablo.

His father was French, says Océane. His father was the under harbour master in Antwerp in 1811, when Antwerp was part of France. Hendrik Conscience wrote his story in Dutch, which his father thought vulgar.

Boring upon boring. Arthur is falling asleep.

He stretches both legs out. At which point Gaius wakes up.

Ah, Gaius, says Océane. I've been waiting for you to wake up.

Why is that? asks Gaius. Are we there yet?

We are just passing through Mons, says Océane. Please read this contract and sign it.

I have no intention of signing it, says Gaius. But I shall read it.

He reads it, and laughs.

I see Arthur and Pablo have signed it, says Gaius. And I think I know why.

Why? asks Arthur.

Because of this clause, says Gaius. There will be someone from the Twenty Names Committee accompanying the bird trainer or trainers at all times, until the period da-da-da........etcetera.

That wasn't there when I signed it, says Arthur.

I added it, says Océane.

What sort of lawyer does that? says Arthur.

My sort, says Océane Conscience, looking directly at Pablo.

No doubt you take after your heroic ancestor, says Pablo, who hasn't been following.

Not exactly, says Océane. His story was full of historical inaccuracies. I am meticulous.

Pablo is already composing a poem to her in his head.

To a Meticulous Woman On A Train

Don't wipe your chin
I couldn't take it.
The yellow liquid is drying
and when you say
I am meticulous
it cracks a little
and a tiny hair
escapes and starts waving
under my uncritical
gaze


(This is as far as he's got.)