Where It Is And Where It Is Going

The starlight plays on the shadowy grasses.

Albertine slows, forcing Proust to draw level.

Did you bring anything? she whispers.

No, says Proust. Arthur said not to.

I know, says Albertine, but I suppose he's brought a key.

Is she being subversive?

Of course Arthur has brought a key.

How will they get into the Movile cave if he hasn't?

I did bring something, says Proust.

So did I, says Albertine. It's not a torch, but it could be. What did you bring?

If you begin trembling down there, and I'm behind you, you'll feel it, says Proust.

Crikey, says Albertine.

....

They are here. Arthur gets off his bike, and takes the key out of his pocket.

He opens the lid.

The three of them stare down into the black hole, from which faint methane gases are rising....

Ugh! coughs Proust. Reality is confronting.

Who's going first? says Arthur.

You are, says Albertine. Then me. Marcel needs to be behind me. He thinks I might tremble.

No one has to do this, says Arthur. I'll go by myself, if you don't want to.

He swings himself over the lip of the shaft, grabs onto the rope which is hanging there, and slides down it, rather faster than he meant to.

How many seconds does it take to slide down a rope twenty metres?

Not many.

How long does it take an expletive to rise that same distance?

Not long.

Merde! cries Arthur. There's broken glass down here. My knees are bleeding.

Gosh! says Albertine. And I bet you don't have any sticking plasters. Wait down there, Arthur. We're coming!

Broken glass, says Proust. That's totally unexpected. Poor Arthur.

Proust thinks quickly. These are his thoughts: The accident is fortuitous, because from it I shall emerge as the natural leader, however I must not let Albertine see that this gives me pleasure, indeed it doesn't, and I must act quickly.....

Meanwhile Albertine has acted even more quickly.

She has run over to Proust's (hired) bicycle and unwrapped the colourful scarf that was wrapped round the saddle to protect his bottom. Then raising her skirt ( yes, she is wearing a skirt, a sensible travelling one), and tucking the scarf in her knickers (Proust can't believe it!) has hoisted herself over the edge of the shaft and shimmied down the rope, disappearing into the black depths to play nurse to Arthur.

No time to assess the situation further. He must follow.

As he slides down the rope, he feels his flesh burning.

To take his mind off it, he thinks of the colourful scarf.

Where it is, and where it is going.