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I
see Angela on Wednesday afternoons. I always think that
the hour will be our last together. This would be something
of a relief, because she makes little progress with her
Spanish and antagonises my sleep.
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Before
she arrives, I sit at my piano by the window. It is a
baby grand, my one piece of inheritance from a collection
of dead aunts. I tinkle the keys and tell myself I admire
the view, but really I wait for the arrival of her bus.
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By
the time Angela rings the doorbell, I am on the stairwell.
The last chord is still reverberating upstairs. In a moment,
I am helping her out of her coat. I shiver to see how
her yellow hair spills out of the hood.
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'Have
you done your exercises?' I ask her in Spanish, when we
are settled in my apartment. She takes out her notes and
nods her head. 'Si,' she says. After a pause she
adds her usual foot-note: 'pero, huce mucho difici.'
The grammar is hers, not mine.
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I
sit there, half-paying attention to what she is saying,
wondering if I might ask her out. We could walk across
the park and eat in the Thai restaurant, or share a pint
together in The Dragon. It would be quite acceptable,
I think, perhaps even expected of a foreign language teacher.
But near us, on the piano, sits a picture of Ann. And
Ann is, well, my Ann. Whereas Angela is my student.
She is in her first year at university - a sunflower in
a black clothes. When I correct her work, she leans slightly
against me and begins to talk in her native tongue, 'I
had a dream last night. You know that writing is one of
my hobbies? Well, I have a yellow notepad. I use this
pad to write down story ideas. I have been doing it all
year, perhaps once or twice a week, just a sentence, sometimes
a few paragraphs.'
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She
pauses, and I look up at her. Her eyes are so blue, they
shock, even in the light of a late Autumn afternoon. I
look back at her Spanish, and she continues, 'In my dream,
I am searching for my yellow writing pad. I have thought
of something - part of a story - and it is elusive. I
want to write it down as quickly as I can. Still in my
dream, I get up out of bed to look for it. I open the
door to the lounge room, and I see that it is absolutely
crowded with yellow pads! I pick one up. It is full
of writing, but it is somebody else's work. I pick up
another one, and then another, and it is the same. I am
filled with panic. And then, of course, I wake up.'
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