06 February 2007

In Which Sarge Begins A New Assignment and Mistakes are Made...


They are all the same. It's my third day now, my second lunch rush went fine; once I forgot to put in an order, but I blamed it on the cooks and though many of the people were rude, short and boorish, I did see Adelaide again, she's the woman who named herself after the city where she found Jesus. Just like last time, she ordered the scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes. And just like last time, she read the Bible and suddenly got up and ran to the bathroom, her large skirt brushing the tables and the annoyed patrons who looked up at her, slightly disgusted. I hated them, but, in this outfit, I am powerless to act. Here, I serve.

"Found Jesus." What an odd phrase. It seems we look all over the world for some sign of somebody other than ourselves, but we keep tripping over the bodies we left behind. Newcastle does not offer any amazing possibilities for redemption, but after the scars of Yalova, I hope it will be fruitful. I could not help Nwargo in the end, but I trust you are, though your silence pains me and fills me with odd dreams, sometimes of Africa, other times of the Canadian Rockies, with the heartbreakingly clear sky that unveils itself slowly and crookedly over the proud peaks of our land. There where we found another kind of calling and another willing master. Sometimes I wake up sweating, but here, the Pacific Ocean is a short walk away and I do feel oddly at peace. The flitting images of the bound mercenary in the Tallinn closet, of Ahmet in Yalova, his blood mingling with the softly churning hot springs in the Turkish bathhouse, they turn into my window with a final gasp, this window which overlooks two trees, a rough barked apple and a eucalyptus, and then the beach and the water, it brings some peace. I have a small house, but with this mission the leadership seems to have warmed to me a little, it is well situated.

The Australians are an odd bunch, and here, in Newcastle, just like in England, there is a lot of coal and all kinds of international corporations hover: their regional offices in to make some more millions. If they rub shoulders with those who rain severed arms and broken dreams like those we hunt, well, in the end, I don't think they care, as long as Newcastle remains with its coal. I actually live in the suburb of Stockton to the north, and where I walk I pass the shells of shipwrecks, ours are not the only unfortunate days, and I imagine the last desperate moments as well as the optimistic first moments, when the ships left harbor expecting to find at the end of their destination, other piers. I have acquired a dog, Cody, he is a mutt, short and stubby, mottled brown and white and uncommonly cheerful. I believe he has some herding blood in him. We are here, him and I, in an attempt to pick up the scent of a trail gone cold, and to dig out information on a plot of apocalyptic overtones. In short, we do what we usually do.

In order to do that, I have adopted the guise of waiter. I must go now, I'm working a split shift and just dropped in to quickly walk Cody and look for news of you. The surf is beautiful, Cody chased after gulls and we watched a front move out across the ocean, kicking back winds that have gathered all the surfers into the long rows that trail down the beaches just to the north of my beach. I will write more of my escape from Yalova and my first days here soon.

always warmest,


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