I turned to my interlocutors, hoping for a sign that they too thought we should wrap it up. To my relief the young man instantly sprang to his feet. He made a brief speech of thanks for my invaluable and fascinating speech, one which he was sure would provoke much discussion in the days ahead. There was another ripple of applause, the house lights came on and most of the audience began to drift away, pulling on thick windcheaters and hoods.

It was over.

Not quite. Four people came forward to the platform with copies of some of my books. Fatigue was blurring me. I signed these copies as quickly and politely as I could, answered some friendly questions, showed interest. These were people who actually bought copies of books: a small but valuable race of beings, in my view. When one of these people leaned forward to hand me his copies, I happened to notice that the wristwatch on his arm was showing the same time as mine, the wrong time, more than two hours ahead. I said nothing, but the next books came from a young woman, and making some kind of pleasantry I made a point of turning over her arm to see the time on her watch. It was the same. She appeared to understand my interest, and muttered something good-natured about not taking any notice of it. I was happy with these people and felt inadequate in the face of their encouraging and polite remarks. I wished I had the energy to say more, to find out a little about them.

Then it really was over.

Backstage I located my outer garments and my computer case, made myself ready for the cold dark outside. By the time I had everything ready to go I was just about alone in the place. I found my way to the main exit, and trudged slowly down the steep hill to the Dearth Plaza Hotel. It was further away than I remembered.

Lights in a Darkened Room

4

Lights in a Darkened Room

As soon as I was in the hotel elevator I began removing the winter clothes, starting with the drawstringed leggings. I found my room, entered, switched on some of the lights. It was warm and well ventilated in there. I felt exhausted: the two-day train journey, the stress of delivering a lecture and above all the lack of food. I threw off the rest of the bulky clothes then lay down on the soft quilt of the bed. I was on my side, stretching myself in the way my cat Barmi often did – arms and legs straight out, back arched, eyes closed. Then I rolled up into a foetal huddle, making myself breathe steadily.