ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

Serendipity
Michael Freundt
(Inspired by the opening of Dan Simmond’s The Fifth Heart)
Pollution saved my life. Air pollution gives us glorious sunsets
but it was the watery kind that prolonged my life: as I breathed
the water in - and that is what I knew I had to do – it was not easy,
and it tasted vile so I spat it out again – Mah! - and immediately
clambered out of the sewer-like river thinking of guns and poison.
What a hideous mess! I should have chosen the pristine waters of
a rural river, like Virginia Woolf, rather than the urban drain I had
decided on. That primary stupid decision finally convinced me that
perhaps I had not given the whole thing quite enough thought: I
had reacted illogically to what had happened back at home. Now,
however, my primary decision was about my ruined clothes - Look
at me! Mah! - and how I was going to get to whatever destination
I would soon have to choose. The fact still remained that if I was
not going to kill myself I would have to face the fact that I had just
killed my wife, but maybe, just maybe, it could be possible that the
authorities will conclude that it was an accident; but probably not.
I am not a very good liar. However, it is truly curious that the brain,
in circumstances like this, prioritises decisions so effectively that
once I was standing, dripping, and during the hours that followed,
I was in no doubt what it was I should do next. If you have never
witnessed a death, or attempted to cause your own, you may
understand - but whether you believe me or not is of no concern to
me, but as I stood on the dark river bank, in the overgrown grass
strewn with more urban rubbish and vainly attempting to brush
myself down, to regain a little of my lost dignity that complete
saturation destroys, I was suddenly aware of what I must do: go
home. It became incredibly important to me to get into clean, dry
clothes, despite what such a decision may bring.
(What interested me as I finished the above paragraph was the
tone. It was a line early in The Fifth Element; you know, I’ve
scanned those pages and still can’t find what sparked the thought
train that led to the above; but it was the voice, the tone that got
me writing. I love it when reading can do that, even if the book
didn’t grab me – I didn’t finish it – sometimes a line, an image can
get the juices flowing. My narrator, not yet named, sounds like a
self-opinionated, stylish homosexual, arch, willful, and from the
Inner-Eastern suburbs of Sydney. Note the use of the word vile
in the first paragraph: very queer. I like the tone, but I need to be
careful: he is straight - self-awareness and a rich vocabulary are
not the sole domain of the homosexual - but giving him ‘gay’ and
knowing characteristics creates a unique individualism. Let’s see
how it goes.)
I must have looked a sight as I walked up the few tiled steps to the
verandah of my inner-suburban terraced house and the look on
the police officer’s face confirmed it. My wife’s body had obviously
been found. The night was cool and calm so very little evaporation
had occurred and my feet still squelched in my shoes: they were
my favourite pair and now completely ruined. Mah! The exertion
of walking all the way from the river to my house had obviously
kept me relatively warm but the longer I stood still, forced to do
so while the police officer talked to someone on his phone, his
superior I assumed - I had told the young man who I was - I could
feel the cold creep over me like a sinister blanket.
In a very short while a tall attractive uniformed woman came out
of my well-lit house to confront me. I told her who I was.
interested as I am.)
“I’m afraid sir,” she said in the usual formal dry tone, “that I have
to inform you that your wife has been found … deceased.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. Did she first think of saying ‘murdered’?
Despite her experience in such matters she hesitated, but then
said, “And how do you know that, sir?”
“Because I … found her.”
“And was it you who called triple zero?”
“Yes, it was.”
If my unusual appearance had not impinged on her before it did so
now, probably brought about by the fact that I had started to shiver
violently.
“And why sir do you seem to be completely saturated?”
Now that my primary decision to go home had been fulfilled a
new primary decision had automatically taken its place: it was
absolutely clear to me what I had to say.
“Because I tried to kill myself.”
“And why did you try to do that, sir?”
It may give you some insight into my personality when I tell you
that my immediate feeling now was of annoyance that every one
of her questions had begun with a conjunction.
“I thought you would think I did it.” I did do it but not the way you
think.
(I thought I should amend that line to “I did do it but not the
way you may think. The use of the second person – referring to
the reader - in prose fiction, by the way, is rare now. It used to
be common – the opening to Elliot Perelman’s Seven Types of
Ambiguity – great title - is an unusual modern example that
springs to mind – I must read that again one day; but I like using
the second person. It adds a personal touch, a writer-reader sense
of confidentiality. It’s the word may that I am concerned about. I
cannot be certain what a reader might think but it is this note of
uncertainty I do not like. I am very aware of words like maybe or
perhaps or could because they always weaken a phrase – except in
dialogue, of course, where such words can be character-building –
but may sounds like one of them. No! I will leave it out.)
I expected another, and obvious, conjunction-led question but my
shivering had become so intense that she said, “I think you had
better come inside and get out of those wet clothes.”
I was not allowed upstairs into our bedroom, now a crime scene
or something - I wondered what they would find and what they
would think it means - and so a young underling was sent to
get me a complete change of clothes. His choice was completely
unsatisfactory - why would anyone match royal blue with that
brown?
(That last phrase gives great insight into his character, don’t you
think? I spent quite some time agonizing over what colours to
choose. Fashion today, to always embrace the new, has accepted
anything with anything. I’m old enough to remember when paisley
was in, and then when it was definitely out. Now I’ve seen paisley
matched with floral. Mah! My narrator would only have block
colours, I’m sure; maybe a stripe or check for summer; never floral,
and never paisley. Brown and blue can at times go well together
but his hatred of the match with that particular brown and blue
reinforces his opinionated sense of fashion. He so knows his own
mind.)
(It’s important that he finds her attractive: it could be useful
later. You see, I’m not sure where this is going but I hope you’re as
The young officer appeased his appalling fashion sense by bringing
me a towel, but then my assessment of him plummeted again
36
ReadFin Literary Journal