Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

In between there have been interludes of deep soul-searching, numerous bungled attempts, a small period of writer’s block, the acquisition of a new kitten, a thirtieth wedding anniversary party to plan and execute (a roaring success, but with the odd inevitable hiccup — the cake turned up a total of four weeks early!), countless re-thinks, revisions, re-writings etc.

A good translator rarely feels as though their work is ‘complete’ (I’d be ‘tweaking’ things forever given half a chance!), but now that my job here is, to all intents and purposes, ‘done’, I must confess that I feel a certain amount of pride in what I’ve achieved.

Of course along with the natural ‘high’ one experiences on completing any large and demanding project, there comes the unavoidable ‘low’, i.e. the overwhelming sense of dislocation, the crushing numbness, the physical and mental exhaustion, that is part and parcel of ‘inhabiting’ a character like Lokele’s mind for so long — and intense — a duration (you may laugh at this, Detective, but in some small way I almost feel as if I had become temporarily ‘possessed’ by Lokele’s spirit for a while, although I’m not suggesting that anything remotely ‘paranormal’ took place, nothing tangible, anyway. Or even, God forbid, that Lokele might have passed from his current, earthly incarnation to — as they say — ‘a better place’).

It’s a difficult process to describe (still more difficult to understand, I don’t doubt!), but the exercise of translating this letter feels loosely comparable to the act of thrashing my way into the heart of a tropical jungle and somehow — quite miraculously — conniving to fashion a small garden (fourteen feet by fourteen feet, approximately) in its dense and heaving midst.

I have brought order where once there was chaos. I have dug borders, grown a lawn — even plumbed in a small fountain (atop of which a charming stone cherub dribbles water from an upturned bowl). I have planted lavender and begonias where before there was only an inhospitable tangle of weed, thorns and wild grasses.

Welcome to my garden, Detective. Take your time, look around… relax. I do hope you enjoy your visit here…

Sincerely Yours,

Rosannah Strum-Tadcastle

********

*** **** ****

****** ****,

********.

20/12/06

Dearest *******,

[I’m guessing this deleted word is ‘brother’ because it is seven letters long and the suspect ‘Lokele’ addresses his brother throughout the unfolding text — he also refers to him as the ‘second-born’, i.e. a younger brother, in other words.]

My, how time flies! It’s Christmas, once again, and I thought I should drop you a quick line (is it me, or doesn’t it seem to come around that little bit sooner every year?!). Do find it in your heart to forgive me my awful French…

[From this we can deduce that ‘Lokele’ has been away from his place of birth for many years.]

… and my terrible handwriting, there’s a good chap.

[Possibly ‘Lokele’ has ‘the shakes’ because he is a drug addict, or else an alcoholic — he refers to ‘toasting’ his brother on several occasions. Perhaps he is under some kind of unendurable pressure connected to the crime he is being investigated for — gold, diamond or uranium smuggling naturally spring to mind, since these are all activities that are virtually endemic in the place of his birth — the Democratic Republic of Congo .

Other possibilities are that he has sustained a hand injury through carving wood — a so-called ‘hobby’ of his — or even as a result of some other, rather more ‘nefarious’ activities — who am I to judge?! Finally, of course, ‘Lokele’ might spend much of his time working — as we all do, nowadays — on a keyboard, so his handwriting skills may have deteriorated as a consequence.]

I was only thinking about you the other day — pondering those many, colourful, childhood experiences we shared together in Leopoldville at the Catholic Orphanage…

[Ah! Leopoldville, now Kinshasa! The name was changed in the late 1960s. This small slip tells us that the writer of the letter — i.e. the suspect — is a man who was probably a boy in the late fifties, early sixties — a detail I made passing reference to in my notes, above.]

What japes! What high jinks! Hard times but good times, eh? Not all of them a barrel of laughs, by any means, but when we had fun, what fun we had! The trees we climbed! The music lessons we enjoyed! The delicious fruit we devoured!

[If this cunning monster’s barrister harps on in court about his ‘difficult childhood’ to try and get the ‘sympathy vote’, nip it in the bud, Detective, pronto!]

I recall how proficient you were as a student of the recorder — but how irritating it could sometimes be to hear you practise the same refrain over and over. I often wonder whether you made a career of it. You were certainly talented enough!

[My younger daughter is a dab hand at the flute — she recently passed grade 5 — and I’m exceedingly proud of her achievements, but when I hear her tooting away at her scales some mornings the hair on the back of my neck stands on end! I can’t help it! It’s just instinctive! I sometimes wish she’d taken up the oboe, or something with more of a ‘bass’ sound.]

If only we hadn’t lost contact! It tears me up inside to think about it, it really does, but I suppose life has a cruel habit of sending us these little challenges, and, at the end of the day, it’s not so much about the challenge itself, but how we chose to rise to it, eh?

[This is so true, Detective — and a keystone philosophy of my own, as it happens.]

Let us lift a metaphorical glass to our mutual good health, old boy!

[I say metaphorical, but…!]

Well, I suppose it’s about time I filled you in on some of what I’ve been up to over the past few months…

[Hmmn. Very useful… ]

It’s been a dreadfully wet year…

[True. We can certainly trust the accuracy of ‘Lokele’s’ grasp on the facts. He isn’t a raving lunatic, or so far ‘gone’ on ‘junk’ that he is incapable of coherent thought. This may be an essential detail to share with the criminal psychologist if an assessment of his mental status is pending. It may also be something a judge might be interested in if sentencing is imminent.]

We barely had any summer to speak of, and while it was — I must confess — rather maddening (to say the least!), on the upside, the lawns in ****** have never looked better.

[The lawns… This is a complete shot in the dark, but I’m guessing ‘Lokele’ dwells in suburban anonymity, somewhere.]

I’m experiencing a few health problems at the moment, I’m afraid. There’s been a certain amount of chest pain, and my memory is certainly not what it once was… I’m unsure what the family history is in this regard. I’d love to find out (an incipient strain of dementia in the blood line, or a major history of heart issues would undoubtedly be of interest). Do you have any comparable health problems yourself?

It can be so difficult for us orphans to track down this kind of information. I find it’s one of the major downsides of being an orphan, in fact. But let’s not harp on, endlessly, about my piddling health concerns — it’s Christmas, after all, a time for joy! I mustn’t be too much of a misery-guts — Bah, Humbug and all that!

[ I’ve opted to ‘reconfigure’ the structure of the letter at this stage, to bring all of ‘Lokele’s’ health worries into a single paragraph. I think we could say I’ve ‘condensed’ them to a degree. He does have quite a tendency to witter on about this stuff .