Vignette: Mere Meaning 1

There was a crone who used to visit the town library, the building I was privileged to live just across from. So I noticed her, a hunched wrinkled devotee of the written word, always in a pastel blouse with a black skirt and shoes, entering and exiting between the Ionic columns of that noble edifice. She brought a trolley with her, which changed its contents like the clouds gracing the sky, that is, frequently and never the with repetition. If she was really reading at such an astonishing pace, I thought that she must have broken a Guiness record for speedreading. Then one day she simply didn't show, nor the next. I looked out for her in the obituaries, but her face never showed between all the comforting verses and condolences. She came over to exchange words with me sometimes, that's how I knew her appearance. I supposed that she must have exhausted all the books in our library and moved on to graze on greener intellectual pastures.

A year passed. About the next September, and I decided to take a longer route for my evening jog, so ended up running through a neighbourhood I didn't know all too well. There, I saw her again, sitting on a bench out on a veranda. My curiousity broke my run, a conversation like a beckoning golden apple to Diana, and I walked up to her fence and rang the doorbell. There was no response from her. I thought she might have suffered a stroke; that would explain her sudden literary cessation. Panting, I watched her for awhile, earphones still tuned to Dvorak's New World. A crescendo reminded me that I might want to put aside the music to catch any faint utterances from her lips, so I did. Yet she was motionless, as still as a terracotta footsoldier, and as silent as one too. Poor dear, trapped in that body. What good was acquiring all the knowledge of the world if it could not be articulated?

The door to her house opened, and a middle-aged man emerged. He wore slacks and an oversized T-shirt; a thin, anaemic man, who looked like he might evaporate at any moment. He walked over to her with a tray of food, then lifted his head and saw me by their gate. Be amiable, I thought, so I waved to him. He traversed the short path to the gate and greeted me.

'We don't get many visitors,' he said, 'My name is Alef, but most people call me Al, I'm her eldest son.'

He told me she had a stroke some time ago, I suppose that must have been when her mobility was compromised. I asked about her trips to the library, telling him I used to see her cart volume after volume out of those holy halls. He told me she was a linguist by training, that she enjoyed cataloguing the way that written languages developed and how they were used. She had been working on a massive project during the sunset of her life, he said, and the stress must have got to to her during those final frenetic weeks. One morning she had become as mute as Zechariah, and things had deteriorated from there.

'She hardly communicates now. I just feed and clothe her, my siblings help me to support her financially, but they're all preoccupied with their own affairs.'

'Well,' I said, 'at least she has you. I was puzzled by the disappearance of a fellow ardent of our town library. I'm sorry to hear she's like this now.'

'She was a kind mother, sharp-tongued but well-intentioned. She'd always complain about how none of us could understand her because we children only conversed and comprehended in one language, and not to mention in a language like English that obscures meaning so.'

'It must have been interesting to be raised by a linguist. '

'I don't think so, at least, not by her. She kept most of her work separate from our domestic life. What she did try to do was teach us nouns and verbs in multiple languages as we were growing up, we three children took to that with varying degrees of affinity.'

'My family only utilises English.'

'My mother would not approve, that I can say for certain. You mentioned the library, do you enjoy reading?'

'Indubitably. Anything from Homer, Cicero and Dante to Melville, Asimov and Dickens or Sun Tzu, Murakami and Narayan to Tufail, Khayyam and Oz.'

We heard a clatter as I uttered my statement. Turning in its direction of origin, I saw Al's mother, teeth grit, trying to bend down for her culinary utensils. Al responded with fluid attentiveness and went into the house to obtain a replacement set. I moved beside her and lowered myself to pick them up.

Standing where I was, I became aware of two letters which she had fashioned by arranging her rice on the plate. 'L' and 'A'. She waved for the chopsticks, but Al soon emerged and passed her a clean pair. She got to work, forming 'T' and 'I', and as she was working on the last letter, Al said to me, 'She wants you to go and learn Latin.'

'Learning languages has never been a high priority for me.'

She frowned, and turned her face away like a schoolgirl offended by the ignorance her class' resident unscholarly clown. Al chuckled, 'She doesn't wish to see you again unless you do so.'

'I'll get to it someday then. I'd best be off, sorry to have taken up quite a bit of time!'

'Not at all, I'm enjoying this disruption of monotony. Goodbye!'

'Goodbye!'

As I ran back to the pavement, Al called out, 'You might want to check the origin of that word 'Goodbye''. I snorted, vaguely amused. Waving to them both, I resumed my jog and reflected on the oddity of this encounter.