Travelling Light by Tove Jansson Read Free Book Online Page A

to smile. They called over an elderly man who seemed very calm. He looked at me and my drawings and said something that might have been, “Don’t you understand? This gentleman has lost his hat.” At last I had the feeling I’d been understood and wasn’t the least bit surprised when they directed me to the next window, where there was a little room full of hats, gloves, umbrellas and the like. I took out my drawing and, to make things clearer, shaded in the hat with black. By now all the passengers had gone and they’d begun turning off the lights in the arrivals hall; the luggage trolleys had been rolled away and I realised they wanted to be rid of me. I pointed at a hat up on a shelf and thumped the floor with my stick. They gave me the hat; it wasn’t mine but I was so tired of the whole business I just put it on my head and signed a form. Of course, I wrote on the wrong line and had to do it all over again.
    When I finally got out of the building, the road was empty. The formless desolation so characteristic of airport surroundings stretched away on all sides. The night was cold and misty. When I listened I could hear the city far away and had an impression of absolute unreality. But I said to myself, this is absolutely no cause for alarm, this is simply an unfortunate situation that is never likely happen again. Calm down. Just wait. For a while I thought about going back and asking someone to ring me a taxi. “Taxi” must be more or less the same in all languages, and of course I could always draw a little car. But somehow I didn’t feel like going back into the dark arrivals hall. Perhaps the last plane had taken off and there were no more due to arrive that night; what did I know about their big – well, their flying machines as we called them when I was young! My legs hurt and I was very vexed. The road seemed endless, with long dark spaces between the street lamps. I remembered that they were short of electricity.
    So I waited. I began tormenting myself again with the fact that my memory is getting worse, an annoying insight that often afflicts me whenever I have to wait. And I can’t help noticing that I often repeat myself, say the same things to the same person several times and realise it only afterwards, always with a sense of shame. And words disappear as easily as hats, as easily as faces and names.
    As I stood there waiting for a taxi, a terrible realisation began to dawn on me. At first I pushed it aside, but it wouldn’t go away, and in the end I was forced to face the disagreeable fact that I’d forgotten the name of my hotel. Completely. I took out my papers and went through them all. Nothing. I spread them out on my suitcase under a streetlamp and got down on my knees so as not to miss the tiniest little scribbled note. I searched my pockets yet again. Nothing. Back home, my methodical son must have given me some sort of confirmation that the hotel had been paid for, but where had I left it – somewhere in the arrivals lounge or back on the plane? No. I’d have to remember. But the harder I cudgelled my brain for the name of the hotel, the emptier it became. And I knew it was impossible to get a hotel room in this city unless you’d booked it far in advance.
    Now I was afraid to get a taxi. I began sweating and took off the hat, which was in any case too small and pinched my head. And then, as I stood there in the uncertain light of the street lamp with this strange hat in my hand, I noticed there was a name in it; the owner had written his name in the hat. I put on my glasses; yes, unquestionably a name and an address. It was a comfort, a foothold. A genuine communication. I tried to shake off my fatigue. When I get tired, everything slips away from me. I want to be attentive, aware, decisive, not slow down and lose my way. And not repeat myself. People notice that immediately; they become polite and embarrassingly sympathetic. I know at once when I’ve been repeating myself.