Alva and Irva - Edward Carey [46]
After you have eaten, I advise the participation of some coffee with which both Alva and Irva, reuniting for once, would have completed their meal. Or perhaps even a glass of our local Lubatkin brandy.
PART THREE
The World & Our City
A POSTWOMAN FROM OUR CITY
ONCE TRAVELLED THE WORLD
WITHOUT EVER LEAVING OUR CITY
Arsenal Street
Arsenal Street, leading directly off Market Square (see map) is one of the oldest streets of Entralla. Its once cobbled surface may have given way to the more modern asphalt, but much of its history still remains-many of its buildings proclaim dates above their old stone portals in Roman numerals. Lubatkin’s great store of bygone weaponry once stood on this site; it is long gone but a reminder of its existence can be found in the centre of the street where a portion of its ancient wall still resides and continues to possess two great iron rings from which horses used to be tethered. Where people once parked their horses taxis now await business, a testament to the fact that human beings are still, through so many centuries, interested in the phenomenon of travel. On Arsenal Street, just across the street from Market Square, is a small dingy shop. There is a dim red word, electrically lit, that flashes on and off, unenthusiastically labelling the purpose of these premises: ‘TATTOO’. This then is a tattoo parlour and it is here that Mr Pig Mikel rules. But Mr Mikel is no longer able to continue his skilled profession, that is left to his two apprentices who he barks commands at, forever unhappy with their excellent work. Time has spoilt Mr Mikel’s eyesight, misshapen his back, and made his fingers dance perpetually.
ABOVE AND BELOW. High and low. Everywhere and nowhere. Upside and downside. Forwards and backwards. Upwards and downwards. Outwards and inwards. Outside and inside. Over and under. Alva and Irva.
AT FIRST WE didn’t really notice the great changes in her. She had a cold certainly but there was every expectation that she’d be better soon. When she didn’t speak we assumed she would in time, that she’d grow tired of not speaking; that her speaking would come back. And after a week of her not speaking we began to get used to it, we grew accustomed to this Irva of ours who didn’t speak. It became perfectly ordinary for us to have this silent Irva in our home. We didn’t feel we were neglecting her, just that she had chosen to be silent. It was her decision. In time she’d grow bored of it. We’d wait her out. And did they ever notice, I wonder, that I spoke now far more than usual, that I was speaking, so it seemed to me, for two?
And with the silence there was the other thing, which took us a while to understand. My sister had decided never to leave home again. Anything beyond home was out of reach for her, Mexico or Pilias Street, Tasmania or Cathedral Square, Manila or the Public Library were all the same distance away; an insuperable distance that she could not dare to travel. She was happy where she was, why move? In the beginning, Mother and Grandfather even encouraged her to stay at home, she had a cold after all. Better to sit quietly at home. Better to stay quiet and sit still, and wait peacefully for recovery. So for a while no one commented that she hadn’t been outside. And nobody commented that I was out more than usual, that I was busy rushing about the city, that I couldn’t keep still.
I HAD MARKED myself with my school compass, I had deliberately separated myself from Irva. And Irva almost immediately had started sneezing. Then she got the shivers. Then she stayed at home. Then she stopped speaking.
They gave her some pills, she