Arthur sat by the edge of that railing, looking out into the green and glassy water as the ship cut through it, a letter opener to helpless paper. The sky was grey that morning, as it usually was; however a few specks of light managed to tear through the depression within the air.
It was the very same within the Englishman's tired heart. There was hope for France. There was hope that some inspiration would blossom within the bare land that was his chest and some beautiful plant would begin to grow; a sun flower after a four month's drought.
That was the reason why he still carried that blank and now scarred book with him, clasped inside a gloved hand. The ocean might strike him with something ingenious. The sirens might come out and sing.
But after about an hour, Arthur realized how incredibly tired he was and managed to make his way back to the petit room he had rented. The space was miniscule, and even somewhat cluttered with another bed and another set of another's things. However, it would do, and it was better than having nothing at all. The trip was not so very long, but lugging around a past life was both exhausting physically, but mentally as well.
Mr. Kirkland had a place to sleep.
It was more than some of the others had.
A nap was taken without any dreams. It was a means of murdering time that would have been spend staring at the same sky and the same ocean that had been stared at well enough. One had to give the ocean a break as well. No one likes to be regarded for hours on end, even if that occupation is taken willingly. Besides, Arthur had casted enough of his all too weighty thoughts into the froth accumulating around that moving vessel. The entire sea would have been littered if he stayed.
As the troubled man closed his tried eyes, he wondered how long it was that his brain had been this way, bogged down with everything. There wasn't a real use for this odd depression, after all. Arthur should have been happy. England itself adored his works; it went to see his plays and devoured his poetry whole and told him how excellent it all was. It knew him and criticized him and gave him kisses upon the cheek when he dressed up nicely, and offered pretty compliments when that genius managed to shine.
Even after that brilliance seemed to dry up, it still adored him. England not only did that, but managed to suspect the best of him. The critical parts of it said he was taking his sweet time to create something truly worthwhile. The affectionate pieces said they couldn't wait for the next book of poems, or the next play, or maybe even an unexpected novel. England was so confident in him; it did not even consider the fact that he could have been washed up.
So why leave a place like that? Why go to harsh little France with all its snooty men and women, with its odd foods and strange smells and twisted language? Why leave behind an entire country behind that knew you so perfectly and for the most part enjoyed your company? For a new home with cold shoulders and a face that said, "Qui es tu?"
Je ne sais pas.
Then it would laugh.
Maybe it would be healthy to start over. Maybe then, Mr. Kirkland could understand what exactly he was lacking in his art. It was so difficult to see your faults and your strengths when the world is saying a million different things about you. Was Mr. Kirkland a genius? Was he a no-talent hack with terrible characters? Was he Shakespeare? Was he John Donne? Was he Oscar Wilde?
Qui es tu?
Je ne sais pas.
Maybe starting on a page that was not burned by the ashes of a cigarette was a good idea. There were no real ideas of him in France. Maybe a few people knew his face; knew his name, knew his plays. But there couldn't be more than a few. Only one of his numerous plays was translated in French, and that was the most popular and the most praised; the Englishman was still certain no one knew of it.
The ship came into contact with the rest of Europe only a few hours later.
And Mr. Kirkland was no longer Mr. Kirkland. He was Monsieur Kirkland now.
Monsieur Kirkland: Auteur et Poète.
The man left the ship in a haze, not quite certain if he was truly dreaming or not, French and English running around in his head and crashing into one another. He made sentences in English with French words and sentences in French with English words. Then there were the sentences that were in a drunken kind of gibberish that the creator did not even comprehend. People spoke all around him in the same manner.
Oh God, what was he doing? Arthur hadn't been to France in years.
Go home, you English bastard. You can't speak French.
But for whatever reason, those polished shoes made their way deeper into the rabbit hole, as the new language engulfed the foreigner. It began with a few people much like himself, who stood around in small groups and spoke to one another in that old mother tongue. Then, as Arthur went in deeper, those familiar syllables faded away and were replaced with heavier and heavier French noise.
Arthur found a train station and bought a ticket to Paris, trying his greatest to speak that old and unused tongue that they had taught him so long ago.
Somehow, he remembered. Arthur had to remember; there simply wasn't that grand of a choice.
And after the Englishman, misplaced in his new country, got onto the train that would transport him to his new city, he glanced out the window he was given and watched as a great portion of France passed through that glass. He saw fields; he saw cities from a far away distance; he saw lights bathing in the black of the night sky. Arthur saw the place he could only recall, and listened as soft speak rose into the atmosphere. There was still English, and there was still French, and there was still a mix of either of them that was neither French nor English. Regardless, he understood most of what was said, and once again tried to rouse himself from what he assumed to be nothing more than a dream. But Arthur could not dream. That was the only way he could tell that it was truly real.
The trip had been planned for weeks, but still, some part of the man did not believe that the time had finally come. Always, this very date was looked upon with some kind of indifference, even the day before that voyage had hit. Yes, he was going to France. Yes. He was going to France. He knew he was going to France.
But knowing that one is going to France and actually being in France are two radically different matters.
For a moment, it actually felt as though the man was waking up. What he didn't truly believe would be a reality had become a reality in a mere few hours.
Arthur had done something reckless. He had run away to a new country for no real reason.
And it was the first time in those few months that Mr. Kirkland felt alive.
He was breathing.
He was breathing French air in a French train surrounded by French people speaking in low French.
Arthur inhaled deeply.