People and Their Spaces

A great leap from the perpetual summer in my southern homeland, the icy Nagasaki wind snaps through my scarf and licks into my neck. I look down at my legs, moving by means of minuscule tremors to make their way into the house of Mr Glover.

It’s 1861 again; I can hear the footsteps of a conscientious but brave Scottish father making his way over the singing wooden floor – afraid of the uncertainty trading in a foreign country holds, but excitedly greeting the citizen at the door in a language he is yet to fully understand. He exits, leaving behind objects and sentiments that in more than a hundred years will find a girl, staring, trying to imagine what the children who played on these sofas must have looked like.

Outside, I try to make sense of the capsized northern sun, dribbling onto still benches under pergolas, trees and sky. Sipping slowly on vending machine caffeine, whispering tourists gaze at the transpiring world below.

Weathered stone steps carry me deeper into the forest of sailors and green tea. They halt me to listen to the water; a faint rivulet making its way through these stone companions, under whistling leaves and over meticulous mosaic, chanting its way towards the freedom of its ancient mother below.

Then my carriage sets me down. It is silent; the song of the rivers has ceased. I turn, suddenly alone. Beyond numerous marble dedications and Japanese Roses, her reflection encapsulates my gaze. I jolt up to see the full picture - on a concrete ring above a silent pool, Madame Butterfly stands. By some exquisite twist of life, I gaze into the eyes of my imaginary childhood companion; finally meeting, finally sharing the same space in the same time. Tucked safely into the side of her Kimono hides her treasure, curiously seeking the ship his mother tries to point out.

She starts moving, the extravagant cloth on her back stirring the light in the water. Her arms simultaneously embrace and release the northern ember, throwing patterns onto the stern, white blemish in the wall behind her – Puccini. Accompanied, she sets in motion the melodies grazing this enchanted hill.

I can see her turning towards me when a passing tourist makes me jump. I look back to find her stature the way it was before; serenely waiting into all present times.

My times – 2013 - and not enough time to make the tram without running. Once again, the Madame is the one who sets me in motion, and I listen as her enchanting laugh fades.