Above the Vaulted Sky - Page 58

           The first thing I notice is the music. There’s a band on, playing a track I recognize; an Irish song called ‘Fisherman’s Waltz’, but sung in thick Italian accents. The marrying of two cultures is quite a sight to behold.

            I edge past a couple at a table, I see he’s coaxed the waitress down to sit with him.

            I decide to stand and watch the band through the gaps in the crowd. Naturally, I could pass through all of them and gain front row seats, but it’s not in my nature to cause discomfort.

            I close my eyes and reach out on a whim. The room appears in shadows. The feelings of the living are invisible to me, their innermost thoughts are guarded by layers of flesh and bone. I imagine that if I’m a signal, the denseness of their bodies distorts the wave, and bounces it back towards me.

            The music pulses towards me in the same way as Yates when I saw him through the door. The sound emerges from the guitars in jagged lines, cutting the air, the accordians are languid and easy going, easing the tense knot left by the Colosseum. The set of drums reverberates with a low vibration. I feel the sound shake me, from my toes, up to my chest, the same way that it would at a gig. I remember the countless times I’d seen my favourite bands. The moments the music became a part of me and flashes emerge from my memories, instances when the music and my soul walked hand in hand.

            And there, towards the edge of the room, is one more spirit. I walk towards him, the curiosity of my new discovery alighting my scientist’s brain. I want to know if this is something I share.

            I cross the room, stopping in front of him.

            ‘Hi,’ I venture.

            He explodes in a rapid foreign language, not Italian. He waves his arms to the side and I see I’m blocking his view. I start and stumble to my left. He dismisses me with a wave of the arm. I guess not all spirits are Benjamins.

            I’m about to turn back to the band when I see something. A man, and he’s staring. I turn and there’s no one behind me. I stare back, unsettled by him.

            He’s tall and wears a long moleskin coat. The hems are muddied and the sleeves turned up on account of the heat. His hair is long and wiry and really needs to be cut. His face would compliment it. His features are striking and jaw angular, and his grey eyes pierce me, unblinking.

            He is alive, and he can see me.