COMELY BANK HAD AN OLD stone bridge that crossed the Water of Leith. Whenever Sam went over it he always paused to look down, partly to see the swift, brown river, but also in hopes of catching a glimpse of the man who lived beneath. Alasdair was first seen in Comely Bank at the start of spring 2015, and after a few nights of sleeping in the park he installed himself under the bridge. Though it was dark, cold, wet, and uncomfortable, Alasdair thought it an excellent place. He put great stock in the powers of water. The best kind was fast and north flowing, because this made the air magnetic. Magnetic air was good for the blood, because it made the iron in the blood more active, and what was good for the blood was good for the brain, because it used blood, and so the water was good for memory and thinking, and also for vision, because the eyes were part of the brain. On fine days Alasdair liked to stand on the pavement above while looking upstream. He took slow, deep breaths and thought of how his brain was getting stronger. Soon he would be able to remember his second name, where he was from, and what he had done for the first forty years of his life.
The other reason Alasdair liked the spot was that many people went by. Each of these was interesting and contained a lesson. He could immediately tell why someone’s complexion was poor, why they wore glasses, why they looked depressed. He was constantly surprised that people did not want to hear that their spots were caused by fear, that their poor eyesight stemmed from eating cheese, that they masturbated too much. This was vital information; it was about their health.
But although many found Alasdair’s opinions unpleasant, often embarrassing, they didn’t walk away. It was rude to ignore someone, however crazy they sounded. As the passersby reluctantly paused to listen, they faced the dilemma of where to rest their eyes. Not because Alasdair was ugly or disfigured: If viewed in isolation his features were those of a handsome man. The problem was that they seemed disarranged. His ears were too far back. Though his brown eyes were appealing, they were so misaligned that he squinted. As for the long and shapely nose, it seemed entirely supported by the upper lip. Only the mouth, with its crown of dark bristles, looked properly placed. This was where people glared when Alasdair told them how to be happier, taller, grow back some of their hair.
It was usually at this point, when the person was scowling, that Alasdair asked to come home with them. Though living under the bridge had many advantages, it was hard to cook or take a bath, activities that were both important for a person’s health.
But the only person who let him stay was old Mrs. Maclean. That night Alasdair slept well, except for the fact he woke up crying. The next morning, before he left, Mrs. Maclean offered him a large cut-crystal bowl on which was inscribed: To Eileen, in gratitude for forty years of service. When he hesitated, she said, “Go on, take it,” in so desperate a tone he fled from her house. This was the problem with owning too many things: It drove people mad. The only items he owned were his bicycle, a penknife, a cigarette lighter, and a copper bracelet he wore for the good of his teeth.
He’d have taken the bowl if Mrs. Maclean had been less insistent. Not because he wanted it for himself, but so he could sell it. For Alasdair was something of an entrepreneur. His bicycle was always laden with things he found on the street. In addition to bags of books, clothes, ornaments, and plates, there would be a ripped lampshade, broken toys, electrical cables coiled round the frame like loving boa constrictors. His hunting grounds were the streets around Comely Bank, with the exception of a broad, tree-lined road at the edge of the park. The houses there were imposingly large and eerily deserted. There was too deep a hush, a sense of something awry. Even going near there made him so anxious he had to put his feet in the river and slowly count down from one hundred.
He sold the items he found in a small market that took place on weekends in the church car park. People brought their unwanted books, clothes, and household items and sold them for less than they usually cost. Alasdair saw most of the traders every week, but he had little contact with them. Although they were pleasant people, they made him sad. They came to get rid of their things, and usually succeeded—but then, often late in the day, some sort of panic began. They asked a friend, or their spouse, or a partner, to keep an eye on their stall so they could look round. Few came back empty-handed. They were excited, thrilled with discovery; they had finally solved the momentous question of what to put on the chest of drawers.
This was the problem with having a home: It asked to be filled. Each room had to be decorated, furnished, stocked with its proper objects. People spent all their time working to earn money to make their houses perfect. They thought that every lamp, rug, and cushion was a step towards peace. If they’d been told that it would be far better for them to sell their house and everything in it, and then leave the country, they would just have laughed.
Even Alasdair was not immune to the lure of ownership. Although he sold most of the things he found, there were some he wanted to keep. One morning he found a set of place mats that had been spattered with paint. On each were sailing ships that looked so full of speed and grace they threatened to glide off the mat. He stared at their masts, rigging, and sails while a light breeze rustled his bags. His nose filled with a stinging sensation. He thought of the sea.
He spent the afternoon scratching the paint off the mats. First from a clipper, then a schooner, then a galleon. He was halfway through a barque when the knife cut into his hand. The wound was not deep, and the river numbed it, but the interruption was enough. The mats were no good without a table, and once he had that he would need plates, cutlery, glasses, napkins, a tablecloth, chairs, a vase for beautiful flowers.
He broke the mats with a rock.
But he had more trouble getting rid of the photograph album he found in a stack of newspapers in early March 2016. The album was covered in shiny, scaled skin; its pages were made of thick card. The photos showed three generations of a family and were labelled with place names and dates. The earliest was titled Portobello, 1925.
The final picture was labelled Aberfeldy, 1938.
There were perhaps thirty pages in the album, each with two photos. Although the pictures were from long ago, little seemed to have changed. People had houses, and these houses had things, and this made people unhappy.
He saw the same crowds of people, desperate to buy more.
But although these pictures seemed to confirm his worst fears—that the sickness of the present had its roots much further in the past—he could not stop looking. This was the danger of pictures: they contained so much. The more one looked, the less one knew. They raised too many questions. For example: What was the relationship between these women? Were they neighbours, friends, or sisters? Which of the men behind the women (if any) were married to them? Was it fashion or coincidence that made the women carry their coats on their left arms? Were there really, as the sign claimed, Dances Every Evening? However much one studies the image, there can be no answers. In its absence, we supply it ourselves. We mistake a casual glance for devotion, think silence proof of a feud. As for Alasdair, when he looked at three of the pictures, he saw grounds for hope:
Whether dancing or posing by the edge of the field, these women were happy together. Their smiles stemmed from a love that did not depend on what they gave to each other, what they owned, what they hoped to acquire.
But although the album was important, Alasdair did not want to keep it. If he did, if it was his, then it would need a shelf. The shelf would need a wall, and thus a room, and then there would be carpet, chairs, pictures, curtains, a table, a rug. He would have a house, a home. It would be his tomb.
He knew he should destroy the album. Instead he placed it with the other things for sale. So long as someone bought it, the end result would be the same. That Saturday he sold a record player, a walking stick, a lion made of china. Then Mr. Campbell, who owned an antique shop on the street, asked to look at the album. His version of what happened appeared in the local newspaper several days later.
MARCH 25, 2016
As both a long-time resident of Comely Bank and the proprietor of a successful business, I am extremely concerned about the rise in street crime.
After listing various minor acts of vandalism—broken glass outside his shop, damage to his car—he implied that this was connected to the homeless.
What no one seems willing to admit is that most of these unfortunate creatures need psychiatric care. Most are confused and angry, many prone to violence. Only yesterday I was threatened by a man selling things at the car-boot sale. Although they were of no great value, I was concerned that they might have been stolen. One of the items, a photograph album, clearly did not belong to him. Rather than confront him about his theft, I decided to purchase it then try to locate its rightful owner. Before I gave him the money I took a moment to check through it.
This was when Alasdair saw the greed on Mr. Campbell’s face. There was something obscene about the way he moistened his lips as he turned the pages.
I was shocked when he snatched the album from me then said it was not for sale. When I tried to reason with him, he began making offensive remarks. He berated me for wearing glasses and said I had eye cancer.
During the following weeks Alasdair was frequently seen staring at the album, even under a streetlamp at night. The pictures made him content. For he must have had a mother and father, who must themselves have had parents. The fact that he couldn’t remember their names or faces didn’t change that they too had worked, gotten married, raised children, gaily danced in their garden.
From then on, when he stood on the bridge, the water flowing fast beneath him, the iron pulsing in his blood, he no longer called out people’s diagnoses. Instead of telling them to eat more carrots or wash their faces with urine, he held out the album and said, “This is my family.”
People who had previously ignored him now began to stop. They wanted to see where he had come from, whether what was wrong with him had started early on. When they realised the pictures were too old to be of his immediate family, most were not disappointed. They inspected the album as avidly as they did shop windows. They liked to see the past: It was proof of progress.
Alasdair no longer questioned having the album. It wasn’t something he owned. He was just looking after it.
He took care of it for two months. Then, on a warm night in May 2016, four men came under the bridge. All of them wore black masks. They did not speak when they pushed him to the ground, nor while they kicked him. They offered no explanation. It was as if he didn’t deserve to know why.
Consciousness, when it returned, was like being slammed into the ground. First came an instant of numbness, then the impact of pain. He lay and listened to the river. He could open only one eye.
Light was bleeding into the dark by the time he could move. When he sat up he saw the wreck of his bicycle. The frame was buckled, the cables ripped; both its wheels were bent.
This was inconvenient, but it did not upset him. Unlike Sam, he didn’t care about the history of things. A book’s job was to give you knowledge. A knife was something you cut with. Objects were only a set of functions that could be replaced. If his bicycle could not be fixed, he would find another.
But the album was different. It was unique. It was a piece that had broken off the giant blank of his past.
And it was not on the path.
Not in the long grass.
Not further downstream.
Not in the rubbish bins on the street.
Not at the police station.
Not at the library.
Not in the paper recycling centre.
Not on the shelf of books in the pub.
Not in the rubbish bins by the park.
Still not at the police station.
Still not at the library.
Still taken from him.