Morten Writes

After his meal in the pub, Daan decided it was time to get home. He still had two more hours to go and the view through one of the small windows started to show a red glow that said sunset. It also said rain and Daan knew the winding countryroads would be hard to navigate for him in the dark, with rain slamming against his windshield. He thanked Jake for the meal and went outside.

Once through the door he took a deep breath. The air was heavy with the smell of autumn, a wet and kind of sweet scent. He liked the autumn, but he was done with the rain for now. His floors were a constant wet mess and his work would not be easy in the rain either. He would have to go outside at some point and record some outside ambient sounds. If he would do it in the rain, it would not work.

His car, still warm from the first part of the journey, started a lot easier this time and he started making his way back to the highway again. It was only a short drive towards the highway, but when he turned up the ramp it already seemed like night was ready to fall. He turned on the radio and was happy to find they at least aired some nice calm music now, something you would expect during this time.

Of all the things he had thought he had to get accustomed to, driving on the left side of the road proved to be one of the easier things for some reason. Yes, the first time had been awkward and he had been scared to take the roundabouts the wrong direction. Actually, when he really did think about it, he might’ve done it once maybe, but he had been tired and it had been late so nobody had encountered him doing it. He wasn’t even sure whether he really did this or if it was one of his dreams.

Tiredness did that to him, make him wonder if he really had done something. It was one of the many reasons that he tried not to do important work during the night. He didn’t trust himself with it and the next morning the first thing he would do was check everything he had done the previous night. That cost him a lot of time and he had thought it to be better if he only worked within his predetermined working hours.

Still, that did not always happen. Some of those projects just simply had not allowed for it. At some point, Daan had started wondering if people thought he did not need sleep. One producer had called him at three in the morning and had found it ridiculous to find Daan picking up the phone half asleep. The next morning, Daan called himself lucky he had not put the phone back in it’s spot, which had not only given him undisturbed sleep for those last couple of hours, but it had also given him a clue something happened at night which included a phone and had made him realise he needed to do something. It took him another hour to remember what.

Nowadays, Daan slept with a little notepad besides his bed. He didn’t like it, not even a bit, but at least he would be able to scribble something down. He was unsure if he would be able to read his “three-o-clock-in-the-morning” handwriting, but that was of later concern. Something told him, this project might just involve some of those moments, if he did not tackle those problems before.

11:12 it showed on the clock in the dashboard when he finally took the exit and made his descent into the valley where he lived. He knew it would still be about a fifteen minute drive, but he was getting closer now. The road winded itself over the left side of the valley and through his windscreen he could see little lights of villages deeper down. It was a calm, quiet and somehow comforting look. It made him think about different times, for some reason, where live had been simple, slower and probably a lot tougher at times. The villages built here were often built out of stones which looked like they had just been in the river that flowed in the middle of the valley and he was sure the people who built it would not have had any problems with special committees, telling you your building plans did not really fit their idea of a “nice house”. Thinking back about that situation only made Daan angry and he quickly put his thought into his nice, warm bed down in his bedroom.

He took a right turn and started to make his way more towards the middle of the valley. In the distance he could see the lights of what he knew was his hometown. He looked at the clock. 11:29, well…. we have had worse… He looked towards the right, out of the right window and thought he was able to make out his house as a tiny little dot of light in the distance.

When he started getting closer to the source of the lights, he made another right turn into a countryroad and drove on until he had passed three houses on his left. He was the fourth on that road, with after him only a farm a couple of of miles away from his house. His other neighbours lived about 400 yards from him, which again was about 500 yards from the first two houses in the street, which apparantly had once been a post-office and a baker and should’ve been the center of a new little village which was never built.

The drive back seemed, for some reason, to go by a bit faster than last time. The other times he went all this way, the way back had been even slower, sluggish and tiresome. Although Daan was tired, he was now at least a bit hopefull about Monday. If Nataly could send him something to work on, he could at least start doing why he moved here in the first place: design sounds.

Daan is a sound designer, one of those guys working for television or game companies to make sounds out of nothing. Monsters, leaves rustling, complete ambiences that make you believe something (or better someplace) is alive. He loved his job, since he could make a lifeless video seem to be full of action only by adding sound.

The bad part though was that the producers he had worked for did not always have a particular thought-out plan of what they wanted. That left him with a big open space for his creativity to work. But he needed something. If they made a movie about ponies, creating all

these laserbeam sounds was fun but also highly inefficient.

The last few weeks were as inefficient. Not knowing what to do, make or design left him feeling as if he didn’t really know what he was doing here, in England. At least with Nataly trying now, he might get some foothold in the wonderfull world of what he liked to call “the producer’s mind”.

He turned on the radio. The news spoke about a ridiculous situation in a shopping mall where apparently a man had tried to rob a store using a stiffened sock for a pistol. After this whole day of basically doing not much at all, Daan wondered who had spent his time better. Then came the weather forecast, which was the same as the last few days: rain, with a chance of more rain. After this a new song from a semi-popular band came on and he quickly turned of the radio again.

After the first two hours of driving, he left the highway and started making his way over a twisty road towards the little village where he had found the pub. The road became smaller and houses started to appear on either side. He drove towards a little square and parked his car by a somewhat bigger house, built out of white stone and with a black tiled roof. Over the door hung a sign, “Padry’s”. As he walked in, an older man stumbled out.

Drunkenly, he looked up at Daan and went: ‘Pardonme young sir, I did not by the slightest meant to walk into you.’

‘Well… You didn’t sir.’

‘Ohhhhhh…. But I will. You’ll see.’

And without much of an effort to walk around him, he started moving forward, knocking against Daans shoulder and stumbling on towards a countryroad on the other side of the square, quietly mumbling something that sounded like “Sons…”

Daan scratched his head for a second, decided it was best not to linger on the thought of the old man walking all the way home (he had probably done that enough times to make his way back with his eyes closed) and walked into the pub.

Behind the bar he expected to find the same, big, man that was the barkeeper. Instead he found a young man, quite tall and with a build that would have you think of a builder. The boy could only be the son of the regular barkeep, he thought. He sat down and when the young lad looked at him he said: ‘A pint of Guiness and the menu, please.’

‘Sure thing.’

‘Is your father ill?’

‘Aye, my father is in bed with fever. Haven’t seem him like that in ages.’

‘So he asked you to take over the pub?’

‘Nah, he wanted to keep it closed, but I offered to take his spot for now. I’m Jake.’

Daan reached over the counter and shook the guys hand: ‘Daan.’

‘Oh, your that Dutch fellow my old man was talking about! Said you came here three weeks in a row asking for a menu at exactly the same time.’

Funny, how people remember you if you’re not from here. ‘Yeah, I guess that will be me.’

‘Allright, I’ll get you a menu. Don’t go all fancy on me though. My cooking skills are not the same as my fathers.’

And with that he went to the kitchen to get the menu, probably one of the two only copies they had. When he returned he gave Daan a freshly printed A4 piece of paper with very simply, in large letters, written on there what they had. The dish of the day was potato soup with 3 slices of bread and some cheese.

‘I’ll take the dish of the day.’

‘Allright then, give me two minutes.’ And he went of into the kitchen again.

Daan looked around. Despite the pub being small, it seemed like you could still fit a lot of people in there in a comfortable manner. Wooden chairs and tables where dropped all over the room in a way that would have you think it would be impossible for a drunk man to find a toilet. Yet, it was as clean as clean in a pub would go and the tables weren’t sticky with spilled beer. They were however beaten. Age had probably made them see many a card game, together with maybe the occasional but rare barfight and plenty of drinking. The old man staggering outside was only a small hint to the age of the pub. Daan could only think of the young boy he once would’ve been, drinking his first (or maybe second) ever beer here. On the television in one of the corners close by the ceiling, a rugby match was being aired. Daan did not have the slightest clue about rugby, but liked the way the sport was played. Really different from soccer, which in his eyes had become nothing more than very well paid theaterwork. Other than that, he only saw a team in blue and a team in red, but could not tell which two they would be.

Jake came back from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of soup.

‘I’ll get you the bread in a bit. I was not made to carefully carry a bowl of soup.’

‘Don’t worry. What do you normally do for a living?’

‘I build houses. Not those big projects in the cities though. Small projects, mostly private stuff for people living in the countryside.’

‘I see, plenty of work around here I suppose?’

‘Right now? Yeah, quite a bit. There’s plenty of people who are sick of living in a city and want to come over to the countryside. Let’s hope they don’t all get that plan, I like the calm villages you still have over here.’

‘Then how come you were able to take over your fathers spot for now?’

‘I was done for the day. We were waiting on a delivery of wood, but that one ended up not being delivered at all. As if they couldn’t have told us sooner.’

Daan had to chuckle at that one. ‘Oh, believe me. People just forget about it. Or think they will make it still…’

‘Well, I guess thats true. Hate them for it though. I’ll get your bread and cheese, before that delivery is late as well.’

‘Thanks.’

Daan took the first spoon of soup. It was good. Not as good as what he had eaten here the last three times, but still very decent and a lot better than what he could do. He was a terrible chef. Simple things were o.k., mostly, but if there was an opportunity to eat somewhere else where it was about the same price as making a meal for himself he would do it. That sometimes meant fastfood, but overall he regarded his diet as pretty good. Sitting there in that pub, he suddenly realised this was one of those small things he had looked forward to. Drinking a pint and eating something in a small English countryside pub, on his way back home. It struck him as if the spoonful of soup had suddenly made him five years older.

His fingers seemed attached to the coffee cup. Normally he would be listening to the radio at this time, eating dinner. It would keep him from thinking about work and his fingers would tap along with the rhythm of the song or he would drum with the cutlery on the table. Not this time though. He was exhausted. Even more so than last time. He also tried to keep his thoughts together, directed towards work but found it hard to do. A quick look at the clock that hang above the doorway told him it was 6.30 pm and only made him feel more tired.

At least tomorrow is a Saturday…

A small comfort, but one he allowed himself during this idiotic day. He had woken up this morning at 6:00 to make the journey all the way up North, a journey of four hours (or three-and-a-half if he was really lucky, which until now he had not been). They had insisted on him being there, saying that the Friday meetings were really necessary to get everyone’s mind set “on the same thing”. Daan, on the other hand, only believed it would cause two things:

1. Time was being wasted.

2. Money was being wasted even more.

Not that this was really a problem for him. If they requested him to be there, he would be there…. at his hourly rate. That was something he had made clear from the start. He was perfectly fine with working from a document, stating what they needed from him, what he should call the files, how it should sound and when the deadline would be. He had told them this when they first met. After that conversation, he didn’t hear from them for a week, until the next Thursday, when he had gotten a request to “be there at the next day, at 10:00 am”. He had thought they were kidding and had called them immediately, only to hear an overly enthousiastic producer explain why it was necessary for him to be there.

That Friday had been a drag. He sat there for a whole day, doing absolutely nothing, listening to all the nice things the producers and game designers wanted to do and how great everything was going to be. The first hour had been fine, he even had felt enthousiastic. The other seven hours were a whole lot less interesting unfortunately and he had wished he had known beforehand. He did not yet complain however. If they were o.k. with paying him money for being there doing nothing so be it, he thought. He had sat there the whole session, became more mentally aware again when he picked up some signs of the meeting coming to an end and left the conference room knowing exactly as much about the project as coming in. Stepping into his car, he had found out it had been seven in the evening already and he had decided it would be best to stop somewhere midway to eat something.

Around nine he had eaten everything edible in the car and couldn’t go on anymore without a bite, so he had stopped at a local pub somewhere halfway his journey. It was a small town and the pub was even smaller, but they had food and after looking at him eating half-minded, staring blankly ahead, the bartender had asked him how he came to be a zombie with a preference for a regular meal. Daan had told him about the meeting and the journey he had made and still had to make.

‘Bloody hell, you must be absolutely mad to drive all the way for that!’

Mad… and desperate for money. But that was too much to tell the man. He had payed for the food (which had been ridiculously tasty) and had stepped into his car, feeling only half ready for the last two hour part of his journey.

That whole thing was 3 weeks ago now. The next Thursday they had called him again and he had told them he would be there if they wanted it, but he would again charge his hourly rate and the travelling costs. It appeared to be no problem for them. They really wanted him to be there. They wanted him to be there every Friday, again stating this was very important. That day, they actually had had some information. At least enough to give him something to work on… For a day.

The next week though had again been a session like the first and now, after yet another session like those Daan started wondering himself if this was worth it. Yes, it paid. But he would actually like to do something for it, not only driving eight hours to be sitting still for eight hours. Today, the meeting had basically been all “It would be wonderfull if we could do this” and “we are going to be a great team!”. It didn’t feel even a bit like it and Daan started wondering if it had been worth immigrating to England especially for this job.

They had required him to do so and it had seemed like a nice opportunity. He had no ties in The Netherlands other than the obvious ones, no work that was actually paying well and when they had told him they would take care for everything they could it had seemed like a nice move in his career. When they had discussed his hourly rate, he even had become happy enough to do a little heel-clack in his mind.

Today however made him doubt it all. This was going nowhere and he had become more and more frustrated during this conference, listening to the producers whining on about all the things they could do, only able to play with the stirring rod in his coffee. He was not there to listen to this. He was here to discuss technical problems, organise things, make a plan or a schedule. It makes money per hour, he thought, not recognising his thought process as his own and when the meeting came to an end he rushed out long before the others.

‘Daan! Wait!’

One of his female coworkers, probably one of the 2D designers, had shouted after him but he payed it no mind. Not now. His mind was set on leaving soon. Before she was able to make it through the hallway and turn around the corner, he was already halfway down the fifteen story building in the elevator. In the basement, he stepped out, rudely put down his visitors tag on the caretakers counter and stepped into the parking garage. His car was somewhere in the middle and he slammed the door shut after stepping in. For a tiny moment he rested his head against the headrest, let out a sigh and then tried to start the engine.

Nothing….

Another try, again nothing.

Through his window he now saw who had followed him downstairs. It was Nataly. Annoyed because of the conversation he expected was going to happen he opened the door again.

‘Daan…. goddamnit….’ She had to catch her breath. Apparently she had chosen to take the stairs.

‘Daan, we are all really sorry for today. If we had known, we would’ve advised you not to come. This was ridiculous, even for us! And you had to drive all the way for this!’

‘It’s already to late, Nataly. And of course you guys couldn’t have known this. But maybe its a good idea to check with the producers next time. If I show up, I like to do something meaningfull, not sit around all day hearing how great and wonderfull we all are..’

‘I understand. We all feel like that. We will talk to them.’

Good luck with that… 'That would be wonderfull. Let’s hope it will also make a difference… Can you at least do me a favor and send me some ambiences to work on? Some images or small videos? Just so I can start building some sample libraries. I’m afraid this is not going to work otherwise. If they are going to send me everything last minute, I won’t be able to design all of this. Not if they want something they can release to the public.’

‘I will. I’ll send you a mail on Monday.’

‘Thank you…. See you next week then I suppose.’

‘Yeah, see you next week.’

In de verte, onder alle boomtakken uit, zag hij de lichtpuntjes van het dorp. Het was een welkome aanblik en zijn enige gedachte op dat moment was ‘Eindelijk’. Het was zo mooi dat hij zelfs even bleef stilstaan om het gevoel tot zich te nemen. Onder het al schaarser wordende bladerdak, kon hij aan de linkerkant van het dorp net zijn eindbestemming zien. Achter kleine vierkante raampjes schenen lichtjes en aan de achterkant van het gebouw kwam rook uit een schoorsteen. Het betekende voor hem op dat moment een vooruitzicht naar warmte en droge kleren. De eerstvolgende stap die hij zette bracht hem echter keihard terug naar de realiteit. Zomp. Zijn rechterlaars was een beetje in de grond gezakt terwijl hij stil stond en had nu wat meer aanmoediging nodig om de grond uit te komen. ‘Misschien wilde de laars wel iets langer genieten van die aanblik’, dacht hij en hij gaf een klein lachje. De eerste in misschien al wel een maand tijd.

Terwijl hij zijn rechtervoet neerzette voelde hij meteen het water dat in zijn laars terecht was gekomen. Toen ook zijn linker laars inzag dat lopen nu beter was dan stilstaan pakte hij zijn ritme van de afgelopen twee weken weer op. Klots. Klots. Klots. Soms had hij het gevoel, dat met iedere stap er onevenredig veel meer water in zijn laarzen kwam. Toen het twee weken geleden begon met regenen was hij nog vrij optimistisch geweest over zijn nieuwe schoeisel. Mooi waren ze dan niet, maar in ieder geval zouden zijn voeten droog blijven. Die gedachte had het niet veel langer uitgehouden dan een dag en werd aan het eind van die week vervangen met de vraag of een gaatje ergens laag in de laarzen niet beter zou werken. Hij had die avond al met zijn mes in zijn handen gezeten om er een gat in te steken toen hij zich bedacht had. Hij had geen manier om het weer dicht te maken en wist niet of dat gat wel ging werken. ‘Fijn hoor, die laarzen van een paar zilverstukken…’ In plaats daarvan had hij ze schuin weg gelegd bij zijn vuur, zodat het water eruit kon en het vuur misschien iets van de binnenkant kon drogen. Die avond besloot hij ook om zijn kleren te wisselen met de kleren in zijn rugzak. Het enige andere en enige droge paar kleren dat hij nog had. Met het looptempo dat hij deze laatste week aanhield zou het nog een week duren voor hij er was. In ieder geval zou hij het dan voor één nacht warm hebben. Toen hij de kleren uit zijn rugzak haalde, voelden ze klam aan. Ze waren in ieder geval een stuk minder nat dan de kleren die hij aan had gehad en waarmee hij het verschil niet gemerkt zou hebben tussen een meer om lopen of overzwemmen.

Nu hij weer liep moest hij terugdenken aan het moment waarop hij bijna een gat in zijn laarzen had gemaakt en besloot, wanneer hij echt niks beters te doen had, uit te zoeken wat beter zou werken. Het begon nu heuvel afwaarts te lopen en ergens aan zijn rechterkant hoorde hij hoe een klein beekje in snelheid aannam. Ook zijn eigen looptempo ging iets omhoog, deels door de heuvel en deels door het vooruitzicht naar een haardvuur en, nog beter, een warm bed. Het warme bed van zijn vaste kamer in de herberg. Het bed wat hij nota bene zelf had helpen maken, als één van de wederdiensten voor zijn verblijf.

Hij kwam er al jaren, meestal al wat eerder om alle regen en stormen voor te zijn, om in alle rust te kunnen overwinteren. Het was een advies geweest van één van zijn leermeesters. ‘Als bard kun je maar beter één herberg hebben waar men je niet kent, mocht je ooit een beetje rust willen.’ Dat had simpeler geklonken dan het in waarheid was. Hij had een goede stem en vlugge vingers en was, toen hij eenmaal een paar liederen verzonnen had, in het zuiden snel uitgegroeid tot een bekende bard. Overal waar hij kwam wilde mensen zijn liederen horen en elke herbergier die lucht kreeg van zijn binnenkomst in het dorp wilde hem maar wat graag in zijn herberg hebben om de avond op te luisteren. Een herberg vinden waar mensen hem niet herkenden was daarmee in het zuiden onmogelijk geworden. Hij had het enige gedaan wat hem te binnen schoot en was, langs de oostgrens, naar het noorden gereisd. Toen hij uiteindelijk dezelfde herberg binnen was gestapt als waar hij nu naartoe reisde, had het hem daar meteen bevallen en na een eerste avond geweldig met de herbergier te hebben gelachen besloot hij dat dit, voor zolang, zijn plekje voor rust zou worden.

Dat was twaalf jaar geleden, toen hij net zestien jaar was. En de omstandigheden waren veel beter geweest. Een van meerdere redenen waarom hij nu zo laat was en terecht was gekomen in die stomme herfststormen. ‘Geoff zal wel denken…’

Maar wat zou hij precies denken zo meteen? Waar hij bleef? Waarom hij er in vredesnaam zo uitzag? Zou hij hem überhaupt zo herkennen? Het was de ultieme test. Als Geoff hem niet zou herkennen, dan wist hij zeker dat niemand dat zou kunnen. Hij had besloten om dan ook binnen te stappen zonder Geoff direct als vriend aan te spreken, maar zoals hij anders als vreemdeling in een vreemde herberg zou hebben gedaan. Pas dan zou hij Geoff vertellen wie hij was. Later zou hij de ernst van alles wel uitleggen. Allereerst wilde hij een warm haardvuur en een goed glas brandewijn.

Hij had de rand van het bos bereikt en stond nu tussen de laatste bomen in. Het weggetje dat hij gevolgd had was nu duidelijker zichtbaar, zonder de massa’s bladeren en aarde die er in het bos overheen lagen. Keien baanden zich slingerend een weg naar beneden over het laatste stuk heuvel, om vervolgens een bocht naar rechts te maken en allereerst langs de herberg te lopen. Die bocht had Geoff in het eerste jaar dat hij in de herberg had verbleven aan hem uitgelegd. ‘Sommige van die idioten kunnen niet met een kar omgaan en razen dan zodra ze het bos uitkomen met kar en al de heuvel af. Als de herberg aan de bocht had gestaan, waren ze zo binnen gedenderd. En vast niet door de deur. Daar had mijn grootvader niet zo’n zin in.’ Hij had behoorlijk om het beeld moeten lachen dat bij hem werd opgeroepen, maar werd er door Geoff van verzekerd dat het een heel serieuze zaak was en hij zich niet voor kon stellen wat er allemaal gebeurd zou zijn in de afgelopen jaren, had de herberg in de bocht gestaan.