Dry Ink

The pages flit back and forth as the Book searches for the right date, the right memory. For those who believe a room retains the words and actions, every creak and emotion that take place within it’s walls, this Book is their proof. Each emotion that flutters out through a breath, shifting the atmosphere of a space, all find themselves written on the page. Constructed in 1883, this Book appeared on the table against the back wall of Basie Hall the moment the room was complete. The first moments recorded that day are:

The resounding thud of the final nail hits the wood. Kamva Hadebe sighs in relief as he sits back on his haunches. He examines the grand hall. Scanning the room he whispers: “I wonder what will happen here?”

The anticipation and wonder radiating from him fill the room and are recorded on the page.

Hope for the future fills the room.

The frequencies of his marvel bounce between the walls. The past is perceivqble to only the sensitive and pure, those who slow down enough to notice. Millions of little moments are scribed on the pages of the Book. Every room has one of its own, its own “Book”. And they remain there from the moment the room is ready, until they are destroyed.

There is no ‘Book cosmos’, no collection of colliding lives to be read from. Each Book is singular, offering a complete snapshot of what occurs within its walls. Snippets of people’s stories and their lives are forever recorded. Some stories are never finished. Some hardly even begin. Some become, to the Book, mysteries that are never solved.

As the years passed, the use of the hall fluctuated and changed. Originally the Basie family ballroom, it became the hall of Gerhard Basie University. Finally it became a venue for hire - Basie Hall. Previous days long gone took multiple pages to capture a few minutes, so much life occurred in the Hall. It is filled with dried cursive descriptions of people dancing; how orchestral music vibrated the chandeliers and led tulle-skirted women and polished men to spin around the room.

Today, the hall has decreased in use. Pages and pages are filled without a single spoken word. Recently, on September 12th, 2024 the Book recorded as a cat chased a moth across the room.

He bounces up, front paws first. The moth loses. The cat hits it’s head on the wall in the final pounce.

These are the only dances of Basie Hall now. Rarely anything new occurs within its walls. Last week, a few people walked past the hall outside and spoke about the history of the building. None of them came inside and the Book took no notice.

When nothing transpires within the room, the Book is free to reminisce. To fill the boredom of empty days, it plays it’s favourite memories. But, if something new occurs, a new page is opened and everything is transcribed.

After hours of nothing, it opens to January 1st 1890. The music of a summer ball begins to play. Guests dance around the room while others chat on the outskirts of the room. Among many party conversations and a few political insults, a young General stumbles as he walks toward a woman. His nervousness flurries around him as he stares fixedly forward. The same intensity is felt as that day in 1890.

The Book reads:

He tangles his feet and tilts forward. “Oh”, embarrassment comes over him. An arm reaches out and secures him.

She giggles, saying loudly: “oh Stephanus, you, cheeky. Testing your aunt’s strength again”. She glances around at those nearby. Pairs of people look over. They begin to smile as Stephanus’ aunt smiles at them. A look is shared between Stephanus and his aunt, communicating something else. His courage rises, reaching his cheeks and he smiles. His aunt nods, and nudges him back onto his original path. Smoothing out his sleeves, he straightens his back, spins around and walks toward Lady Botha.

Their moods, equal part affection and embarrassment with a tinge of anticipation reverberated around the room. All of it inked on the page in dried cursive.

The Book opens to another memory: March 19th, 1897.

A stout Indian man enters and strides toward the window. He holds a letter in his hand… He gazes fixedly out the window… With his stillness, the fear thickens… He takes 20 steps to the door. His head held high. The air remains stiff after he leaves.

The Book flips to this page from time to time, always bothered by it and questioning. What caused such intense fear to swirl within one man? Over and over, the stout man sits at the window. Never speaking a word. Only one moan. After twenty-six minutes he rises, stoic and exits the room with his head unflinching from an upright position. No clue every relieves the Book. Conversations written on pages before and after hint toward racial tensions rising between South Africans and Indian immigrants. Yet, no other page records his presence. Closure never comes, no matter how often the Book reads the day. A yearning brews within the Book to ease this man’s pain - the echoes of it darker than others scribed within these pages.

Eventually, the Book turns to April 2nd, 1921, finding comfort as Bridget appears.

She flits across the room en pointe as she practices her pas de bourrée couru. Determination fills the room. She says, “I will make the academy.” Her feet drop. “That was good. Again. Good.” The Book continues to read. Bridget moves in the same way she always has. “That was good. Again. Good.”

Her routine ends and she follows the cursive lines of her exit.

She grabs her duffel bag and slows her breathing. She sighs with satisfaction as she leaves. Sweat drops to the floor. Three drops.

Bridget’s hope teem and flutter around the hall. The Book enjoys this moment for how pride and perseverance electrify the air. Reeading it, Bridget enters, dry with her hair perfectly slicked back. She starts her practice, read exactly as the first time.

Reading, new lines appeared on the page. “Ah”. The Book writes in fresh ink, still wet.

Between Bridget’s rise and fall of feet the Book writes “wonder”. Puzzled, no one enters the room, the Book’s pages are not forced to flip. The page still reads April 2nd, 1921.

Small claps. Wet ink appears as Bridget stops, breathing heavily.

Puzzled, the Book rereads the memory. Bridget resets to the right side of the room, sweatless with her bun slick. Her petit pas de bourrée couru steps move her across the room. Everything recalls without a single change: Bridget’s words and steps are unalterated.

“I will make the academy.”

New ink writes between the lines. Damp black letters as the atmosphere shifts: Wonderment infuses itself to Bridget’s hope.

Bridget’s practice ends exactly as it always has. She grabs her duffel bag and leaves. But this time, the air in the room is different.

Bridget smiles as she exits.

“Bridget didn’t sigh” the Book notes. New edits describe her exit “exhilarated”.

“Edits aren’t possible.” The Book puzzles. “I scribe each moment perfectly and nothing changes.” It reads the page over and over. The new ink still wet in places begins to dry, settling permenantly into the paper.

“I have never written on the same page twice.” The Book, not understanding, slaps shut the book. If something new occurs, a new page will open. It waits considering how many pages are filled with only the flutter of a moth, or the scurrying of a mouse as they cross the hall.

“Never has a new action been enscribed to a previous day. Never.”

A few moments pass. Curious and baffled, the Book rereads the memory. Bridget reenters. Her brow dry and hair up. And she dances. No one new enters the room, the memory remains open. Yet, between Bridget’s steps new, wet letters appear between Bridget’s dried cursive entry.

A sneeze.

The Book resets Bridget, again. Bridget enters fresh as the first morning and flits light-footed, head high and poised across the room. This time, as she meets the far wall, the pages flip. Quickened to record the new events, the Book opens a new page and starts to capture everything.

Little girl enters. She has a large smile, her eyes fill with awe.

The memory of Bridget disappears. Mid step, she vanishes. The Book records on the new page: The little girl stops suddenly and spins around, searching the room. ‘Where did you go?’ she asks. Confusion in her voice. Fear slithers into the room. She calls out, “where are you?” She whimpers.

“Wait, did she see Bridget?”

The vibrations of her fear hit the left wall. The Book scribes it in slow cursive letters.

The little girl sits on the floor, her knees tucked under her chin. She pulls on her laces. Silence fills the space, partnered with the echoing tapping of her foot at irregular intervals.

After months of emptiness, it fatigues the Book to write pain on a fresh page.

The room dims as the sunlight moves away from the window.

The Book strains over each letter.

Unsure if it would work, or it even possible, it finds April 2nd. Trying to keep both pages open, the Book flips between the two pages, never allowing either page to fall fully over to one side. A wall of paper wobbles as the Book holds the pages up. The tension builds as pages sway, slipping further toward the left and then the right. The pages slip, the bottom buldging out. The Book pulls the pages straight, as if to turn the page again.

Adjusting, the Book finally balances. The pages stand tall, a slight waving motion holds them firm and high. From one side of the paper wall Bridget reappears, dancing. Her figure appears hazy this time. She is not as physically clear as she bounces in the light. On the other side of the paper wall, the present continues to be enscribed as the little girl’s tears hit the floorboards.

Whimpering, the girl tugs her laces. Tears dampen her skirt.

Bridget’s pull-on skirt floats in the air as she moves and catches the little girl’s eye. The Book writes on the fresh page: The little girl looks up. Redness subsides from her face as Bridget dances.

Relieved, the Book continues to hold the wall of paper up.

“Oh there you are”, the girl scurries to her feet. “Where did you go?” Her heartbeat settles.

Bridget doesn’t respond. She finishes her practice and grabs her duffel bag. The Book reads, Bridget smiles as she exits. Exhilirated. Bridget exits the room, her smile still bigger than than the original day.

The pages fall and Bridget does not reappear. Today’s page sits open. The girl remains in the room and the Book records everything in fresh ink.

The little girl claps. Twirling, she begins to dance. Stopping, she looks around the room. Bewildered, she searches the room looking for someone. No one else is in the room.

Only the little girl remained in the room. The Book recorded Bridget’s presence as an apparition in an attempt to resolve the blurring of time. This had never happened before. Two days had never coincided before. The Book had not been the only one to take notice of the past.

The next day, with the girl gone, the Book reopens Bridget’s day. She enters, duffel bag in hand. Her steps remain the same and relief washes over the Book.

“Nothing has been lost.”

Bridget continues to dance. She moves in front of the window and light touches her skin. The pattern of the wall paper is faintly visible through her arm. The Book continues reading, dread curling the paper.

“Is she disappearing?”

The ballerina continues to practice, and soon the little girl from yesterday appears. Eyes wide in wonderment, she claps as she watches the ballerina. Her figure is also translucent.

The Book rewatches the two days. Both women are in each. Faint. Their figures shift in the light. The little girl had imprinted a faded image/shadow of herself in the past. While Bridget flit across the two pages – two days.

It flips through the pages inbetween. People appear for split moments in full colour, solidified as when they had been there.

The ballroom dancers twirl once.

New page.

The floorboards remain hidden beneath tulled dresses as they spin around the room.

New page.

The cat pounces.

New page.

The cat disappears before it hits the wall.

Conversations remain unaltered. The Book flip through it’s memories. It scourages each page.

The little girl appears nowhere.

Exhausted, the Book closes. Never before had an emotion come from beyond the door. Nor a sound. Never had before the present reached the past. Nor the past been introduced and altered by the present.

Puzzled and afraid, it keeps itself closed. Days pass and the hall remains empty. The Book does not open to read any memory.

Eventually the Book opens to check again that no other memory had been altered.

April 15th, 1934. No alteration.

September 10th, 1956. No alteration.

January 8th, 1993. The breeze from the afternoon whistled through a crack in the window.

Anele enters. Her brother emerges behind her. The scent of jasmine floats in the air as she turns and faces him. “I am finished with this place and all it stands for. You said it would bring my freedom, but all that happened here was… my mind got trapped!” She breathes out and the tension in the air breaks at her honesty. “I don’t dance they way I had before coming here.”

Her brother takes her hand, embraces her. Silence.

“We’ll leave then.”

The memory finishes and they fade.

No alteration.

It reopens to Bridget. Her memory remains. Hazier than before. The little girl’s awe and wonder blur Bridget. She dances across the room, the intricate wallpaper pattern visible through her figure. She exits with a bigger smile than on the original day.

The Book begins to wonder, “Can the past be changed?”

Days continue without anyone entering the room. The cat does not return and the Book reads October 9th, 2001. Innocent Masuku’s image appears in the room as he rehearses his operatic solo as Crabman.

His tenor voice rises and falls in octaves. Mild discouragement dampens his countenance as it breaks on the high note. Innocent strides to the opposite side of the hall and screams. He returns to his music stand and begins again. Innocent’s voice rises until it touches every corner of the room.

Wet ink appears on the page: Clapping. Glee.

Innocent keeps singing. Dry ink reads: Innocent misses the note. He takes in a deep breath to sing again.

Suddenly, the page turns. Four things happen in quick succession. A person enters the room and the Book opens today. Immediately, Innocent disapears. The new entry begins on the new page.

A little girl shuffles into the room. Sitting on the ground she looks to the centre of the room. Her smile vanishes. She turns her head, searching the room.

Unlike last time, the Book does not risk re-opening the past. It refuses to write on both days, unwilling to alter another memory.

Wonder dissolves. Sadness and shock infiltrate the room.

The Book strains over recording the girl’s reaction.

The girl pauses. She looks behind herself at the door. Shuffling back, she reaches up to the handle. She pulls herself up and steps back outside the room.

Curious, the Book reopens October 9th, 2001. Innocent’s voice booms around the room once more. The little girl stays on the outter edge of the entry-way. The Book does not perceive her on the page, but knows she is listening. Her joy and awe seep into the room from the doorway. Wet ink scribe freshly onto the day’s past.

Innocent sings again as awe swells around. His confidence grows.

As Innocent approaches the note he missed, an alteration appeares in wet ink.

Innocent hits the high note.

Applause.

Innocent beams a smile and sings again.

The memory finishes and Innocent fades. The Book restarts the memory andInnocent repeats his rehearsal, hitting the high note once more. The fresh ink remains, absorbing into the paper. Innocent remains the same, solid, no blurriness.

“Alterations.” The Book thinks.

The Book opens to another page.

A stout Indian man enters and strides toward the window. He holds a letter in his hand. He sits by the window. Reading, he begins to cry.

The Indian man sits beside the window. His despair thickens the room. The Book reads the event, hoping the little girl is still outside the door.

Two minutes pass. No fresh ink writes on the page. No alteration.

He doesn’t speak a word and does not move. He gazes fixedly out the window. Anxiousness fills the room. It spins around his head until it becomes fear.

Nothing changes. The Book’s curiosity soils. Not wanting to remember this again, it begins to close. As it does, compassion slips into the space. It flows, low on the ground and shifts up around the Indian man’s feet. The air becomes lighter. The Book records it.

Compassion rises and overcomes the despair. The Indian man wipes away the tear. A hope shifts around him and fear evaporates, escaping through the cracks between floorboards.

The wet ink writes over the original lines.

The corner of his mouth lifts. He breaths deeply and rises. He takes 20 steps to the door. His head held high. He pauses at the doorframe. One foot still inside and the other across the threshold, he looks down and smiles.

The Book scribes it all.

A new page flips open.

The little girl returns. She runs to the left wall of the room and picks up the leather bound book of Basie Hall. She spins around, and puts it back on the table.