The Weight of Numbers Read Online Free PDF

was
nsima
, a kind of gruel, with – as an occasional treat – Maggi instant noodles (‘Asam Laksa Flavour’). I had had twenty hours or so of airline food with which to sate my yearning for all the tastes I had been going without. I had eaten everything the stewardesses had put in front of me. I licked the butter raw out of its tiny plastic ramekin. It was not enough. As soon as I entered that room and saw the laden tables, the fresh fruit, the ten different kinds of cereal, the serving bowls of prunes, dried figs,banana chips, mixed nuts, the cold-meat selection, the cheese-board, the tray of fruit-flavoured yoghurts, plain yoghurt, Greek yoghurt, I knew I was going to have to put all of it, everything, at the very least a little bit of everything, into my mouth.
    Afterwards there was no point even trying to sleep, and I looked around for some amusement. There was a swimming pool; I liked the notion of standing about in warm water, relieved of my own weight. I could as easily have gone up to my room, assuming it was ready, and run a bath, but I was afraid I might fall asleep. I pictured myself choking on my own swill.
    By the door to the pool area there was a keep-fit franchise. Though the hotel staff were bowed beneath the kosh of Comic Relief’s Red Nose Day, the girl serving in the franchise had left her circus gear at home. The only swimming trunks she had left in stock were size XXL. They were fluorescent pink. ‘Christ,’ I said, handing her my card.
    The pool was enclosed in a glass dome, the panes held in place by a complex spider-web of white-painted steel struts. The pool was an amoeboid shape that made ‘lengths’ impossible and off-putting displays of jock athleticism unlikely. The remaining space was filled with white plastic recliners and potted palms. There was one other guest, sat with her feet up on a recliner at the far end of the space, holding the hotel’s standard-issue white terry robe tightly to her chin. Every so often she would take a moment to peck intently, one-handed, at a heavy black laptop computer.
    I took a bathsheet from the pile by the door and tossed it onto a recliner far away from hers. Once I had found a deepish-looking corner I slipped into the water. The tiles beneath my feet were pimpled, anti-slip affairs that tickled all my cuts and sore places. Underwater light glanced off my trunks and lent the water a pleasant blush.
    The water was so hot – practically bath heat – I could not stay in for long. After a desultory paddle or two I heaved myself none too elegantly out of the water. As I got to my feet I caught my neighbour’s eye. Thedefensive way she was clutching her robe was belied by her smile.
    I said, ‘I just want to make it clear, these were the only trunks they had.’
    She took a moment to study them. ‘They do not necessarily reflect your opinions?’
    â€˜That’s correct.’
    â€˜I am reassured.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t want you to think that these trunks speak for me in any way.’
    It began to rain. Raindrops driven against the hexagons and pentagons of the dome caused the structure to ring slightly. It was an exhilarating effect, and one the designers had probably not anticipated. ‘I’m going to call for a drink. Do you want anything?’
    She shook her head.
    When my gin and tonic arrived she raised her eyebrows at me.
    â€˜It may be your morning,’ I said, ‘it certainly isn’t mine.’ I crossed to the recliner next to hers. The crow’s feet at her eyes suggested a woman in her forties, and she had one of those perfectly preserved figures that childlessness gives some women.
    She adjusted the fold of her robe and took her hand away from her neck. I set my drink down on the table between us and glimpsed, between her collar-bones, the start of a deep and beautiful scar.
    She pretended to concentrate.
    â€˜What is that you’re working on? Beyond