JENNIFER VAN BEYNEN is a Wellington writer, reviewer and librarian. In March, she will begin an MA in creative writing at the International Institute of Modern Letters.



THE SPACE between us was perhaps two metres. I didn’t realise he was there for a while; I knew he was there, we all know our neighbours are there. But this neighbour was right out on his balcony, staring into my living room.
Our balconies are very different. Mine, I am pleased to say, is nicely kept with a picturesque pot of red flowers. There is even a little watering can beside it, made of battered metal with an imprint of a tulip on it. To be honest I never use it, it’s much easier just to use a glass of water. But it completes the picture. His balcony is almost like a jungle; you can barely see the plant-holders for the tumble of green leaves and stems spilling over each other. I don’t even think most of them are real plants, they could easily be rampant green weeds. There aren’t even any flowers, only greenery clambering enthusiastically over itself.

He stood on his balcony, carelessly twisting what looked like basil leaves between his fingers and staring through my open doors.
‘You! You there!’
I chose the safest option available, which was to continue looking thoughtfully at my typewriter, and cultivated more of a furrowed brow, a slight inclination of the head to one side. There was a pause of great importance, before I tapped out the most meaningful sentence in the history of writing, both beautiful and revolutionary at once.
‘You there!’ he continued. ‘I see you! Come on, come out and talk to me!’ I started unnaturally, awkwardly, toward the open doors onto my balcony, and looked out with exaggerated interest.
‘Oh! Hello there.’
‘I want to ask you something!’ bellowed my neighbour. I took a closer look at him; dark hair battled itself like the leaves on his balcony, his eyes narrowed into an inquisitive squint above pink and robust cheeks. His fingers and thumbs continued to press and roll the herbs. He tossed the trampled leaves away and plucked a new handful from a pot.
‘It’s about Eccoes,’ he called.
‘Who?’ I asked, leaning over my balcony’s railings. ‘I don’t think I know anyone called Eccoes.’
‘No, no,’ the herb-presser said impatiently, sniffing his fingers and wiping them on his trousers. ‘Not a person – the thing; you know, why things echo. I thought maybe you would know.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe you’d better look it up. It’s really a science question, don’t you think? I’m sure it has something to do with sound waves, or reverberations. You know.’ He looked disappointed, but then brightened.
‘Well anyway, the science doesn’t really matter, because the important bit is to make up an interesting-sounding story.’
He foraged amongst his knee-high jungle.
‘My nephew, Julian, is such a little rascal…but inquisitive!’ he continued, plucking more basil leaves and sniffing his fingers, ‘I look after him afternoons. And he starts asking me about echoes. Echoes! I say what makes you want to know about this, when do you hear echoes? Because really, what can one say to these sorts of questions? Some damn school trip! He says he went into a cave and that it talked back at him when he shouted. Well, I said to him, you should ask your teacher. He says the teacher says that’s just what caves do.’
I frowned. This seemed like a very uneducated answer for a teacher to be giving. ‘How old is he?’ I asked.
‘Oh, five, or six – young, so it’s okay to be making up a story. As long as it’s interesting and makes sense to a little mind like that one. Besides, he didn’t believe me when I said it was just sound bouncing around. He thinks it’s the cave talking.’
‘All right,’ I said slowly. ‘But why are you asking me? Look up a book of mythology or something. There’s a story about that in Greek mythology; there’s a nymph, and – ’
My neighbour made at once a dismissive sound and gesture with his hand. ‘Too complicated. And these modern children, they won’t be satisfied – they don’t believe in those sorts of gods. They’re too full of “why”s. And I’m asking you because you’re a writer. Aren’t you?’ He peered closer, tossing shards of basil over his balcony. ‘You look like a writer. And you’re always sitting at that typewriter.’
I sighed. There was no point in lying, but not much in telling the truth either.
‘So you are a writer. Yes?’
I nodded slowly. In fact, all I was doing with that typewriter, which I only used because it made me feel like I was a character in a film, was either writing to my mother, or typing out passages from books to send to a friend in Ireland.

The cat named Josef K came slouching out onto the balcony, ginger and portly. He wasn’t really my cat, but my ex-boyfriend had left him behind when he moved out. I now tried to address the cat as Jo; obsessive Kafka references forced upon a cat by an ex-boyfriend seemed a bit much. In our darker moments, towards the end, he claimed that I loved his cat more than him. And, in those moments, I thought that perhaps this was true. I have since wondered, if this was so, why he didn’t take the cat with him, to hurt me more. That’s the thing about cats – they can’t really hurt you.
As I was stuck in bitter recriminations, he lowered himself onto the sunny balcony, snapped at a couple of passing flies, and settled his head between his paws. I turned back to my neighbour.
‘So,’ I said. ‘You want me to make up a simple story that will grab a little boy’s attention, explaining what causes echoes.”
‘Yes, a story whose answer will satisfy him. And maybe he will stop asking questions . . . but I doubt it.” My neighbour pulled a large cigar from his pocket. He was carefully twisting leaves around it, pressing down gently, then tossing the leaves aside and sniffing his fingers appreciatively.

A movement by my feet made me look down. Josef K had made a sudden swipe with his paw and caught the hem of my trouser. He looked up at me reproachfully, or as close to reproachful as a furry, marmalade face can get. I unhooked his claws and gave back the paw, noticing his fluffy outline reflected in a shadow around him.
‘What about this?’ I called across to my neighbour.
‘Ah, already!’ He beamed through the wafting smoke that was now catching the sunlight, which fell between us, and tapped his ash over the balcony.
‘All right, it’s very simple. You tell Julian that, when he is in the cave and it talks, it is his shadow trying to talk to him.’
‘His shadow?’ My neighbour looked sceptical. ‘Why would that be? And why doesn’t his shadow try to talk all the time?’
Thinking that perhaps Julian and his uncle had more in common than they realised, I continued, and fortunately my thoughts continued with me.
‘His shadow is scared when there is too much light around. It is very shy, and so only wants to talk when it’s in darkness, so it cannot be seen. It’s disguised by the other shadows, see?’
‘Hmm.’ Cigar smoke continued to waft between the balconies.
‘And just like his shadow has to copy everything he does when he can see it, it can only repeat what he has said, like echoes. You see?’
‘I suppose it might work,’ he replied. ‘Yes, I think maybe he will think that this is what happens. I will try it.’
‘Good,’ I said, relieved that my explanation had been received relatively well. ‘And let me know what happens.’
‘Certainly,’ he said magnanimously, ‘and maybe even little Julian will want to come out and say hello to you.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I replied politely, although I had already imagined him as a terrifying child, racing about the place creating havoc and firing questions at hapless adults. I had made him into a mini Attila-the-Hun, with flashing eyes and full of demands.

During the next few days, I glanced more than usual at the opposite apartment, almost hoping for a Julian sighting. I lingered near my typewriter and watered the red flowers more than necessary.
On Tuesday morning, there was another shout. I shuffled out with a cup of tea, but there was no Julian, only my neighbour, his hair as unruly as last time. He was still at his old habit of plucking herb leaves and rolling them incessantly.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘He seemed to like your explanation. Though he pointed out that you failed to explain why it was just in the cave his shadow talks and not in all the dark.’
‘Oh. Well, who does he think he is anyway? And, who does he think I am? I don’t know everything! I told you, you should have looked up a science book.’
I felt horribly deflated, all because an unknown child had rejected a silly explanation I’d made up.
‘I told him that you are a very clever, famous lady, who knows lots of things that other people don’t.’
‘Oh.’ I felt a little bit better.
‘But now he goes around trying to make his shadow talk all the time. Especially in the dark when he’s supposed to be going to sleep.’
‘Just tell him that it was a special cave, the only place shadows ever feel like talking.’
He smiled. ‘I might. I’m sure there will be many more questions from that little one; perhaps some of the answers might give you nice ideas for a story? You can dedicate the book to us.’
I took a sip of tea to stop myself laughing and nodded. ‘Perhaps. But I have a question for you – a real one. Why are you always rolling herbs between your fingers? And, the other day, you wrapped your cigar in leaves, and then threw them away. Why do you sniff you fingers after pressing herbs?’
He looked rueful. ‘Well, this time it really is an easy question. I like to smoke a lot. My wife, she hates it, and one of her friends, who knows about these things, says that rubbing certain herbs on your fingers before smoking is supposed to put you off; something to do with the smell being close to your fingers.’
It was my turn to look suspicious. If he thought doing this would help him, who was I to say otherwise?
‘Do you think it’s working?’
‘Hmm.’ He ruminated. ‘I’d say yes. I think so. It feels like it.’
‘Good,’ I said. We all need some sort of story sometimes to convince ourselves that things are so. Watching the steam from my cup rise into the air, I turned to go back inside.
He called after me. ‘I’m sure Julian will have more questions for the very clever, very famous lady sometime soon. Do you think she will have some interesting answers?’
I laughed. ‘I’m quite sure she will. He can ask anytime.’
My neighbour pulled out another cigar, sniffed deeply at his crumpled herbs, and resignedly lit.