AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

For earlier Chapters and an explanation of this dreadful story, see blog: The Cardiff Grandma. WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh.
In the previous episode, Medium Chief Running Water ponders a possible connection between the illegal rug trade and the landmine scheme. Here, back to the wandering Cornishman, now aka Tresovian, last seen in NYC…

The Cardiff Grandma Chapter 24

Ddwwchyllff was prone to mood swings. Ddwwchyllff’s most recent mood swing had swung him out of the revolving bedroom window to a fate of almost certain death, if not worse.

Peppet’s mood tended not to swing too far at all – if anything, at times, he may swing from miserable to really bloody miserable, but that was about it. He had left New York and was now making his way somewhere else. Exactly where: he would not say. He strongly suspected that he was being followed, that one of his ex-wives had employed a private investigator. There was no way he was having his privates investigated – not while he had his strength! He’d toyed with the idea of engaging his own private investigator to tail the private investigator engaged by one of his ex-wives to tail him

If not tailed then watched. And if not watched…boils.

The Cornishman’s moods were wild and dangerous, like a wild, potent stallion charging free across the vast open plains of Salisbury. This was largely due to the large amounts of drugs he regularly consumed. He had artificially altered his consciousness so many times over the years that he really couldn’t be sure what shape it was originally. He just kept on taking the drugs and kept on moving. Most days he would awake somewhere new. Some days he wouldn’t awake at all. On this particular day he awoke in the new terminal of Milan airport.

To the left (when looking from the right) of the runway, the bold creation stood shinny and self-important in the foggy morning light. Milan airport had only recently opened its new terminal. The mayor had turned out for the occasion, dolled up in his best official outfit: A yellow and red ArmandiTM suit with a matching shirt and a pair of Red leather shoes - a gift from the Luxembourgian contractors who had built the new terminal - size 9.

The new building, terminal two, was a two storey one. The existing terminal, terminal one, was a two storey one too. The new building was going to be a one storey one, but the contractors had a ‘buy one, get one free’ offer on at the time.

The old terminal differed from the new terminal in several important ways, not least it’s age and location. The new building was packed with state of the art technological features and hi-tech art work. In the arrivals lounge there were contoured loungers that had been cleverly designed to by precisely half as comfortable as they looked. They looked uncomfortable. They were.

Dotted around the open-plan space were numerous clusters of hard plastic chairs cunningly arranged around the perimeter of something that almost looked like a table. Chairs and table were securely secured to the floor by large bolts giving them the appearance of the inside of a fast food retailers, without the innutritious and toxic substances that passed for food in such establishments. The hi-techness of it all was generally presented via the unfeasibly large number of unfeasibly large (flat screen) TV’s that adorned the walls and interior columns that presumably held up the roof, or held down the floor. To these columns assorted pay-phones were also attached.

In the departure boudoir of Milan airport Tresovian sat hunched over a large board that he had spread over the plastic so-called table. The furniture there was similar to that in the arrivals lounge, only it was in a different place. Having tried out the uncomfortable looking loungers and dismissed them as far too uncomfortable, not to mention impractical for his intended task, the figure had decamped to the fast-food seating in the middle of the room. There he began to separate the edge and corner pieces from the rest of the jigsaw before embarking on the task of once more recreating the picture that adorned the tattered front of the puzzle box.

The Cornishman traveled light. No fancy suitcase with wheels and pull-along retractable handle for him. Just a battered old carpet bag that went everywhere with him. To some his existence could seem to be so empty, so devoid of glimmers of happiness, so dismal, so bleak. He tended not to see it that way. He was easily pleased and asked nothing from the world except the freedom to carry out his work in peace.

Before long his unusual behaviour had attracted some attention from those around him in the sterile departures boudoir. For him, this was part of the fun. It was intended to provide him with the chance to converse. Soon he was less involved with the jigsaw and happily engrossed in a three-way conversation about code switching with two Portuguese nuns and a Lebanese-Greek dentist.

Tresovian had something of an interest in codes and was fascinated in learning how to switch them. He also loved any opportunity to converse in any of the multitude of tongues he was fluent in. All this, and the drugs hadn’t even kicked in yet. He was having a good day.