It's that kind of day

It was a cold, clear morning. There was a man standing on a bridge. He was looking over the old stone ramparts, down at the water. It seemed he was going to jump. A crowd had gathered. Some walked past, others huddled around, forming a scrum, blocking his retreat. A little further on, past the man and the crowd, the bridge itself had collapsed. There was no obstruction or hole, merely the end of the bridge, a contemporary Pont d’Avignon. Several meters beyond, the other half of the collapsed bridge could be clearly seen. A trickle of pedestrians continued unabated, mysteriously traversing the two halves. It was that kind of morning.

Back to the man. He turned to face the crowd. It became clear that jumping was a choice being forced upon him by those gathered around. The faint shafts of early morning sunlight glinted off polished steel. Agitated movements and aggravated posturing advertised their intent. Those gathered were actors not spectators. It was that kind of town.

Then, a siren screeched above the still morning air. It was some way off but appeared to be closing in on the bridge. There was silence in the crowd, a motionless protagonist. Those passing, heading towards the centre of the bridge, quickened their step; those coming in the other direction scuttled past the huddled throng. The car with the siren swung onto the bridge. The pedestrians scattered to both sides. A couple joined the crowd, perhaps inadvertently. The car roared past and stopped abruptly just before the bridge’s inadvertent rupture. A pile of cars could be seen just below the level of the road, stacked high and disappearing into the water, completing the bridge for several clambering and adventurous pedestrians. It was that kind of bridge.

Someone got out of the car. A shout. Something seemed to be brandished in the air, a weapon perhaps. Those crossing via the cars turned back. Those who had already crossed began to run.

Back to the crowd. One or two departed in the post car exodus. The rest remained, stony faced, menacing. The man emptied his pockets, tossing a wallet, keys, coins, another wallet, a purse, some small items of jewellery into the forbidden zone between himself and the crowd. There were murmurs in a tongue that could not be deciphered, perhaps of satisfaction, perhaps anger, pronouncing sentence even.

A shuffling in the crowd. A narrow passage appears adjacent to the ramparts, sufficient for the man to exit in the direction of the car. He hesitates. He looks around. He bends down and picks up one of the items. A handkerchief bearing the initials ‘A.M.’. The crowd moves back a pace, in unison. The man turns and tosses the handkerchief into the water. Gasps in the crowd. Some disperse. The scrum thins. As if targeting the ring leader, the man moves purposefully and swiftly straight into the heart of the remaining crowd. Those blocking his way scatter in both directions, others move equally swiftly toward the discarded items. It is that kind of crowd.

As the man leaves, the crowd disperses, moving on as if the incident had never happened. Meanwhile, at the precipice, the temporary bridge of cars has been emptied of its pedestrians crossing. A woman stands smoking, seated on the bonnet of the car. Another leans against the half open passenger door, half in, half out. It’s that kind of car. The man from the parapet approaches. The woman, half in half out remains motionless, eyes fixed on the other side of the bridge where a crowd has now gathered, perhaps waiting to cross, perhaps watching what will come to pass. The woman on the bonnet, smoking, looks towards the man, then reclines, body arced over the bonnet and wing, blowing smoke vertically into the air.

Everything is silent. There is no roar of traffic, no sound of public transport, no other footsteps save those of the man making his way to the car at the edge of the bridge. Even those who watch appear to be holding their breath. Time moves in two places only. In his steps and in her smoke. He slows. The smoke drifts. The river is motionless, the pedestrians still.

Something has to give. It’s as if bridge, town, life itself, has come to a standstill. Separated by ruins, joined by abandoned cars the two halves become whole again, co-joined, everything focused on this tiny ever reducing space between the man and the car, the car and the edge.

Simultaneously the woman half in and half out, the woman reclined and the man walking abruptly look up. The crowd follows their gaze. The woman half in half out gets in and sits in the passenger seat. The woman reclined, stands and walks quickly towards the bridge of cars. The man gets into the car and closes the driver door behind him. The crowd, on the far side of the bridge, begin abruptly moving away, turning en masse, as one, walking quickly back towards the far bank, without once turning to look back. The woman once reclined has all but traversed the metal roofs and bonnets and is set to clamber onto broken concrete and tarmac once again.

The man starts the car and drives deliberately and at speed towards the centre, the gap, the void. He’s that kind of man, on that kind of morning, on that kind of bridge.

The air is clear. The shafts of sunlight hover. A trickle of pedestrians makes their way across the severed bridge. The rivers ambles on, ponderously, beneath their feet. Meanwhile, there is a man standing on the far side of the bridge. He is looking over the old stone ramparts, down at the water. A crowd is gathering.