The weather app said that it would be sunny this Sunday. So, instead of watching a Netflix series in his stuffy bedroom, Robert decided to go to Waterlow Park and read. He had just borrowed Keats’ book of poetry from the local library, and he was looking forward to enjoying the English language surrounded by nature. Ode to a Nightingale. Robert pictured himself sitting on the grass, letting the breeze leaf through the pages, with the birds chirping out the words for him.
A Rastafarian was sitting on his mountain bike by the gate. “Any spare change, mate?” he asked. Robert shrugged and kept walking, avoiding the man’s eyes. The latter pushed his bike forward to cut Robert’s way. “Wot ya gonna do in that park, mate?”
With a sigh, Robert showed him the volume of Keats’ poetry.
“Readin’, right?” the other said. “Readin’ English, right?” He shook his dreadlocks approvingly. “English is rich! With all those words in that book, you’re a wealthy mate alright.”
Robert continued on his way.
The Rasta cried out, “Nothing for me, mate? Not a word?”
When Robert reached the middle pond in the park, he was still a bit shaken. Not only was the Rasta’s rudeness upsetting, but also his insight was disconcerting. This book Robert carried in his pocket was a treasure of literature; reading it would indeed enrich him with words. He sat on a bench in the sun, and opened Keats’ work with great expectations.
Hardly had he scanned the table of contents than the chimes of the ice cream van echoed in the park. The vehicle stopped close by and was quickly stormed by a family of veiled women with their kids, screaming in Arabic. A group of athletic mums who were exercising by pushing their prams at high speed passed the van, following the high-pitched instructions of their Chinese coach. By the pond, a barbecue contest was taking place between some West Africans and some Eastern Europeans. Jolly burgers were competing against disgruntled sausages, with much singing and swearing. In a clearing, some giggling teens were playing frisbee in Hindu, and a couple were kissing in French. This foreign hubbub made it impossible for Robert to concentrate. He closed his book and his eyes, longing for something really English to happen.
The rustling sound of shaking leaves in the trees answered his prayer. A violent gust of wind swept through the park. The frisbee flew away, the barbecues went out, the van and the prams left, and everybody took shelter under the trees. A huge black cloud filled the patch of sky above them.
Robert didn’t move, even when the first drops of rain fell on him. He was enjoying the park, free from foreign disturbances. He still couldn’t read, though, for fear that the pages of the library book would get wet. But it didn’t matter. He surrendered to the English weather with a stiff upper lip and a treasure in his pocket.
A story from the collection
Rx Bodo 