‘But Forster doesn’t live here any more.’
I knew that of course. He died the year before
— before my passage. I told ‘Raised Eyebrows’
That I only wanted… to see his room,
to see the view. Why else would I have come?
‘But this is not a museum, you know.’
(Cambridge, not a museum?) I nodded.
‘An ordinary room.’ Ordinary
is what it takes. I remember my coach
journey from Canterbury. ‘I have come
all the way from India. He was my friend.’
It worked. The brows subsided, defeated.
A bemused stranger occupied the place
— half apologised for everything changed.
The room was functional, anonymous;
he could not have lived here long. ‘I’m afraid
even the furniture is not the same.’
What did I care, standing at the window.
Olive groves beside the forget-me-not
Mediterranean rolled below, with
a dust haze veiling the Marabar curves.
‘It is the same,’ I said, ‘nothing has changed.’