Dante's Heart
The Fiddler
When I first arrived in Aberdeen, I made a point of smiling at people on the
street so that I wouldn’t seem like a snooty American. I gave up when
everyone made a point of ignoring me, except of course for the old drunken
men who asked for my number. I learned to walk with my chin tucked into my
coat collar and eyes cast down, just like everyone else.
The university campus is charming with its cobbled lanes and ivy covered
tower, and though the Celtic department is befuddled and disorganized to
the point of notoriety, there is always someone willing to go out for a dram.
In fact, going out for a dram seems to be just about the only available social
activity, and my friends Claire and Amy would try to drag me out to the pub
every weekend without fail.
That Friday night began like any evening out in Aberdeen. It was still pretty
early. I was not drunk, but felt a little fuzzy, so that the winding streets
seemed even narrower than usual. We made our way along the cobbled
sidewalk, ignoring groups of sloshed young men who shouted and stumbled
over themselves. We were near Saint Machar’s College, by the bus stop,
when I tripped over a girl lying against the iron fence which surrounds the
college. Loud music seeped from the Union bar across the street, and I
assumed she must have had one too many and passed out.
“Hey,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder and giving her a slight shake.
“Hey, wake up.”
“Jesus,” said Amy, and then I saw a thin line of blood trickling down the girl’
s chin. She also had scars running up her arms. They looked like claw
marks. “Jesus,” said Amy again. “Heroin, do you think?”
“We’ll get help in the Union,” said Claire, and she and Amy took off
across the street.
“Hello,” I said, shaking the girl’s shoulders again. She looked about sixteen,
but already had a haggard look around her eyes that comes from living in
Aberdeen for too long. Her dark hair was pulled back, and she was
wearing a long gray cardigan sweater with all the buttons done up and spiky
black heels.
When I shook her, her eyes opened a bit and they seemed muddy, like she
was looking at me from the bottom of a pond.
“That bastard,” she whispered. She had a thick Doric accent.
“What happened?” I asked. “Are you all right?”
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When I first arrived in Aberdeen, I made a point of smiling at people on the
street so that I wouldn’t seem like a snooty American. I gave up when
everyone made a point of ignoring me, except of course for the old drunken
men who asked for my number. I learned to walk with my chin tucked into my
coat collar and eyes cast down, just like everyone else.
The university campus is charming with its cobbled lanes and ivy covered
tower, and though the Celtic department is befuddled and disorganized to
the point of notoriety, there is always someone willing to go out for a dram.
In fact, going out for a dram seems to be just about the only available social
activity, and my friends Claire and Amy would try to drag me out to the pub
every weekend without fail.
That Friday night began like any evening out in Aberdeen. It was still pretty
early. I was not drunk, but felt a little fuzzy, so that the winding streets
seemed even narrower than usual. We made our way along the cobbled
sidewalk, ignoring groups of sloshed young men who shouted and stumbled
over themselves. We were near Saint Machar’s College, by the bus stop,
when I tripped over a girl lying against the iron fence which surrounds the
college. Loud music seeped from the Union bar across the street, and I
assumed she must have had one too many and passed out.
“Hey,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder and giving her a slight shake.
“Hey, wake up.”
“Jesus,” said Amy, and then I saw a thin line of blood trickling down the girl’
s chin. She also had scars running up her arms. They looked like claw
marks. “Jesus,” said Amy again. “Heroin, do you think?”
“We’ll get help in the Union,” said Claire, and she and Amy took off
across the street.
“Hello,” I said, shaking the girl’s shoulders again. She looked about sixteen,
but already had a haggard look around her eyes that comes from living in
Aberdeen for too long. Her dark hair was pulled back, and she was
wearing a long gray cardigan sweater with all the buttons done up and spiky
black heels.
When I shook her, her eyes opened a bit and they seemed muddy, like she
was looking at me from the bottom of a pond.
“That bastard,” she whispered. She had a thick Doric accent.
“What happened?” I asked. “Are you all right?”
Page 2 Page 3 Page 4
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