“It was just here, in my pocket, I just know it!”

“Not again!” I raised my eyebrows, sighing deeply. He puts everything in his damn pockets – and unfortunately often forgets he has several of them! Two front pockets and two back pockets in his jeans, goddess knows how many in his jackets… Men joke about women’s bags, but they should look, beyond the straw, at the beam in their own pockets. All their most precious possessions land in there and unfortunately, they also get taken out and left all around the place. At least this is what Alan does: he takes his things out of his pockets and puts them on any piece of furniture, wherever he happens to be.

His wallet is the worst. He spent – actually, we spent a whole evening two weeks ago searching for it. By the time he had gone back to his office, very late at night, I found it behind his computer desk. I just knew he had dropped it somewhere: first thing he does when he comes home, he takes it out of his pocket, and puts it wherever his fancy moves him to – on the kitchen table, the nearest shelf, his favorite armchair, you get the idea… The object is usually put in a perilous balance and then it falls, of course. But it is still held responsible. Same with the alarm on his mobile: he forgets to turn it off and then proceeds to swear at it. “Blast the thing, gone and done it again, woke me up on a Sunday morning!” (If you suggest that since it happens to be his own mobile, and that there is no fairy in the house, he must have fixed it that way himself, he just plain ignores you). Of course, there are variations on the theme: “I had it in my pocket” / “It was just here” / “It was in my pocket, I know!” / “I swear it was in my pocket” / (note the persistent, albeit mistaken use of the singular) / “I put it here myself” (getting more suspicious, implying someone took it). Sometimes the iterated cry is heard several times in the same day, going crescendo in tone and insinuation – usually followed by my own “Not again!” Pavlovian response…

To add insult to injury, he has recently started fighting back, in a characteristic “you too” type of vindication, attack being the best defense, as we all know: “And you with your books!” Well, I must admit, he has a point there! It started in my childhood… My father would read all the time… hundreds of books, all over the house. He kept his favorite ones in a cupboard, access to which was of course strictly forbidden. But sometimes, having cautiously locked it, he would actually forget to remove the key. First opportunity I had, I would climb on a chair, and slowly, very slowly, turn the key in the lock, making sure to avoid any creaking. When the door opened at last, it revealed a sea of books.  A feast for my eyes:  they were so beautiful – not in the sense of being leather-bound, or in rare and valuable editions. No. It was the promise they held, of future delights, that I found enchanting: all these stories, sentences, words, words, words… worlds to explore. I felt I would never know want or grief again… Heart beating, I would put my hand in, quickly, as into a fire, and pick up the easiest volumes for me to reach. When I think of it, my father’s cupboard, full of books, was a kind of extended external pocket… I have followed the tradition: my books are all over our flat… They drop from unexpected, improbable places… And I also write my own – just finished a novella, that I sent to a few publishers, but alas, to no avail. I gave up after a few refusals, decided that my energy would be put to better use writing another one, a more… marketable one. The title was neither inspired, nor inspiring, I knew that. I assumed the publisher would welcome the opportunity to have free reins to choose one. I’ve heard that some authors are ready to kill over this kind of details. “What’s in a name?” is my motto: the flavor of a book is just the same, whatever it is called, as long as it is published!

Anyway… Last night, it was Friday night, and we were just about to go out to our local pub for a few drinks with Samantha and Christopher. I had just received a letter of refusal. I was sighing and moaning over it when I heard the illustrious cry: “But I had it in my pocket!”

I was incensed. “Not again”, I thought! For once, I was the one to have lost something –something much more precious: I had just lost my last hope! I raised my eyebrows through sheer habit and lifted my eyes to his face, with the exaggerated sigh I have practiced along the years, about to say: “Not again! And not now!”, but I realized what I would have noticed much earlier if I had been less preoccupied: something was wrong in his tone and general attitude… or rather, not wrong, if you see what I mean. He obviously was not upset at all – did not believe a word he was saying… He performed some fake theatrical mimics and gestures, and then: “There! I knew I had it here!” He got it out with a flourish: a small pocket book. I recognized his last painting on the cover at once:

A clearing in a forest in the moonlight. A scent of wet wood, moist moss and fresh new leaves. A centaur standing beside a unicorn. I could see the graceful head of the latter, its bright horn, delicate legs, snow-white hair and the faint glow that irradiated from them both. And at the foot of an immense oak tree spreading high its silver boughs, an old-fashioned type book on a cushion of silk and velvet. I see the name of a publisher I like – but did not dare send my novella to.  The unicorn has traced the title with the point of its horn, in refined gothic letters that shine bright and luminescent on the sea green book.

“Nice cover”, I say – “and nice title, too”.

“Yes, it would be a good one for your novella. A shame it’s already taken – by yourself!”

My pulse quickens. I had not noticed the name of the author. I give another look : it is my own name written there!

He smiles : “As the French would say: ‘C’est dans la poche!’ “.

I stare.

“Yes, when talking of a successful venture”, he explains… “You see, it is a pocket book”, he adds as an afterthought.

I look at this man – grateful for his luminous presence, for the stars in his eyes, and for this amazing gift…

And I swear I will never say a bad word about men and their pockets any more – ever!