Lost Property

I can only tell you what I know. And I don't know if I'm ready to
say it.

Alright. Well, I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
I came into London from High Wycombe, where I live. I entered the
office outside Baker Street Station at exactly eleven twenty. I know it
was exactly that time because there was a clock on the wall opposite
the door, and I double-checked it because I didn't want to be late for
my train?

No, from Liverpool Street. I had to catch a twelve o' clock train from
Liverpool Street.

Does it really matter where I was heading?

Alright - Cambridge. I had a lecture to give there at the Uni. You've
heard of the University of Cambridge, yes?

I'm glad.

On the future of the post-modern novel - I'm a professor of literature.
I told your friend that.

Do you really need my entire background? I'm just curious, because I
thought I was here to talk about lost property, but if you want to talk
about me, that's a subject I don't mind discussing, if you want. I
mean, I'm quite an expert when it comes to it.

No?

Fine. I went into the lost property office, as I say, at exactly eleven
twenty. I was surprised because there was quite a long queue leading to
a row of booths, and I suppose I expected more of a hole in the wall
and a man in a cap with a pile of scuffed suitcases and gentleman's
umbrellas behind him. I've never been to lost property before - I mean,
I've never really lost anything for any great length of time. I'm quite
fastidious. Obviously, I've misplaced things now and then, but they
tend to turn up. Eventually.

But anyway, I joined the queue, and yeah, there were two Asian youths
in front of me - a boy and a girl. Both looked a kind of ripe chestnut
colour under the sticky panel lighting. The boy was quite docile, and
hardly said a word all the time I was there, but the girl - she kept
calling people up on her mobile and talking very loudly so we all knew
how she'd come to find herself in this not unlikely situation.

Well, I can't remember every detail, but I know she wanted everyone to
know that when she'd called up the office earlier that day no one had
told her she had to pay three pounds to have her cosmetics back. She
said, "Why do I have to pay to get my old face back? Is that what you
call fair?" And she'd driven out all that way to fetch her handbag,
with all her makeup in it, and she had nothing to pay the charge with.
She repeated this several times to different people, waving a hand as
if conducting some shrill orchestra, quite clear on the point that she
hadn't been told she had to pay. I kept my hand on my own handbag,
partly because?well, I suppose I felt slightly uncomfortable with the
inordinate amount of Afro-Caribbeans that flooded the office. Although,
you have to understand I'm uncomfortable with people anyway, and it's
not that I thought they were more likely to be criminals. The fact that
they were mingling in a lost property office seemed to suggest the
opposite persuasion. But you see, any mixture of people different to
what I'm used to makes me uneasy. So if there's an excess of men
around, or too many children, same thing. Anything like that.

Yes? Anyway, I kept my hand on my own handbag partly because of what I
said, and partly because I was considering all the time taking three
pounds out of my own purse and giving it to the girl - you know, just
to save her the trouble of repeating herself every thirty seconds. I've
been a teacher - I know how it feels.

Or I was maybe going to suggest that her brother - she made a point of
telling us that it was her brother with her - hurry to a cash point
while she held her place in a queue. There were more people coming in
behind me all the time, and the wait was looking at about ten minutes,
I'd say. In the end I did neither because the girl seemed so damned
volatile. I didn't want to be shouted down.

No? Eventually, the Australian girl at one of the booths - she was
mid-twenties, neatly bronzed, a galaxy of freckles - she called across
and told the Asian girl there was no way they could give her the item
back unless she paid the charge. The Asian girl repeated the line about
not being told about the charge, and that she'd spent all day driving
down to Baker Street - yadda, yadda - but the Australian was very firm.
Very courteous too, I thought. She explained that she was trying to
save the girl and her brother the trouble of queuing any longer by
making it clear that nothing could be negotiated. Eventually, after
much huffing and muttering about how the handbag had all her things in
it, the girl led her brother out of the office. I think there was a
collective sigh of relief.
And now there was this elderly woman in front of me, with brick-thick
plasticky glasses and kinda very thin, but tightly curled hair, like
little pixies had sat on her head and rolled it in their palms. She'd
been listening to the Asian girl with a great deal of patience, and I
think she expected me to take up the position. I spent a long while
just trying to avoid her eye, and smiling in acknowledgement, then she
leant in close and said, "So what you lost?"

I said a notebook, personal value, nothing expensive, and I asked her
the same question. She said, "I've lost my friend."

"Well what makes you think you'll find them here?" I asked.

She said, "He often comes here."

"Ah," I said, and let the matter rest. Well, I would have, but I took
to watching the man at the front of the queue - who was a respectable
looking man, reminded me of Django Reindhardt. You know - the gypsy
jazz performer.

Never mind. Forget it. He had a mustash like a pair of needles, and you
know, a whoosh of hair, combed back, wet look, and he wore a suit. I
think he was the only one in there with a suit, and looking at his
nervous shuffling, I bet he was the most embarrassed.

Because he was the only one there in a suit, to be blunt. A suit's his
way of showing what calibre of man he is. You take it into a lost
property office where everyone else is in bangles and mufti, and what
does that say about your suit? That it's a fragile carapace. You belong
in lost property - the suit stays outside. You don't fool anyone in the
lost property office. You're there because you got careless. So I think
he was embarrassed because he's out there throwing big money at the
table and suddenly the ace of hearts comes tumbling out of his
sleeve.

Anyhow, his turn came and he went up to booth 3, to the Australian and
here's where I lose track of the time. He said, "Hello. I seem to have
lorst my way."

So what? Do you think he came in just to ask for directions? That's
what I thought. And then she just said, "Alright, well can you give me
a name and a description, and the date you lost it, and I'll have a
look." He didn't even itch his neck. "My name is Abraham Klein," he
replied, "My way is infinitely wide and without any clear direction. I
lost if about twelve years ago, on the seventh day of May."

Well, you can imagine. I was increasingly doubtful that I'd come to the
right place. So I turned back to the women with the pixie hairdressers
and said, "Do you think they'll have my notebook? I mean, is this the
kind of place where they'd keep it?"

"Did you have anything special in it, dear?"

"Well, yes. At least, it's special to me," I said.

"Well then I expect they'll have it. I shouldn't worry."

You bet I was worried. After sifting through papers in a folder, the
Australian announced that they hadn't got anything matching the
Reinhardt man's description, but said that due to bank holidays and
weekends, there's no reason why it might not have been delayed, in
which case it'll come in at a later date. The man thanked her, and went
out. So what do you think the next customer said?

Well, I'll tell you. I could only just make him out above the murmurs
from the other booths. He said, "I'm looking for Zen." Jesus Christ!
I'm thinking that if I don't leave soon I might miss my train, but I'm
nearer the front now, and people are moving on at a nice rate, pushing
along like they were on an escalator, so I just teeter for a while and
hold onto the rail. Anyway, the Australian said, "Zen, God, whatever.
We don't keep that sort of thing. I suppose you'd have to go to a
church for that, or a monastery.
Something like that. OK?" And she smiled in a way that made her
freckles spiral. I thought she was quite a cutie.

The next man who went up to her said he hadn't lost anything. He just
complained about the weather for a while, and about the state of the
street, levels of crime, the Guardian, that sort of thing. And the
Australian just nodded her head and said after a while, "I know, sir, I
know. But we can't help you unless you know what it is you've
lost."

Well, I found myself thinking that with all these negative responses my
chances of getting my notebook back were pretty slim, and I checked my
watch. I'd been there just ten minutes by then, so I had plenty of
time. And no one seemed to be having any luck anymore, so they were
moving through faster and faster. When the lady in front of me had her
turn, she stood at the booth right in front of the queuing point.
Still, she spoke too quietly for me to hear what she was saying - I
just heard the girl at the booth say, "Yeah. Ah ha. Let me have a look
for you," and then, later, "OK, we've got him. If you could just take
this ticket and wait at the collection point, we'll bring him round in
just a minute." And the lady turned round and grinned at me.

Then it was my turn and lucky me, I got the Australian at booth 3. I
told her my name and gave her a description of the notebook, and she
went to thumb through the files. Yes, they had found my notebook, and
she started to print me out a ticket. I said, "Look, I don't mean to
sound like I'm on a high horse, but have you any idea why you get all
these people queuing up asking for crazy things like Zen and
complaining about the weather? What's with that?"
"Well," she said. "People often think they've lost a lot more than they
have."
"One more thing," I said. "Have you ever lost anything on the tube
yourself?"

She made her freckles spiral again, and told me, "You know, I find I
never lose anything, because when it comes down to it, I'm only
twenty-six, and I haven't really found anything yet. I'm taking my time
about it."

Well? That's it. I paid the charge and collected my notebook - it's
right here if you want to have a look at it - and then I left and
caught my train.

I know. I don't understand any more of it than you do, but you know, I
find sometimes I'd really rather not understand - I find there are some
matters more comforting in their bottomless mystery, and what can I
tell you? I think this is one of them. But it's true, every word of it.
I'll swear on anything you like.