Writer Tania Hershman has recently published , a collection of short stories partly inspired by science journalism. Many of her stories, which are often just a few pages long (a style called 鈥溾��), were triggered by articles in 麻豆传媒.
Read the title story from the collection, The White Road, below.
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Alternatively, you can , first broadcast on BBC Radio 4 (Credit: Sweet Talk/BBC Radio 4).
The White Road
鈥淲hat鈥檚 long, white, and very, very cold? The road to the South Pole is nearing completion聟 this road will stretch for more than 1600 kilometres across some of the most inhospitable terrain in the world.鈥�
Today is one of them really and truly cold days. You鈥檙e probably thinking cold is cold is cold, either everything鈥檚 frosty or you鈥檙e sipping margaritas by the pool in Florida, but let me tell you, there are degrees of freezing. New York got pretty cold in the wintertime, especially for a southern gal. But all the way down here by the Pole, Antarctic minus forty ain鈥檛 the same as Antarctic minus twenty five. You need damn hot coffee in both, that鈥檚 true, you got me there, but there鈥檚 a different smell to the air, believe me. When I open up for business in the morning of a minus forty, I stand on the doorstep and sniff, with Fluff beside me. I say, Fluff, it鈥檚 a damn cold one today and she barks, clever damn dog. Then I turn the sign from Closed to Open and set the water boiling for the first lot, who won鈥檛 be too far down the White Road.
That鈥檚 what we call it, because that鈥檚 what it is, all white. Some days, you鈥檝e got to wear those special glasses that they gave out on the Induction Day. Two pairs, in case one got broke. They said, Don鈥檛 look at that snow when it鈥檚 sunshining or we鈥檒l be putting the patch over your eyes, and that鈥檒l be enough seeing for you.
Some things the eye shouldn鈥檛 see. No, some things are just too much for it.
Last Wednesday was one of them sunny days they were talking about. It was a real busy morning. I saw the first ants coming down the road around seven am. That鈥檚 what I call them, Ants, 鈥檆ause that鈥檚 what they are at first. I鈥檓 looking out through my big glass windows, the ones with the special coating on so they never freeze or get misty with all the heat inside. It鈥檚 like you鈥檙e watching a big white TV screen, it鈥檚 all nothing, nothing, nothing 鈥� and then, sudden like, little dots appear: the Ants. They get bigger and bigger, and soon you see them, heading straight for me and my coffee machine. Big red trucks, with all their fancy equipment they carry to the research guys at the Pole a couple of miles past us.
It鈥檚 probably Phil and Eric, I was thinking, and yeah, they pulled up and stomped in through the snow, stamping their big feet all over the floor, rubbing their hands.
鈥淲hassup, Mags,鈥� shouts one of them, Eric or Phil, never could quite tell the difference.
鈥淐old, boys?鈥� I ask, same as I always do on a Wednesday when they make their run.
鈥淔reeze ya soon as look at ya,鈥� says the other one, getting stuck trying to pull his snow jacket over his big head.
鈥淐offee?鈥� I say.
鈥淵ou鈥檙e the best, Mags,鈥� they say together, and while they鈥檙e arranging themselves in a booth, I start the pouring and bring over the cups and a couple of menus.
When I first started, half a year ago, it was quiet; everybody was just wanting to speed down that White Road and get to where it was they were going. But then slowly, they take notice of me and Fluff and our little sign for Last Stop Coffee, and they start coming in and making our acquaintance. They find us pretty friendly, the coffee鈥檚 hot and not too bad, and I make the best damn scrambled in about a thousand white miles. I add things to my menu now and again, depending on the supplies I get through once a month when Les brings me a truckload. Sometimes it鈥檚 fruit he brings me, he got hold of a box of mangos once and you should鈥檝e heard how everyone was over my mango and sweet potato pie, they just loved it. Sometimes it鈥檚 nothing more exciting than a whole truckload of tuna and I get to see all the different dishes I can make out of that. I can get pretty inventive with what Les hauls down here. I always was good in the kitchen, my kids鈥檒l tell you that, if you can find them. The one who鈥檚 gone, he loved my scrambled the most. Ate it before it touched the plate, I used to say.
Back to last Wednesday. 鈥淲hat鈥檒l it be,鈥� I鈥檓 asking Phil and Eric. They umm and ahh and stare at the menus like they ain鈥檛 never seen them before, like this ain鈥檛 the only place for hundreds of miles and they haven鈥檛 been coming here and eating my food once a week for I don鈥檛 know how long.
I love doing this, chatting and feeding the hungry. In between one lot and another, Fluff and I鈥檒l sit down for a breather, me with my thirty-third coffee of the day most probably, and we鈥檒l stare out into the white. You could get lost in all that white. I never knew an outside could look so clean. I thought before I got here that I would miss the colors, the greens and the blues, the yellows and the browns. Not red. I would never miss red.
But I don鈥檛 miss a thing.
In the evenings we鈥檒l watch the TV. We get so many stations on that satellite, my fingers hurt from all that channel-spinning. Fluff鈥漧l bark if I do it too much, gives her a headache. She barks and I stop right there on that channel and we watch some soap opera with guys with square chins and names like Ridge, or a bit of the news from the real world, all them disasters and stuff. Then we hit the hay, early to most folks, but we get up when the sun does. I don鈥檛 mind it, I always was an early bird. Don鈥檛 want to waste your life, I told my young 鈥榰ns, but they didn鈥檛 listen. Never do. Then, before you know it, it鈥檚 too late.
Phil, or maybe its Eric, asks for waffles and maple syrup, and the other one wants toast and jam, and they both drink the coffee like it鈥檚 coming off the trees tomorrow and that鈥檚 the end of it.
So I go back into the kitchen and set about it. I stand in front of the toaster and I close my eyes. I reach with my left hand and feel about on the counter top until I find the bread bag. I grab it and take out two slices with my right, put the bag down, trying to picture in my head where it is, and feel over to the toaster. Toast goes in first time! It鈥檚 because I鈥檝e been practicing. For about two months, I鈥檝e been practicing with my eyes closed, a little every day. Now I can do it. I know where everything is.
It was hard at first. I dropped things, I cheated and opened my eyes to clean up eggs and stuff that slid through my fingers. I put the grill on the wrong settings, nearly burned us down, or left things so raw they could walk. But now I got it down, I can do it.
I take Phil and Eric their food, and while they dig in, I sit at the next table and we chat for a bit.
鈥淲e got two tons of gloves today,鈥� they say. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know what they do down there, all those rubber gloves. Boxes and boxes of them. Some cutting up of stuff, I bet.鈥�
鈥淲hat else you got,鈥� I ask, sipping my coffee.
鈥淭he week鈥檚 newspapers, like always,鈥� they say. 鈥淏it old now, but they get so excited when we come in. Doc Baxter, he does all the crosswords. Those guys, they鈥檙e real smart.鈥�
鈥淭hey鈥檙e doing important work,鈥� I say. 鈥淕ot to have someone in these out of the way places, learning about what鈥檚 going on, increasing the world鈥檚 know-how, don鈥檛 you?鈥�
They nod at me, grin, stuff food in their mouths. Few minutes later, they鈥檙e pulling their layers back on, paying the check, and out the door.
The rest of Wednesday morning people are streaming in: different delivery guys, like always, some regulars, some new, all needing serious coffee. And something special: a group of young scientists on their way for a visit to the Pole. One of the boys, he looks so much like聟 I have to stop myself going over and saying, Hey聟
That鈥檚 when I know. It鈥檚 a sign. This is the day.
The afternoon was quiet. Anyone who comes down here, comes through real early, in case the weather starts with its howling and rough stuff. The sun was out, it鈥檚 one of them days they told me about. Dazzling, spreading light all over the white.
鈥淚t鈥檚 time,鈥� I say to Fluff. She鈥檚 real quiet, smart dog. I put on my glasses, snap on her lead, open the door and we step out.
It still amazes me, like it did the first time. I don鈥檛 think a body would ever get used to it, the soft clean cotton-wool of it all, stretching on and on and on. The road don鈥檛 cut through it, it鈥檚 part of it, just flattened out a bit. A different white, a little dirty from the cars, but not so that it gets in the way of the beautifulness of it all. I cried the first day I got here. It was like I thought peace would be.
Fluff is stood by me, her head resting next to my knee. I move a few steps towards the sun, making sure I know where the door is that I just came out of.
鈥淚t鈥檚 OK,鈥� I say to her. 鈥淲e can do this. It鈥檒l still be me. You know that.鈥� I bend down, take hold of her leash, and straighten up. Then I take off my glasses.
At first I see everything so sharp. The white looks like gold. My eyes see little bits of gold shining all over the ground, and then it starts moving, like fishes swimming in and out of my head. Then the blurring begins. I鈥檓 dizzy, there鈥檚 a pain behind my eyes, but I keep on staring. I am not going to shut them until it鈥檚 done.
I don鈥檛 know how long I stand there. Slowly, slowly, someone is dropping a cloth over me and this mist comes down in front of my eyes.
Then it鈥檚 all over. And it鈥檚 all just white.
鈥�
That was Wednesday and I have to tell you, I鈥檓 pretty used to it already. That sure happened quick. I had thought, when the idea came to me, three months after finding Josh like that and everything, that it鈥檇 be a shock to the system. Not-seeing sounded so different, like another world. But five days of whiteness and it already feels comfortable, like home. Sure I move around a little slow, with Fluff always there, giving little barks and rubbing up against me. She leads me around, pushes me in the right direction, makes sure nothing burns. She鈥檚 a better person than some humans, that dog.
At first, everyone was real taken aback. I couldn鈥檛 see their faces but I could hear it clear as day. But, you know, they didn鈥檛 ask too many questions, and I didn鈥檛 offer any answers anyway. I think most of them knew my story, about the blood, the bits blown open, the staring dead eyes, the things that I saw, things no-one in this life should see. I think they heard, the way people hear everything, nothing spreading faster than a sad tale, nothing worse than a mother losing a child. Down here, everybody鈥檚 got a story, everyone鈥檚 got their reasons for being so far from the world. Mine鈥檚 just one more to add to the pot.
Les says there鈥檚 some young girl wants to come help out for a few months. Sounds good to me, she鈥檒l be mighty welcome when she gets here. But even with just me doing the serving, they keep on coming, and I keep on scrambling and dishing out the coffee.
I still sit and watch for them, only now I don鈥檛 see the Ants, I hear them. It鈥檚 not so different really. It鈥檚 just very white, and that鈥檚 the way I like it.