Scene from a Saturday

Scene: A register at a corner shop, being manned by a bored-looking brunette in her early twenties. A couple, comprised of a Scottish man and his American wife, put their purchases on the counter in the midst of some random exchange.

Shopgirl: [to the Scotsman] Where are you from? Ireland?

The Scotsman: Noo, Scootland.

Shopgirl: Oh, yeah? My uncle went there once.

She looks at the Scotsman, who knits his brow and does a fake yawn, which his wife recognizes as his standard time-stalling maneuver, forcing her to stifle a chuckle.

The Scotsman: Oh.

There is an awkward silence. The Scotsman and his wife are used to this awkward silence. It is as familiar to them as the unsolicited invocation of the distant relations of perfect strangers who trod Scottish shores once upon a time. There is, they have learned, no proper answer to such randomly proffered information, only responses which betray their perplexity as to why it has been presented to them or reveal the depth of their unavoidable, but somehow not expected, apathy. The silence begins to linger.

The American Woman: How much do we owe you then?

It is her attempt to rescue them all, but mostly the shopgirl, who seems stunned by wonderment, though it is anyone's guess whether she is wondering why the information about her peripatetic uncle didn't begin a lovely conversation with these strangers before her, wondering what on earth compelled her to say such a thing in the first place, or wondering, perhaps, about something completely unrelated altogether.

Shopgirl: Five forty-two.

Money is exchanged, followed by an exchange of thank-yous, have a nice days, you toos. Later, at a restaurant, the Scottish man and his wife discuss the event with a jaded exasperation but also a strange affection—it has happened so often, and familiarity does indeed breed contempt, but also, less spoken about, the ritual that creates a sense of self and place and home.

The Scotsman: Ooften, if they've been themselves, they'll tell me aboot terrible experiences they had in Scootland—'this was disappointing, that was bad, I cooldn't oonderstand anyoone, the weather was shite.'

The American Women: They want you to apologize on behalf of Scotland.

The Scotsman: [laughing] Aye! And they always want tae knoo why I'm here, and demand tae knoo hoo mooch I loove it.

The American Woman: Always keen to hear good things about America. Americans are very insecure that way. They need constant reassuring.

The Scotsman: Aye.

He looks down into his pint, and she knows he is feeling homesick. He loves America, but he misses home. She doesn't blame him. She misses it, too; she misses the little flat in Leith in which they lived for awhile, and the improbable number of times they heard the distant sound of bagpipes coming on the breeze as they walked down Princes Street, as if Edinburgh was conspiring to convince the American that the sound was merely the city's own breath.

The American Woman: Aside from people, tell me what you miss most about Edinburgh.

The Scotsman: What doon't I miss?

The American Woman: Tell me everything.

The Scotsman: I miss Princes Street. I miss the castle…

He went on, and she held his gimlet green eyes with hers as he spoke. She thought fleetingly of the brown-haired girl from the corner shop, and hoped that she might one day see Scotland, too. Just like her uncle.