Ch 9
Of Cleaning and Love
“Looks like a long story” Alexander said. He left the table and filled two more mugs of beer - a pure and red french ale.
Finished pouring, he gave me one and sat the other by the bar, which he began cleaning. Why he cleaned it I could not tell, it was not filthy at all. Probably just something bartenders do when they have some spare time – at least if movies are to be believed.
Sipping at the brew, refreshing like a beer but sweet as wine, I watched him clean the counter gracefully before moving on to the tables.
The tables could do with some cleaning, I thought to myself. unlike the counter they did not seem to have been cleaned recently and was coated thick with dust which fluttered into the air as he wiped them of. One by one, again and again.
For some reason, I felt like smoking. So I asked for a cigarette and he duly produced a carton of Petteröes – a swedish blend – and handed it to me. I put it in my mouth while he lit it with his lighter.
Drawing the smoke in, I felt that calming surge of nicotine hit me. My face and hands felt numb, I had not smoked for a long time and I was famished in addition, which made the experience very intoxicating. Nothing better than to relax with a mellow high and a cigarette.
As Alexander swaggered around the pub, which was clad in neon and brown, I thought of the story. Vegard was a strange name for a man from Laos. Besides that though, the story seemed genuine although it had not come even close to the promises of the first letter. There was no boy with a violin and reality did certainly not break.
I exhaled a fresh puff of smoke, it sifted through the neon which shook it and forced it about as if it was trying to create something. Like the neon wanted to take the smoke and shape it, give it form before escaping somewhere with the smoke. The light had problem deciding whch form to take though. One minute it seemed like a bald eagle, spreading its wings; The next it was a ship, ploughing deftly through the sea – foaming at its mouth.
The war Vegard had fought in was unknown to me, so was the entire universe he existed in. My life was peaceful, his violent. Mine was today, his 40 years ago – Was he still alive? I concluded he had to be, he must have been the sender after all.
These thoughts floating about my head, I drunk my ale and sent my smoky ghosts flying. Deciding my thoughts needed room, I opened up the dialogue again.
“What is Vegard trying to tell us. The bottle post, the story, breaking reality?
Does it even make sense?”
Alexander paused at this, hovered about the table for some time, before he fetched a bottle of chloring from behind the counter and set to rubbing the floor in an attempt to destroy a black beer stain.
“I don't know. He has a lot of balls in the air. I figure we should just wait for the rest of the story, it will probably all tie together neatly in the end”
Bent over the stain, Alexander slender figure, his gentle movements, made him seem more like a woman. Like so often, I found myself thinking about this, but quickly returned to the conversation.
“You think it's true? Speaking for myself, the story has a genuine feel. Like its to complex, to long to be pure hogwash”
“Maybe, maybe not. As you say, the level of detail and its location – an entirely too real war – suggests that it is; But we can't know for sure”
Alexander stopped whiping the floor. He was probably thinking about something. His eyes were fastened on the stain, but in those clear blue eyes of his I saw that his mind was not fixed on the floor; No, his mind was soaring. That intellect of his was searching, flying high an about. What it was searching for, or what it found, he did not say.
Finished with the cleaning, Alexander lit a cigarette and inhalded deeply before asking me on the exhale.
“What's this about the plain of jars? Ever heard about it?”
“No, I haven't” I took another swig of the beer and looked back on him.
“I wonder what it is, he mentioned it vaguely in his story; It was also the subtitle. Sure you don't know it?”
“I'm sure, I'm not like you, nor have I ever been to Laos”
“Your to shy, you know a lot I don't. Just because I own a library doesn't mean I know everything"
All said, I went back home. The night was cold, we were now in mid december. Above me still, floated the exact moon that had been there since the day of my crash. Huge, Blue and Full – the moon cut out its allotted place in the vault of the heavens and gazed at me as I wound my way home. The snow chrunched beneath my feet, the air sent my scarf flying. A burberry scarf Naome had given to me – or not – coloured in their patented red, white, brown and black pattern.
When I came to my house. The parrot was there again, staring into my window, expecting my return. Perhaps it was not staring at me, but that black stain on my window. I could spot the stain from outside now, it seemed to have grown. Since it's inception, I had failed each day to clean it. Too busy with thinking, sending witty sarcasm about the weather or in adept dialogue with Alexander at the Library. No time for cleaning.
The gods of the weather, complacent and relaxed, released thick dots of snow. Those dots that come from nowhere and linger idly about, neither falling nor disappearing. The moon painted them blue. There and then, under the glimmering street light with the colorful parrot perched above I fell into deep and remittent thought. Thoughts about love and war, reality and dreams and Naome and Alexander.
What I did not know, was that far off Naome – a different one than mine, had just discovered a black stain on her own window. But more or that later. Rousing me from my contemplation, my great cave of desolation – a voice, gentle and warm, cut through the darkness.
“Yo!” I turned around, a bit dazed. Still not quite in the present yet. I was dreaming of a summer in spain and a yellow bus stop sign.
“What is up?” Eyes unfocused and mouth open, I vaguely dicerned the colors of Alexander coming my way. He had a quick stride, and his swaggering hips sent the dots of snow flying.
He stopped by the street light on the other side of the road. For a while we stood there, just looking at antother. I believed Alexander would cross over to me, he probably thought the opposite. The air stillened, and the snow calmed further. Over us the moon shone. The parrot had his gaze focused solely on the two men, each on his side of the road under the light of their own lamps.
“I tried going home, but couldn't” Alexander said.
“Oh, how come?”
“Don't really know. My apartment felt all empty, sad, you know. Like I can't really be there, like right now. That is not where I'm supposed to be”
“Yeah, that's cool man”
“Anyway, this might be stupid, but I wanted to ask you something. It has been tugging at my chest for some time...haven't found the time to ask or say it. You know?”
I looked up, sighed, the misty breath was given shape by the wills of the wind. Alexander looked down, stepped around uneasily. It looked like he was abou to tell me something big, some dark secret of war he had kept all to himself for an age or two. Mustering his courage, then asking, he said:
“About Naome, who is she?”
“My girlfriend, or so I think”
“It's complicated?”
“Yeah, something like that”
“She run off? Cheat on you?”
“The first, kind of....”
“Oh, tell me about it?”
“Why do you wanna know? It really isn't a big deal, nor is it a topic I like to share”
“I like you, so I wanna know. It seems to bother you. You may not show it, but no matter how good you are the truth, the ominous dark cloud, will gradually sift through the cracks. I've felt it ever since I met you. Besides, I think it is good to talk of this kind of stuff”
Why he wanted to know I could not imagine. I sighed again scuffled the snow around before I resolved to tell him. To hold nothing back. He was my one true friend, and friends tell each other stuff.
Under our two lamposts, I told him about Naome. I told him about her hair and her smell, her body and her step. Then I exhalted her to him, telling every happy memory, every joyful occasion spent with her. Finally, I told him about my crash. How it had all gone wrong and some policewoman had told me she did not want to see me. After all, she had not seen me in years. She was busy in her world, in her life – far removed from the life I imagined we would have had - showing him my ankle monitor as proof; the story ended, but he still scuffled the snow about his feet – as did I. The parrot, as silent as us, flapped its wings in excitement and looked more intently at the scene.
“You think Naome's disappearance might have something to do with the Letter?” Alexander inquired.
“Maybe, looks like it. The post started the minute I was told of Naome's whereabouts”
“Hmm”
Under his light Alexander mused alone for some time, scratching the back of his head for some time.
Seemingly finished, Alexander looked up at me and stood erect. He looked left, then right and sat a foot on the road – glazy and white. Firm in his stride, and eyes glistening he continued across the road. There was no crossover here, in addition the light was on red.
In his gaze lay intent, enhanced by the blue glow of the moon. The moonlight reflected in his eyes and made his irises light up sharper and stronger. Unlike mine, they were alert and gifted with intention. I found his composure alarming, menacing perhaps. Alexander was no ordinary man. No ordinary man by far.
As the road gave way to fresh pavement snow under his heels, Alexander sent his arm flying towards my head. I instinctively ducked and raise my arms across my face. Bent over like this, Alexander grabbed my hair. What is he about to do?
As if he had heard the question, he ruffled it around, gathered it all and put a knot around it. Did he just tie up my hair? I wondered as I raised in awe. Our eyes met, mine alert but his relaxed, oozing warmth and care. His familiar smile too had returned, no longer nervous.
“I like your hair, it has grown quite a bit” He said admiringly, as he brushed away a rogue strand of hair on my forehead. He looked deep into my eyes for some time, before continuing.
“You seem stronger too, more sure of yourself. It's like the hair has given you strenght. Like it has returned color to you cheeks, a smile to your lips and firmness to your muscles. Ever heard of Samson?”
I shook my head. Unsure of the whole situation.
“Oh well, You'll read it someday. Its a story from the bible after all, plenty of those in my library. Tell me did you and Naome ever have some problems, or not problems per say, just something that irked the two of you?”
I thought back, trying to remember. Alexander gave me no time to reply.
“I feel like what you have told me is only half of the story. Like a fairytale, you coat you and Naome's world in black and white. Reality does not work in black and white though, but in shapes and mists of grey. Nothing bad comes to mind, something that may help explain the situation?”
He was formidable. Alexander cut through night and denial, leaving me stupified and bare. All I could do was answer. Voice quivering, mostly because of the air, but also of Alexander presence.
“There was this one thing?”
“What thing?”
“Years ago...Three I reckon. We had a miscarriage. It wasn't like we were trying to get pregnant, the pregnancy just came. Her family is rich, mine is not. She wanted to keep it, I did not. All the rigors of the world and to bring new life into it was lost on her. `We'll ask my dad for loan´, she said ´all will be fine´.
When does life start? Is it at conception? A fetus has no thoughts, no emotions, no awareness. That's not life, is it? You know this Alexander. To end it there and then, is not to take a life, but rather to delay life from arising. We could not support the child. I...I was not ready. With a big loan already and a temporary job at the university, what good would come of a child? She would have to get a better job too, damned if I'd go to precious `papa` for a loan. No way, No way to go”
Pausing the memory, I realized my breath shook. My hands too. Calming them in his Alexander leaned in close, and slung his arm around my shoulder. “Go on” He said.
“To hell with papa, to hell with this child. It was not our time. We were still young. I tried pleading with her, ordered a visit to the abortion clinic. When she declined, I asked the doctor to call her. That failing, I felt alone. The child had divided us. She was adamant, she would not take this life. She would see that the child saw the light of the day, with me or alone.
I was angry with her; I felt contempt for her; But I kept it all inside. Like some dark stain, lying unwashed across the window my hatred for the demon inside grew with the size of her belly.
It was then, after a baseball game on TV. She loved Baseball. I did not really care, but enjoyed spending time with her. Watching her surge from the sofa come a homerund, or to sink to the floor when her team lost the matchball. Through high and lows, I remained next to her, but not this time. This time the anger swelled, and the whole thing grew into a cold war. We neither talked about it or acted any differently, but both knew the other's thoughts. Their plots and conspiracies were hovering idly in the air, like complaent snow on a windless night. It was on such a night, with the game barely finished that she shat blood. Blood over the sofa, everything, just out of the blue. Comforting her, I took her all the way to the hospital where an hour later we found out that the baby had died. All that came about of her was bits and pieces, all soaked in blood. A toe here, an undeveloped cranium there. A bloody mess.
I clutched her hand the whole while. I washed them after, all red they were; and drove her home”
Not even aware I was crying, I brushed away a tear. I tried to go for the rest of the tale, but Alexander's eyes told me it was enough. No need to tell us this was a cause for great derision. No need to tell him that ever since our relationship had changed profoundly. In this moment, there was no need for explanation. Alexander understood, and he knew my sorrows.
“So the miscarriage might have revealed your true selves to the other. For once, you were not in harmony. Rather in disharmony, even though you were robbed of a decicison. It left a stain on your relationship. Probably you fear, this would be cause for her to leave you, all alone in you confusion”
Alexander had spurred in me something I had not wanted to, but needed to remember. Before parting, each to his own bed. He offered me this monologue:
“Naome and you, fated forever...what a nice thought. Remember I told you about Tom the Frenchman – the poor girl who became a boy whilst playing on a hot day one warm afternoon?
Tom had a wife, even children. I sometimes catch myself wondering what I will have. I am unmarried, unloved – I have not had a lover – and altogether dissillusioned. How come love is not for everyone?
Like Eponine in Les Miserables, she loved her Marius. A real Tomboy she was, Marius did not realize her true beauty. She was just the helper, her locks and forms hidden behind her aid to him. He never saw the girl, only the person. His eyes were instead fixed on the gallant, and let me be frank, rather boring Cossette. The Victorian model for beauty, Victor Hugo modelled her carefully.
When Marius realized Eponine's value, it was too late. Borne down by a bullet taken in defense of her Marius, Eponine fell to the pages of historical fiction on the eve of the July Revolution of the 1830's.
God people were strong, like Samson. Stronger than the stains and preconceptions we create and labor with”
Tirade finished, Alexander gave me a hug, patted me on the cheek and told me
“Glad we had this conversation, I feel relieved. Say, next time we meet, which will be on monday after the weekend, I will tell you why Tom the Frenchman inspired me to open a library. You let me know if another letter comes right? I think I might be on to something. Though I'm not sure, I feel like I might be able to help you”
After this, I muttered a goodbye – he, a wave with the hand - and we both went our separate ways again. I turned to my appartment, he to his – wherever that was.
As I came home, I got out of my clothes in a flash. Struggling and stamping with my pants. I had a glass of water by the sink. Alcohol often left me with a headache, but a glass of water before bed did miracles about that.
I scratched my ass, and looked again on the stain. Better clean it tomorrow? I thought. A quick search on my laptop foretold that Tomorrow would be grey and cloudy with a hint of wind. My mind had forgotten all about the sun, and the smell on the leaves after a stormy night thick with rain. It'll probably change. I thought as I went to bed where some godlike sleep, like the one Athena issued on Oddysevs on his way home to Ithaca - A deep and dreamless sleep – overtook me. My eyes grew heavy, my mind empty and my body dull and numb. Just before drifting of to the fields of Elysium, I imagined that the door opened and a cane knocked against the floorboards on its way to my bedroom.
Ch 10
Of Classics, the Stain and the Bus-Stop-Boy
“How do you feel?”
Charles asked the question in between sips. He was enjoying an expensive whiskey on the rocks.
“Good enough, a job is just a job. Just like a scumbag is exactly that – a scumbag”
Naome had a cup of camomille tea, which she shipped at occasionaly. Warming both hands with the cup, she was amazed by the rigor of Charles. It was cold outside, a dewy mist slantered about the rose garden in front of them.
Naome was dressed in a short white dress – as you do when chatting with wealthy men – but had draped a thick and black wool cardigan about her shoulders. Her efforts fell short however, sitting there on the porch she could feel the wet cold seep into every fiber and tendant of her body.
Charles, on the other hand, wore khaki shorts, brown loafers and a white polo shirt. Three buttons were open, revealing a coarse bush of black hair and a tan too good to be natural this time of year. They were coming up on December. Winter was knocking at every door, but luckily there had not been any snow yet – though it was sure to come every day now.
Staring at Charles made her freeze even more, so she took a sip of tea and gazed deep into the cup in search of warmth.
Charles brushed his straight black hair back and continued – all the while watching his gardener, busy with trimming the hedges.
“You know, I hate to do this to you. I don't ask this often. I take every precaution, consider every possibility and tactic before coming to you”
“I know” she answered, anxious to get back in her car. Away from the cold.
“It's two men know that you have killed. Two hideous men, but killed nonethless. I recognize the agony this must cause you, but I assure you there were no other way. Neither for me, nor the community”
She jumped as he laid his hand on hers, looked her deep into the eyes and ventured
“I've added a little bonus – for your troubles. The community is deeply in your debt and we feel that you deserve a little extra – we all do”
He sighed, and Naome saw him shake his hand at his boduguard who produced a thick yellow envelope.
“So here it is, in green paper, your reward. 10000$. But remember, your true price is yet to come and you have earned it, more than you know”
With that, they shook hands and hugged. Charles nodded at the bodyguard, his name was Peter, who led the way.
Peter was in his mid thirties, slender but broad around the shoulders. He also had a thick set of legs, once had had been a powerlifter of sorts, even made it to the nationals once – but when he got drafted for the army he gave it up. An easy kind of man, Peter did not lack for brains, he was smart and kind. Not build-a-rocket smart, but he had an easy-going, down-to-earth kind of knowledge. A rational world view based on logic. The earth revolves around the sun, tides are cause by the moon, time and space are relative – that kind of smartness. He might not invent anything new, but he would often provide clear and rational advise based on experience as well as reading.
Being an avid reader, the two – him and Naome – would often read the same book and speak of it, go through it in detail the different sections and such. This they did in the small frame of time allotted them, the place between the porch and the driveway – which led them through Charles´ renaissance rose garden.
Since they had not read anything new, few words passed between them today. It was not until they reached the Oak tree, an old and big one with branches now empty in expectance of winter, that Naome spoke. A group of people were sitting on the other side of it, reciting the book whilst dancing.
“It is a nice garden this, or what would you say Peter?”
“Yeah, it is. Real calm and all when the fanatics aren't jumping about screaming this or that”
Stopping the laugh with her hand, she looked down for a moment and brushed her hair back. The worshippers would get really pissed if people spoke too loud or made fun of them – they had learn this first hand on several occasions. Walking along the circular path enclosing the tree, they resumed their talking.
“What kind of Garden is it?” she asked.
“A rennaisance one, modeled after the greats”
“Oh, what does that mean?”
Peter sighed knowing this would probably take some time, but continued nonetheless.
“Well, you know the rennaisance?”
“Yes...”
“Ok, I'll make it brief. The era known as the renaissance, approximately around the year 1500 and up, though it started earlies someplaces and later at others, sought the revival of the Ancient world. Their Philosophy, their Art and so on. The Greeks and the Romans were the civilizations primarily emulated, probably because they were seen as the ideal cultures.
Everywhere, from the Villas in Italy to the Streets of London, was redesigned in a way. The houses were again made of marble, columns and portcullises. All white, since they didn't know the Ancients used paint.
They were like ´Hey, the parthenon is white! That means everything was white marble back then.
The philosophers and professors of the time too, went back and revisited the text of Sokrates, Virgil, Ovid. I guess they were trying to find some answers back in those texts. Like the Powerful Athenians, or the Glorious Romans had discovered some secret lost to us. Like time had sent their knowledge floatin about in a bottle-mail, and we – after the dark ages (where they really that dark?) - had to go about collecting these fragmented papers.
To them, the classics were so pure, so wise and pristine. The old civilizations were perfect. They had big empires, vast armies. The heroes were stronger, the women more beautiful. It was a better age in every kind of way, an age that had been lost in the unholiness of the middle-ages, an era that had to be reattained.
Michelangelo proved this when he built David. The first statue able to stand on the support of its own two legs for close to 2000 years. The technology of sculpting was lost, well not all but some of it, to the Romans -who failed to produce a standing statue without support. Envious of this, the Romans tried to emulate the Greeks but failed. Roman statues are always easy to spot this way, they will always have a tree, rock or a firm base for support. Every statue the Romans made and all they way to Michelangelo would either have support or fall down.
So, gardens...Minos had a garden, so did many other Greek and Roman heroes and nobles. Therefore, since a ´classical garden´ would be the best – they copied the gardens of old. Big, vast stretches of land, lavishly sculpted and decorated. A mezmerizing space for thinkers to wander in and kings to brag about. After all, the Classical world was the ideal world. So the ideal garden would be a classical one"
A flock of birds flapped overhead, as they came around the tree and continued forward. The believers were now singing a hymn, arms outstretched – some chanted in tongues, others in words. The parking lot was barely visible ahead, view restricted by thick, green hedges and rose bushes without flowers.
Naome had always found the setting for the religious cult somewhat paradoxal. Why have a religious Christian sect's headquarters in the middle of a garden dedicated to the Renaissance – the very era that challenged the very beliefs they swore their lives to.
Intrigued, Naome could not help wonder what Peter himself thought of the Renaissance or the classics. What he had told her was just the textbook view, but she was certain he had his own opinion on the matter – he ususally did. Peter walked a bit ahead of her, looking down, but slowed down and looked at her when she asked.
“Hmm, well what do I think...” He mulled the question over, like a connosieur of wine tasting a fine glass of Pinot Noir. When the lot came in sight, he delivered his verdict.
“Undoubtedly, without question the renaissance was good. That is a simple, undeniable fact. To question societal structures, the arts, the church, it was clearly something we needed. However, their ideal was the classical world. It stood above else, and was sought after like nothing else. Yet, I feel – though I have no basis for saying this – that their belief in the Ancient world bordered on the fanatic. Like they tried believed in it to much, so much that they did not see the bad – only the good. Seeping out the bad, I cannot help feel that they ´reconstructed´ the ancient world more in their own terms”
“Hmm...” Naome offered. They had just entered the parking lot, and she was serching for her keyes. Damn women's purses. Really not practical at all, you'll need a flashlight and a metal detector to find anything in here, she thought. A cleaner was paintin new stripes on the asphalt, and offered a nod to the pair. As she found his keyes, Peter went on.
“I would guess, though I'm no expert, that things were pretty awfull back then. In Greece, one could be sentenced for a crime you did not commit, because people often believed more in the ethos – the feelings of speeches – than the logic. That by the way, is something that continues to this day,its often the most moving speech that gets to the voters.
Disease was rampant too, they had no real medical knowledge, except that gathered from experience. Galen, a greek physician who was the only true scientist and the whose work was the only one in use, believed that all illness, all conditions and moods were produced by the level of four fluids in your body. His assumption was obviously wrong. Luckily, this was questioned in the renaissance. I guess, even though they sought the classical world, even it was not above scrutiny or question.
Here is your car!”
She unlocked the door and jumped in, started the engine and made ready to close the door – but Peter was leaning on it so she could not. He stared at the garden for some time, she tried “sorry, but I really have to get going” and “Could you let me close the door, please” but Peter remained transfixed on some point in the distance – some spot only he could see.
The cleaner woke him up when he passed by, and Peter shook. Then he bowed down and put his face inside the car. His eyes looked deep into hers, and he gave her a pad on the shoulder as goodbye. Lastly, before giving her his usual smile, his voice took on an ominous tone – like a seer reading the future out of a used tea bag.
“If you ask me. I would say the Ancient world was filthy – no cleaners, no real order, no nothing. My experience makes me skeptical of ideals and fantasies. I don't believe for a second that the classical world was any better than the middle-ages. No, it was probably filthy and filled with pirates, bandits, rapists and good for nothing fanatics.
Like a stain on the window, every past has something dark to it – it is never perfect. Like these people dancing in the garden here. God may have done something right with Jesus, but before that he slaughtered entire communities, laid their cities to the ground. Lot of Gomorrah offered up his daughters for rape. But all these people see is the good, they do not dvelve on the bad the bible tells us. After all, if everyone read the Bible as they do Shakespeare, we would all be Atheists.
So that's it, every person has his baggage, every past its stain. Like no window is always clean”
His séance finished, he smiled that smile of his and closed the door. She slammed the car into first gear, then second as she exited the garage.
She parked the car in her garage of her complex. Like many single people, she had to consider her economy, so she had bought a small apartment in a big highrise. Made of concrete, the facade was dull and grey. The elevator was broken, so she had to climb twelve flight of stairs each time she went home.
Chest heaving, she came to her floor with her mail in hand. She nooded at Ms. Pennywhite, an elderly woman who had lost her husband some years back, now all she did was to exist on her chair outside of her door in the corridor – looking at the people on their way to their jobs and returning home tired. Not an unpleasant woman, but she had low eyebrows and close set eyes – which made passing her an ordeal for anyone not used to her. When she talked though, her voice was warm and affectionate.
Turning the key, she opened the door to her apartment. It had three rooms: A small living area with a table, a fully equipped kitchen and a Persian carpet, a bathroom and a closet/bedroom. The only furnishing in the whole appartment was her Aloe Vera cactus. She liked it because it required little maintenance and, if necessary, it could be easily moved in case she needed to relocate.
She kept the apartment tidy and clean, which was not all that hard since there were nothing to move, stow away or brush of. Every week, on a day she had the time, she would mop the floor, clean all the surfaces and water her cactus – that was it. It ususally took her about an hour.
Her clothes were all stowed away on hangers in her bedroom. She was careful to hang each item, be it a dress, a blouse, pants or socks, up after use. In this way, there was no mess – no clothes swimming around the apartment. It was an easy life, but she enjoyed the simplicity.
She put on a set of blue Nike sport pants and a white t-shirt before stowing away her dress and cardigan. Leaning over the sink, enjoying a glass of water, her eyes found the stain. It had not been there before she left for Italy, but now there was a black, dark stain on her window.
What it had come off, she did not know. Neither did she know who could have made it. Living alone, she was the only one with keys to the apartment, except for the janitor. The janitor however would always call before entering an apartment, so it could not be him.
The stain filled her with unease. Had someone been here? Was someone onto her? Aroused, she flung open her cupboard and extracted chlorine and a handkerchief. She marched to the window, moistened the cloth in chlorine and began scrubbing.
It did not help. The stain remained fixed and permanent, staring at her. Could the stain be on the other side? She thought as she opened the hinges and rolled the window about. She soon found that this was not the case. The stain did not go off no matter how hard she wiped. But she resolved to wipe harder, faster. Creepy as it was, the stain had to go.
Her hands cramped, her fingers dried up and she began sweating but did not cease. Not until her thumb cracked and sent sharp signals of pain to her brain did she ease. Sinking slowly down to the floor clutching her thumb, she tried to rationalize it all Her breath was shallow and her eyes screamed panic. No one is looking. I'm safe. No one knows anything, I'm too diligent, too careful for that. Why care about a stain at all? its not like it screams conspiracy.
She stood up. Stretched her back, and took long deep breaths. Then, she raised her arms slowly above her head and held the air in. After twenty seconds, she let her arms fall as she loosened her back and let the air out noisily.
She entered her cave then. It was made of rock, but the walls were smooth due to corrosion. Her fingers trailed the walls as she made her way deep into it, to her usual spot. There, she sat down and leaned her back agains the cold wall. Water dropped from the stalactites and they hit the floor with a loud splat. Every now and then a drop of water would land on her forehead, her neck was craned back. In front of her, far away, was the opening. Only a white spot against the black backdrop.
She searched with her hands to the left and found the item. It was still there. Soft and heavy against her touch. She closed her eyes.
The dripping water intensified. Each landfall now an earthquake. So sound actually has weight and form, she thought. After a while like this, her feet grew numb – then her hands. She was not cold, but she realized she had no need for them. They were not her, only parts of her body. She was the driver in a car, looking out from her eyes like a driver through his front window. Also like a driver, she realized she too could leave the car and walk the rest of the way on foot.
Her mind worked faster without the car. It sped up, searched about her. Then. It found him. The boy was waiting for her beneath a yellow bus stop sign.
He waved at her and offered a smile. She, in turn, quickened her step and greeted him fondly with a big, warm hug. All was perfect.
He wore Levi's, a size too big, and a grey hoodie. He had long brown hair, curling about his neck. Her hair was straight and black, let loose in the wind. She wore a black dress this day, with fringes on the side.
“It's done” The boy said, as the smile ran away from his face.
“Good" Naome said” though she had no idea what she meant.
The sun had been out as she approached, but now dark skies cut it from view. A Parrot flew about and settled on the bus sign where he looked at the pair. The wind let down.
Locusts had hissed in the roadside bushed, but now they grew silent. All the world waited in anticipation.
Knock. A sound, but from where she could not tell. Knock. Sounding like tree hitting concrete, the sound grew ever closer. The boy looked down. His eyes were sad and he rolled his thumbs. Knock. The sound were right behind them now. She turned to look, but nothing was there.
Like that they remained for what seemed like a lifetime. She could feel another presence, but everyone there was her and the boy. Knock. The sound continued. Every second the air grew stiller; Every minute the boy sadder. Tears were rolling down his cheeks now. Knock. The Parrot screeched and flapped its wings. All colour was gone. The world was grey.
With a knock. The mountains in the distance disappeared. Then the heavens grew black. Knock.
“We won't meet again” The boy said tearfully.
She grabbed his hand, cold against hers. He looked up and into her eyes. Knock. There was a smear on the bus sign.
Then the sun came back. It shone a white light, but the sky was all black. The locusts resumed their song, her skirt sailed in the wind.
A smile traced the lips of the boy as he grabbed her cheek. She was crying now, but for what reason she could not fathom. Knock.
It was then and there, on a cold black day in August in Granada Spain, that she saw him. Perched on the shoulders of the boy was an old man. His hair was long and grey, his face old and wrinkled. The boy did not notice the man, or if he did he gave no sign of it. A tight fitting spandex covered all his body up to his face. In his right hand was a cane, which he stomped to the ground in regular intervals. In his left was a box. An oak box with silver engravings. A golden key was in the lock. With a knock of his cane, he sent Naome flying back into her body, out of her cave and back into her living room - Breathless and terrified.
Ch 11
The Dream that was Naome
The first half of the night had passed by dreamlessly. In heavy sleep my watch ticked off the hours and sent the moon across the heavens.
It was a heavy knock that roused me. A deliberate, certain knock against my floor. I nearly jumped out of bed by the sound. Where had it come from? Who had made it?
My questions remained unanswered because in front of me, only a few feet, was something totally inexplainable.
I pinched myself to see if this was a dream, it hurt. Next I tried moving my limbs and touched my nigh-table, I was able to do both, which told me this was no waking dream. I tried speaking, but found no words. Not that I couldn't speak; I was sure I could, I simply had nothing to say. I remained transfixed, staring intently at the event unfolding in front of me.
The blue light of the peculiar moon filtered in through my window, behind it loomed the moon itself – so large it occupied the entire window-frame. Pollen glimmered mesmerizingly as they drifted about the room. There was a deep and profound silence, not even my breathing was audible. I imagined the parrot screeching outside, but it might have been a figment of my imagination.
Then there was her. Agains the white of my wall, Naome was sitting in front of some strange contraption, some weave of sorts, stark naked. The moon-rays seemed to converge around Naome and her weave, as if to signify its importance.
I almost lost my breath and my heart pounded in my chest, wanting to break free. So long had I longed for such a sight; Her black hair, slender neck which gave way to a full and formul body. The curves around her breasts, the wideness of her hips. I had not yet realized how big and strong legs she had, not until this very moment.
For a long time, I can't tell how, I remained moveless with my head resting on my hand. I needed to take it all in. If this was a strange vision of sorts I had to soak it all in. And so I did. All through the night, I watched her weave.
Her weave was big, probably made to construct carpets and stuff of that size. She had a box by her feet. An oaken box, with silver patterns all over. In the keyhole was a golden key.
She started by opening the box, which was no larger than a small TV. She bent over slowly before lifting the lid up. She did not have to turn the key. Within was several compartments, with short strings in different colors; One compartment held white ones, the other black, the next brown.
She plucked the brown strings up and laid them out across the main plateau of the contraption. Exclusively brown. One by one, she bent over and took a single short tread from the box.
Then, she tied them together. She was good at this. The strings were so narrow I could barely make them out. By tying them together she made long strings which she fastened to both ends of the contraption. She fastened countless of these strings, they all went in parallel lines from the farthest end of the weave to her contraption. I came to think about string theory as I saw her work, her body awash with luminous moonlight. Was this science, or something else entirely, magic perhaps?
Having laid out probably a hundred or so strings, she produced a needle from out of nowhere. I really mean from out of nowhere. She looked to the moon, then back over the strings before doing a strange piruette with her hand – and then the needle was there. With fascination, I witnessed such as scene from my bed. My mind busy on what kind of thread she was using.
Following this, she nipped at the air with her needle. Like a fisherman trying to catch shrimps with a hand net. As her hand moved across the space, the hand net searching through the water, a white and shining thread emerged. From nothing, wearing nothing, Naome had produced a luminous strand of thread which she weaved into the brown carpet horizontally.
Like this the hours ticked by, but I did not notice. She would send her needle through the air, scooping up some invisible thread that only became visible once she had caught it. Then she weaved it into her carpet – in lack of better words, I did not really know what she was weaving.
Occasionally, she would avert her gaze from the weave - without halting the process. She looked on the wall in front of her, where now a painting of sorts hung. I could not make out the details of it, the painting was concealed by the darkness in the corner of the room, but I could clearly see the frame. What painting was it? Was she copying that? Using it as a template to work out of?
The remainder of the night passed by like this, with my head perched on my hand and my eyes resting on Naome. She continued in the gaze of the moonshine, not freezing even though all naked. After a while, the image – which is what I called her weave product – grew tighter, more filled. The strange thing was that I could not see what she was making. I mean, I saw the weave and her image but the details kept moving about. Like the darkness sent the details fluttering about, aiming to mislead me, trying to keep me from knowing the portrait, pattern or details of the image. Staring at it - I was resolved to know - the forms and shapes shifted about restlessly. After a while, my eyes grew tired and my head began to ache – so I looked back on Naome instead.
Naome stopped. Looked at the image with hard eyes. Then, without any second thought, she began plucking the strings from the image. Unweaving almost a night's work. Thread after thread was taken one by one and laid back in the oak box. What is this?
By now, the pollen had drifted across the room in tacit unison with the moonlight. Day was about to dawn and she had finished - Just as she had begun.
Footsteps came about, the door to my bedroom did not open, but frequent and light footsteps trudged easily out from somewhere in the darkness. Then, a figure emerged from the darkness and into the moonlight - another figure shortly behind.
Small creatures, tinier than the box and more multious than the strings in it made their way across the room. Like the image, these too had a clear frame. I saw the contours of their body, but the details remained vague. They were clearly not for me to see. Their eyes, their limbs and feature moved about in a constant blur. Even today I'm not sure of what exactly I saw that night, nor what it was.
All I could make out was that the creatures grabbed the box, five of them was needed to carry it. Did they have hands? Then they spun around on their heels and marched out like a platoon, carefully drilled.
Naome rose, turned to the window and rested on the windowsill. There she remained for the night.
I watched her lit up by the peculiar moon as it gave way to the sun. Her body, her aura, her hair. That's it, the thread was hair! Brown Hair! I realized.
I tried to say something, but what could I say? As the sun filtered through the edge of the window, Naome turned her head and stared right at me. Her gaze rendered incapassitated. There was something in it, something I could not tell, like the image or the creatures. Was it sadness? Joy? Hope? Despair? I did not know.
Her figure disappeared as the sun obliterated the moonlight. And like that she was gone again.
