Category: stories

we drive to the new bridge that separates starwood from greenville, the nearest town. the twinkling lights of greenville shine in the distance, beckoning us to indulge in its numerous casinos, bars and nightclubs. behind us, starwood lay quiet and silent, brooding in the cold winter night.

starwood’s claim to fame is being the one town in america where you can see the most stars in the night sky. first, it’s graced with clear night skies on most days. also, our town fathers have tried to hold on to this distinction by reducing light pollution, forsaking modern streetlights for soft oil lamps, and prohibiting the use of lights above 40 watts throughout the town. at night, anybody can step outside their door and see the whole sky lit brilliantly with millions of stars, sometimes interrupted by the twinkle of a passing airplane.

the epicentre of star-gazing, however, is the old bridge, which hasn’t been rebuilt since it collapsed in a storm twelve years ago. set about 2 miles outside the town, it’s a short road that ends abruptly and drops into the nothingness below. it’s become the prime tourist area during the season and the most intimate lover’s lane in the off-season.

rachel knocks on my door at seven pm and tells me she wants to go on a drive. we haven’t been too close since we came to high school, our interests having diverged in the past two two years. but tonight she’s strangely subdued, and says she wants my company. i don’t argue.

we drive out to the new bridge, which is her idea. i don’t mind, because the crowd at the old bridge is sometimes a bit too much to bear. we park by the bridge and sit on the railings, letting our legs dangle over the treacherous depths to the river deep down below. although its winter and prime stargazing season, the bridge is empty – all the tourists having flooded in to the old bridge area and the town before sunset.

by 9 pm the tourists will reverse their journey over the bridge, seeking refuge for the night in the comfortable lights of greenville instead of in our single lonely and mostly empty motel. i’ve noticed that most tourists can’t take too much of the dim lights of starwood for any period of time – rather, they prefer the constant stream of comfortable 80 watt bulbs that greenville offers.

rachel, bathed in the glow of distant neon emanating from greenville, tells me she hates starwood, and wants to get out. she’s been thinking about living amongst the lights, she says, and can’t wait to graduate from high school and get out of here.

i’ve thought about it too, but i’ve come to realize that the lights are not for me. greenville always seems a little too bright. in spite of the multiple attractions, there’s always just a bit too much light. the one time i went to a restaurant in greenville, i got a severe headache, and my eyes had a really hard time focusing. i had to be driven home because i couldn’t see well enough to drive myself.

i ask rachel why she suddenly wants to leave. not too many people ever actually end up leaving starwood, probably for the same reasons. they work in other places, in the big cities and the factories and the banks and everything, but every night, before nightfall, they make sure they are back home in the confines of starwood.

rachel says nothing. she doesn’t stare at greenville; rather, she stares down at the river coursing below us. she’s quiet, but i think i see a tear running softly down her cheek, quietly refracting the distant neon of greenville. we haven’t spoken to each other much in the past two years, and, to be honest, i didn’t think we ever would. i had come to terms with us having drifted apart, and had moved on myself. but clearly something had drawn her back to her childhood friend. i know rachel well enough to know that she would eventually tell me what was bothering her, when she felt comfortable enough to, and that no amount of goading would get it out of her.

we sit silently on the bridge railings, listening to the river softly flow below us. the only other sound is the hum of greenville’s lights, which, on still nights, can seem so loud as to seem like some giant insect buzzing just outside our town.

another tear slides down rachel’s cheek. i don’t know if i’m brave enough to reach over and wipe it off, and don’t even have the courage to try.

rachel tells me about how she was raped one evening on the edge of town. she tells me how she couldn’t identify her attacker because it was too dark to see him, and how he grabbed her mouth and held her down. she tells me about how she tried to fight him off, but how he was too heavy.

rachel tells me about how every dark shadow cast by the oil street lamps scares her, and how she fears another attack. she tells me how the dark shapes of pedestrians walking the streets all look to her like the attacker himself, returning for more. she tells me how she’s now afraid of even the shadows cast by the dim light in her house, and how she savors every moment of daylight like it’s her last day on earth. she tells me how she’s going to run away soon, into the comforting arms of the bright lights of greenville.

rachel becomes strangely quiet after pouring her heart out to me. we listen to the river and the lights for a little while more before i drive her home again. we’re both quiet in the car on the drive back. i say good night to her, but i know it’s more of a goodbye.

all of a sudden, greenville’s lights don’t seem that bright anymore, and i can no longer hear their persistent buzz.

*******

a very rough draft, but, by golly, it’s the first story i’ve written in a year and a half! comments etc. highly appreciated.

i originally wrote this story on august 23, 2005, but wasn’t happy with the way it turned out at all. i’ve always thought of rewriting it, but never actually got around to it till now.

some of the standard disclaimers from the previous version still apply, and so here they are again.

• before i get bombed to hell and back for putting the azan in a story so rife with sin, i just want to say that the azan is in that story for two fundamental reasons:
  a. to serve as an indicator of the passage of time. this is actually a story that happens in a really short duration, but it doesn’t seem that way because of the initial flashbacks, and
  b. because the sound of the azan is one of the most beautiful sounds on the planet, and i wanted to include it in at least one of my stories.
• this particular story is the culmination and combination of five completely different story ideas that i had running around in my skull.
• this was the first story i wrote set in bangladesh.
• i’ve put the names back in this edition.

**********************************************

(allahu akbar, allahu akbar)

the first dulcet strains of the muezzin’s azan reminded us of how late we were. the evening prayers had begun, and spending more time at our neighborhood dhaba meant that we would be caught goofing off by our fathers as they walked to the neighborhood mosque. gourav and quamrul haggled with the shopkeeper, arguing about how many cups of tea we had consumed, and how many cigarettes we had smoked, while farhad and i silently came up with a set of excuses for the parents when they berated us for coming home late again. we picked up our bookbags from their convenient resting places on the dusty road at our feet and headed homewards, walking against the swelling tide of people, bedecked in their panjabis and topis as they headed to the mosque for the evening prayers.

(allahu akbar, allahu akbar)

about 200 yards down from the dhaba is the corner where the street farhad and i live on branches off from the main road. we bid our farewells to gourav and quamrul at the corner, as they lived another block down, and took the dark, quiet alley that led to what had been our homes for our entire lives.

the road i live on curves slightly to the right at its very end, and on this curve, on opposite sides of the street, are farhad and my houses. we’d grown up opposite each other – one of my first memories is of standing on our second floor verandah aged two, looking across the street at farhad standing in his garden, looking at me. we had been considered too young to actually cross the street and play with each other. while our road is too narrow for cars, the brisk rickshaw traffic during the day can be dangerous to toddlers.

still, over the next two years, until we turned four and were allowed to visit each other by crossing the street with our hands grasped tightly by our mothers, we became best friends, despite the fact that we never met, never talked, and were always separated by a six-foot road jam-packed with rickshaws. there was some level of communication between us, even though not a word was spoken over those two years. when we finally did meet, at farhad’s fourth birthday party, farhad gave me a look, in response to my embarassed “happy birthday”, that seemed to say, “well, okay then.”

and that was an accurate portrayal of farhad, to tell the truth. he was generally the most collected person i had ever met, someone who seemed to be unfazed by the world and everything in it, someone who could be touched by tragedy yet seem like nothing had ever happened before. his maternal grandmother lived with them and passed away when he was six, and suddenly their house was flooded by a wave of grieving relatives who seemed so lost in their grief that they didn’t notice the fact that farhad, who had been his grandma’s favorite grandchild, seemed to stand out in their sea of tears, not smiling or laughing or crying or displaying any emotion whatsoever, but instead letting out a deep breath every once in a while, as if every breath was an exhalation of grief instead of air.

(ash-hadu allah ilaha illallah, ash-hadu allah ilaha illaha)

we walked past the gate of the local school, where, every morning, the throng of parents that had arrived to drop off their children was only matched by the multitude of beggars who had congregated there in search of alms. farhad, gourav, quamrul and i had all been students of the school at the primary level, and when we graduated into our middle school years, the four of us applied for and got into the same secondary school. our friendship was born in elementary school and had weathered the tumult of adolescence, but we had still somehow remained friends.

farhad and i were a different matter altogether. the two of us were thick as thieves, to the point that our families had to take vacations together – to places that seemed exotic and far away back then: cox’s bazar, shillong, darjeeling – because the two of were so uncooperative that we refused to be apart. the parents joked that we were getting our revenge on them for keeping us separated for those two fragile years, and they had slowly and grudgingly come to terms with it. when we were eleven or twelve years old, i would often tag along to his family functions, as he would to mine.

our families might have been completely different, but we were almost the same. farhad’s father was the youngest son of a rich nawab who flagrantly spent his money on creature comforts, leaving his children with little except his name. his mother, however, was the daughter of a rich industrialist, who, even at a very old age, was still going strong. after many years spent flitting from job to job, farhad’s father finally buckled his pride down and accepted a job at his father-in-law’s organization, yet was not educated or skilled enough to move too far up the ladder. his meager income was barely enough to keep them alive, but at least he owned the house they lived in. my parents, on the other hand, were both descended from rich families who had conserved their wealth, and my father was now the proprietor of his father’s industry. we had never left our house in the alley, because father always said that he had grown up in that house, and the memories he held were too precious to let go. my cousins all lived in palatial mansions in the posh areas, yet we were happy enough in our little alley, never even considering moving out.

as we grew up, people said we would slowly drift apart as we discovered our own separate interests. we did discover things we didn’t have in common – farhad started playing the guitar, and joined a short-lived rock band, while i discovered photography. in the beginning, we hardly saw each other in the afternoons. he was off jamming with his band, whereas i was holed up in the dark room that my father had had constructed especially for me, developing the pictures i had taken during the day. but in the evenings, farhad and i always made it a point to meet each other, and recount in glorious detail every single event that had happened during the day. he listened while i droned on about the rickshaw-puller that i had photographed sleeping soundly under the hood of his rickshaw in the searing heat, and made it a point to look at every single picture i had taken and tell me what he thought. meanwhile, i hung on every single word that he uttered about his jamming sessions, cursing the notes that he had messed up, or playing me the new song that they had composed. gourav and quamrul, who had discovered drugs and girls respectively, hardly ever joined us for these evening chats.

in time, farhad’s rock band split up, and he began to spend more time with me, following me around as i took pictures of our world around us, and giving me a helping hand in the dark room. after we passed our matriculation exams in class 10, we started hanging out at the dhaba, drinking tea, smoking cigarettes and chatting about everything and anything we could think of. as we headed slowly towards our intermediate exams, gourav and quamrul, who had shown up infrequently, joined us at the tea-vendor’s stall as well, as it was a convenient point for us to meet between our private tuition sessions.

(ash-hadu anna muhammadur rasul allah, ash-hadu anna muhammadur rasul allah)

tonight, farhad and i walked slowly down the alley. we were surrounded on all sides by brick and concrete structures that had not changed since we were children, except for a fresh coat of paint here and there, and that had survived the rapid modernization of the city, since nobody wanted to build an apartment in an alley that cars couldn’t traverse. i noticed that farhad had been unusually quiet all day long. usually, farhad, being the witty one among the four of us, dished out the insults and the jokes at the expense of gourav, quamrul and i, but all of today, he had been on the receiving end. he hadn’t laughed at all at any of our jokes, and had not contributed to the chatter much, instead letting gourav blabber on about the ganja he had bought that had blown his mind, and letting quamrul mourn his latest relationship that had failed. i had known something was bothering him, but i didn’t want to bring it up in front of gourav and quamrul, figuring that he might want to share it with me alone.

“dosto,” i asked finally, unable to bear the silence that had borne down upon us, “what’s wrong with you? you’ve been down all evening,” i ventured.

he stopped suddenly and looked at me, giving me a searching glance. “i don’t think i can tell you,” he said, before he started walking again.

that, alone, was enough to shock me. we hadn’t hidden anything from each other, ever. when farhad lost his virginity to a star-struck girl he didn’t really like, he told only me about it; likewise, i had shared with him the details of each of my family’s problems, my fears, my hopes, my desires. the fact that he was not willing to share whatever was on his mind with me was something i had not even considered.

(haiya alas swala, haiya alas swala)

“come on, bhai, you know you can trust me. whatever it is, if it’s really bothering you, as your best friend i have a right to know.”

farhad stopped and gave me another of those long searching looks. in the dim light that emanated from the houses we stood in front of, i could see a mixture of emotions in his eyes (love, hate, anger, sadness, betrayal), and i noticed for the first time that he seemed haunted by some distant fear. i realized that he was afraid not of what he knew, but of telling me. i was even more intrigued. i saw a flicker in his eyes – the same flicker i had seen right before he had been worn down by my pestering and told me about the girl. i decided to go in for the kill.

“come on, man, tell me,” i insisted.

“my parents are getting a divorce,” he began.

(haiya alal fala, haiya alal fala)

that was news to me. his parents had always seemed to have an amicable relationship. in fact, i’d never even seen them argue, and farhad had never told me about them fighting. “what? why?” i wondered.

farhad took a deep breath and let it out. “i found out last night,” he said, instead of replying to my question, “i didn’t know about it either. i overheard them fighting, and i hated both of them.” another deep breath, before the words started flowing out.

“my father’s been seeing someone else. he’s going to marry her, and he doesn’t want to be with us anymore. he doesn’t love us anymore.”

(allahu akbar, allahu akbar)

“what?” i nearly yelled. “that’s crazy, man. i’ve known your father for years, and i know he loves you a lot.”

farhad looked me straight in the eye as he spoke. “i heard him say it himself.”

“that’s crazy,” i reiterated. farhad’s eyes had me locked in their grip, and i was having a hard time breaking out of it. there was no way this could be true. and yet, the look in farhad’s eyes told me that he wasn’t making any of it up. “so what’s going to happen?” i asked. “is he going to move out?”

“no,” said farhad. “we’re leaving. he’s not leaving us with anything. we’re going to be moving back to chittagong to live with my uncle.”

and that’s when i realized why farhad hadn’t told me by himself about this, and why i had to drag it out of him. he didn’t want me to know that he was leaving, so i wouldn’t be hurt. but i hated him more – he was my best friend, and the closest thing i had to a brother, and he was leaving me.

the conflicting emotions nearly bowled me over. my love for farhad and the hate i felt for him for leaving; the desire to help him and support him now in his time of need, and the need to push him away for betraying me; the thought of what i’d do to him if he was making all this up. “when?” i managed to croak.

i saw a tear run down farhad’s cheek, glinting in the semi-darkness that lingered outside our gates. i knew then that he wasn’t lying about any of it. i had never seen him cry before, not once. “soon,” he said. “i didn’t want to tell you, dosto, i really didn’t. i’m sorry.” he looked down at the road, trying to hide the tears that were now flowing down freely.

in retrospect, i know now that i should have stayed back, talk to him, support him, comfort him. but i felt betrayed – i was about to lose the best friend i ever had, and i couldn’t forgive him for it, even though it wasn’t his fault. and so i ran freed from the spell that his eyes had cast upon me, i was no longer rooted to the spot. i ran into my house as fast as my legs could carry me, not stopping to answer my parents’ questions about where i was and what was wrong. i didn’t stop running until i reached my room.

(la ilaha illallah)

it never rains in our street during the night. i know that for a fact, because i’ve stayed up many nights waiting for it to rain so that i can take the perfect picture of the glowing streetlight in the rain.

but that night, it poured.

and i stood on my second floor verandah, staring at the spot in the garden across the street where, fifteen years ago, i had first seen the person who would become the best friend i had ever had.

this time there was nobody standing there looking up at me.

**********************************************

this time around, this story is about divorce and infidelity in the context of bangladesh, where it’s become a growing and more prominent phenomenon in the last few years. specifically, it’s about divorce impacts children and told from the perspective of a third party who isn’t directly affected, but is still too innocent to understand the implications and react accordingly. after all the narrator’s still a child, and we are all inherently selfish.

i lay in bed, staring at the patterns drawn on the wall by the headlights of cars passing on the road below. she lay in between my arm and my body, her shoulder biting into my armpit, her head resting somewhere between my shoulder and my chest, crying softly. she was crying so softly, in fact, that i hadn’t noticed until i felt the dampness on my chest. i pulled up her face to my mine and kissed her longingly, trying my best to put out whatever fire burned in her eyes and gave rise to those tears. she kissed me back, with a hunger that i hadn’t experienced before.

“what’s wrong?” i asked. “did i hurt you?”

“no,” she replied, “it’s just that…nevermind.”

“tell me,” i said, wiping away the tears from her eye with the hand that wasn’t pinned under her. “you know i can’t stand it when people don’t tell me things.”

she smiled. “it’s just that i never imagined anyone could ever love me again.” she said, her smile not doing a good job hiding the pain and hurt that had come to the surface.

what was there for me to say to that? i bet even you couldn’t come up with an appropriate reply. so all i did was hold her tighter to my body, and pray that the silence that had descended upon us was one of those that countless authors describe as comfortable.

* ** * ** *

i’d told many girls i loved them – mostly so that they’d say it back to me, and with that assurance in mind, i could begin the arduous task of pushing them away. the process seemed to work extremely well – by the time some poor unfortunate girl had gotten around to getting to know me well enough to tell me she loved me, i had gotten to know her well enough to realize that, no matter how amazing and perfect she was, she wasn’t the one i was looking for. who was i looking for, you wonder? i’m not absolutely certain myself. it was much easier to label someone as not the one than to figure out what would make someone the one.

this time, however, i had come across something completely different. i’d told her i loved her an hour ago, and already i was feeling the familiar pangs (push her away, hurt her, insult her, get rid of her). but something kept pulling me towards her at the same time. i was caught in a frantic tug of war between these two forces, and i wasn’t certain which one i should succumb to.

* ** * ** *

i had met her at the psychiatrist’s office – my second home, my confessional – where i vented all my emotions and was absolved for having them in the first place. i’d been going to see the doctor for almost four years – he would have told me that my mind was perfectly fine four years ago, had i not meant some extra money in his pocket each week. over those four years, the number of people with psychological problems seemed to multiply exponentially, and i spent longer and longer hours in the waiting room waiting for my turn. i had learnt long ago to take a good book with me to pass the time, much to the consternation of the other people waiting, who could barely contain their inquisitiveness as to what i was reading. when i try and remember my sessions now i can’t remember dates, but rather i remember what book i was reading that week, and what the people sitting next to me said about the book.

somewhere between rushdie (evil satanist, said the schizophrenic under his breath) and asimov (useless trash, wisely proclaimed the father of the drug addict with a maze of needle marks covering the insides of his arms), she walked in to my life. she was shrouded in a black anonymous burkha, and i took no notice. i sat up and started to take notice, however, when she dug out a kafka book from her bag and started to read.

how cliched is that, i asked myself. reading kafka in a psychiatrist’s waiting room. perhaps next week she’ll bring in some freud while waiting for her appointment.

it wasn’t her appointment, however. as i learned later, she’d come in with her mother, who was undergoing counseling for some anonymous ailment.

if one person reading a book was strange, two apparently were normal. people stopped taking notice of our avid reading week after week. eventually she finished with kafka and moved on to hemingway. and then to salinger.

i stopped counting weeks according to what i was reading. instead, i started keeping track of the weeks according to what she was reading.

* ** * ** *

after salinger came vikram seth, the beginning of her south asian fiction phase. throughout weeks of jhumpa lahiri and arundhati roy and hanif kureishi, i often found myself sitting opposite her, with my book perched on my lap solely for the purpose of camouflage. what i was really interested in, however, was her eyes – the only part of her that i could see – particularly the way her eyes skimmed through the pages of the book, the way they sometimes reflected joy, and sometimes sadness, and sometimes anger. i had read the books myself years ago, yet i found myself reliving each and every chapter through her eyes.

several times she caught me looking at her, at which point i quickly pretended to be engrossed in my own book for a few seconds, before returning to watching her. it took me several months of this delicate subterfuge to get up the nerve to talk to her.

one day, fed up at the interminable wait, i decided to get myself a cup of coffee at the nearby cafe. sure that she would reject my offer outright, i asked her if she was interested in a cup, too – her mother had gone in for what seemed a year’s supply of counselling. to my surprise, she agreed, and we made our way quietly to the cafe.

i was at a loss at what to talk about. but she led the conversation. “how’s forsyth,” she asked, much to my confusion.

“who?”

“frederick forsyth, the author of the book you’re reading.”

“oh. good. i think.”

“which part of the book are you up to?”

“the…uh…part where…uh…the terrorist runs into the hero,” i fabricated.

she laughed, too polite to tell me that that never happens in this forsyth novel. “you aren’t concentrating on the novel much are you?”

“no,” i admitted, and our conversation took on a life of its own and proceeded from there.

soon it became a weekly ritual. i fidgeted anxiously for her mother to be called in for her session – she didn’t know about our burgeoning friendship yet, and was not to be told. and then we’d go off and have coffee and talk about everything and anything. after a couple of weeks of this, i stopped going in for my sessions; instead, i’d just go to the doctor’s office so that i could go out for coffee with her.

* ** * ** *

as she slept quietly nestled in my arms, i found myself tracing the scar across her body with my finger tip. from the first time she had shown me her face, i had been entranced by the scar she bore: black turned to white, night turned to day, evil transformed itself to good. my gaze was always drawn to the boundary between the two opposing forces – the no man’s land where black was white, dark met light, night segued into day and evil became good. this had always confused her – instead of being appalled by the grotesque (her word) remnant of what had happened to her, i seemed entranced by it. she had shown me her face in an effort to get me to understand that she wasn’t normal (her word again), and that my intense interest was being wasted on her.

seems like i’m not the only one who’s good at pushing others away.

but it was too late. i’d seen too much of her in her eyes and through that thick black burkha to care what lay directly beneath it. i was more interested and attracted to what lay further down, in her soul, in her consciousness, in her very being to be pushed away by a scar.

with my finger, i traced the scar down her face, down her neck, through the delicate valley of her shoulders, and down to her arms, where it slowly petered out.

* ** * ** *

when she was 12 years old, a guy in her village fell in love with her. when she refused to marry him, he got his revenge by throwing acid on her face, so that he could take away her beauty and so that nobody else would marry her. this was, of course, after he raped her.

i wanted to go to her village and find the guy. just to tell him that he couldn’t do what he set out to – could never do it in fact. he’d never be able to take away her true beauty – it was hidden too well within her soul for that to ever happen. what he had taken away from her with that acid attack was her innocence, and that was something he had no right to take away.

* ** * ** *

no matter how i tried, sleep would not come. my head had begun throbbing, and so i got up softly, making sure the sudden movement did not disturb her sleep. i walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and have a quick smoke on the verandah.

as the distant noise of traffic floated to me through the nigh, i stood caught in a crossfire of conflicting emotions – should i push her away? should i let her stay? should i tell her, good lord, should i tell her?

the only reason i hadn’t pushed her away yet, i realized, was because some part of me was truly convinced that she was the fabled one, the person i’d been waiting for. this had caused the rest of me to be in severe confusion – what if she is the one, and i lose the one thing i’ve been waiting for all my life?

* ** * ** *

“you never tell me anything about you,” she opined in the cafe one week. this was a few weeks after she’d thrown off the veil in an attempt to shock me, but was rewarded with awe instead.

“what do you mean? i’ve told you tons of things.”

“yes, but most of it isn’t about you, it’s about other people. that doesn’t count.”

“well, what do you want to know?” i asked.

“let’s see,” she said, before lapsing into silent thought. suddenly, she asked, “why did you start going to the psychiatrist?”

“i once thought i was depressed, but i realized i was just tired.”

“of what?”

“of everything.”

“so why did you stop going?” she asked, the smile on her face betraying the fact that she knew the answer.

“let’s just say i found a better way to spend the time.” i smiled back.

* ** * ** *

the first sign of dawn in this great city is the cawing of the crows. as they woke up to greet the morning with their angry chatter, the throbbing in my head intensified, as if something else had awakened as well, to the point where i had to grab hold of the railing to stay upright.

i went back to the bedroom. she lay on the bed, blissfully asleep, bathed in the neon glow of the streetlight outside. i sat on the edge of the bed, watching her, trying to overcome this confusion that seemed ready to tear me apart?

as the neon glow bathing her body was steadily replaced by the first rays of the morning sun, i came to a decision – this was one person i wasn’t going to push away, no matter what. i just couldn’t afford it. i also couldn’t afford to hurt her either – she’d been through enough pain and punishment in her life, for something that wasn’t even her fault, for me to add to that.

her eyes fluttered and opened, the remnants of sleep still visible, as a smile stole across her face when she saw me sitting there watching her. she sat up and gave me a kiss that told me in a heartbeat that i had made the right decision, and pulled me back in to bed.

after we were finished and she was back resting in my arms, i told her i loved her. and this time, the first time, i felt no desire to push her away.

maybe one day i’ll tell her why i was depressed and went to the psychiatrist in the first place.

or maybe i’ll wait the four more months until this cancer kills me – then she’ll definitely know.

* ** * ** *

apologies if that was awful. i wrote it for two reasons: it was stuck inside my head, dying to come out, and also because i wanted to make sure i could still write. it’s been almost a year since my last story.

prufrock, under the impression that i could write, tagged me to write short stories of less than 55 words. clearly he hasn’t read my stories.

anyway, here’s my humble contribution. all five of them are exactly 55 words long.

smell
the heady scent of chicken tikka masala fills the air. all around are the resonant beats of bengali, mixed up with the odd accent of the native thrill-seekers who have come to sample “indian” cuisine.

this is not me, i tell myself, as i turn away from this pretend home. where then do i belong?

sight
the last thing he saw before he died was the gun drop from her elegant hands. the barrel, still smoking, lay inches away, the cold, wet fingers of his spreading blood rushing towards it.

she pried the winning lottery ticket from his tight grip, and walked away, pausing only to put her clothes back on.

taste
he could still taste her on his lips, could still feel her hungry mouth clamped over his. “i’m hungry,” she had said, “get me some food and i’ll make your dreams come true.”

with only thoughts of her in mind as he rushed across the street, he didn’t see the bus speeding in his direction.

sound
everything i am, i am because of you, sang the musician up on stage, nearly drowned out by the fans singing along.

he searched for her, finally spying her about twenty seats away. for a second, she turned to look at him, and from the look in her eyes, he knew she felt the same.

touch
fumbling along in the dark, her hand closed on something that felt cold and wet, something that did not belong.

“turn on the damn light,” she yelled, and when the initial sense of blindness went away, she saw she was holding her fiance’s severed hand, the ring still on the finger.

she started to scream.

*******************

well, i’m certain those sucked. that’s what you get for giving me a word limit, damn it.

i tag photoholic, poet and scribbles, the best young bangladeshi writer i have ever read.

(allahu akbar, allahu akbar)

the first dulcet strains of the muezzin’s azan reminded us of how late we were. the evening prayers had begun, and spending more time at our neighborhood dhaba meant that we would be caught goofing off by our fathers as they walked to the neighborhood mosque. g and q haggled with the shopkeeper, arguing about how many cups of tea we had consumed, and how many cigarettes we had smoked, while f and i silently came up with a set of excuses for the parents when they berated us for coming home late again. we picked up our bookbags from their convenient resting places on the dusty road at our feet and headed homewards, walking against the swelling tide of people, bedecked in their panjabis and topis as they headed to the mosque for the evening prayers.

(allahu akbar, allahu akbar)

about 200 yards down from the dhaba is the corner where the street f and i live on branches off from the main road. we bid our farewells to g and q at the corner, as they lived another block down, and took the dark, quiet alley that led to what had been our homes for our entire lives.

the road i live on curves slightly to the right at its very end, and on this curve, on opposite sides of the street, are f and my houses. we’d grown up opposite each other – one of my first memories is of standing on our second floor verandah aged two, looking across the street at f standing in his garden, looking at me. we had been considered too young to actually cross the street and play with each other. while our road is too narrow for cars, the brisk rickshaw traffic during the day can be dangerous to toddlers.

still, over the next two years, until we turned four and were allowed to visit each other by crossing the street with our hands grasped tightly by our mothers, we became best friends, despite the fact that we never met, never talked, and were always separated by a six-foot road jam-packed with rickshaws. there was some level of communication between us, even though not a word was spoken over those two years. when we finally did meet, at f’s fourth birthday party, f gave me a look, in response to my embarassed “happy birthday”, that seemed to say, “well, okay then.”

and that was an accurate portrayal of f, to tell the truth. he was generally the most collected person i had ever met, someone who seemed to be unfazed by the world and everything in it, someone who could be touched by tragedy yet seem like nothing had ever happened before. his maternal grandmother lived with them and passed away when he was six, and suddenly their house was flooded by a wave of grieving relatives who seemed so lost in their grief that they didn’t notice the fact that f, who had been his grandma’s favorite grandchild, seemed to stand out in their sea of tears, not smiling or laughing or crying or displaying any emotion whatsoever, but instead letting out a deep breath every once in a while, as if every breath was an exhalation of grief instead of air.

(ash-hadu allah ilaha illallah, ash-hadu allah ilaha illaha)

we walked past the gate of the local school, where, every morning, the throng of parents that had arrived to drop off their children was only matched by the multitude of beggars who had congregated there in search of alms. f, g, q and i had all been students of the school at the primary level, and when we graduated into our middle school years, the four of us applied for and got into the same secondary school. our friendship was born in elementary school and had weathered the tumult of adolescence, but we had still somehow remained friends.

f and i were a different matter altogether. the two of us were thick as thieves, to the point that our families had to take vacations together – to places that seemed exotic and far away back then: cox’s bazar, shillong, darjeeling – because the two of were so uncooperative that we refused to be apart. the parents joked that we were getting our revenge on them for keeping us separated for those two fragile years, and they had slowly and grudgingly come to terms with it. when we were eleven or twelve years old, i would often tag along to his family functions, as he would to mine.

our families might have been completely different, but we were almost the same. f’s father was the youngest son of a rich nawab who flagrantly spent his money on creature comforts, leaving his children with little except his name. f’s mother, however, was the daughter of a rich industrialist, who, even at a very old age, was still going strong. after many years spent flitting from job to job, f’s father finally buckled his pride down and accepted a job at his father-in-law’s organization, yet was not educated or skilled enough to move too far up the ladder. his meager income was barely enough to keep them alive, but at least he owned the house they lived in. my parents, on the other hand, were both descended from rich families who had conserved their wealth, and my father was now the proprietor of his father’s industry. we had never left our house in the alley, because father always said that he had grown up in that house, and the memories he held were too precious to let go. my cousins all lived in palatial mansions in the posh areas, yet we were happy enough in our little alley, never even considering moving out.

as f and i grew up, people said we would slowly drift apart as we discovered our own separate interests. we did discover things we didn’t have in common – f started playing the guitar, and joined a short-lived rock band, while i discovered photography. in the beginning, we hardly saw each other in the afternoons. f was off jamming with his band, whereas i was holed up in the dark room that my father had had constructed especially for me, developing the pictures i had taken during the day. but in the evenings, f and i always made it a point to meet each other, and recount in glorious detail every single event that had happened during the day. f listened while i droned on about the rickshaw-puller that i had photographed sleeping soundly under the hood of his rickshaw in the searing heat, and made it a point to look at every single picture i had taken and tell me what he thought. meanwhile, i hung on every single word that he uttered about his jamming sessions, cursing the notes that he had messed up, or playing me the new song that they had composed. g and q, who had discovered drugs and girls respectively, hardly ever joined us for these evening chats.

in time, f’s rock band split up, and he began to spend more time with me, following me around as i took pictures of our world around us, and giving me a helping hand in the dark room. after we passed our matriculation exams in class 10, we started hanging out at the dhaba, drinking tea, smoking cigarettes and chatting about everything and anything we could think of. as we headed slowly towards our intermediate exams, g and q, who had shown up infrequently, joined us at the tea-vendor’s stall as well, as it was a convenient point for us to meet between our private tuition sessions.

(ash-hadu anna muhammadur rasul allah, ash-hadu anna muhammadur rasul allah)

tonight, f and i walked slowly down the alley, we were surrounded on all sides by brick and concrete structures that had not changed since we were children, except for a fresh coat of paint here and there, and that had survived the rapid modernization of the city, since nobody wanted to build an apartment in an alley that cars couldn’t traverse. i noticed that f had been unusually quiet all day long. usually, f, being the witty one among the four of us, dished out the insults and the jokes at the expense of g, q and i, but all of today, he had been on the receiving end. he hadn’t laughed at all at any of our jokes, and had not contributed to the chatter much, instead letting g blabber on about the ganja he had bought that had blown his mind, and letting q mourn his latest relationship that had failed. i had known something was bothering him, but i didn’t want to bring it up in front of g and q, figuring that he might want to share it with me alone.

“dosto,” i asked finally, unable to bear the silence that had borne down upon us, “what’s wrong with you? you’ve been down all evening,” i ventured.

he stopped suddenly and looked at me, giving me a searching glance. “i don’t think i can tell you,” he said, before he started walking again.

that, alone, was enough to shock me. we hadn’t hidden anything from each other, ever. when an uncle of mine was found butchered in his home, and the maid was hauled off to jail to serve a life sentence, i told only f the real story – that he had been cheating on my aunt with the maid, and my aunt had gone crazy one evening and stabbed him to death, framing the maid. when f lost his virginity to a star-struck girl he didn’t really like, he told only me about it. the fact that he was not willing to share whatever was on his mind with me was something i had not even considered.

(haiya alas swala, haiya alas swala)

“come on, bhai, you know you can trust me. whatever it is, if it’s really bothering you, as your best friend i have a right to know.”

f stopped and gave me another of those long searching looks. in the dim light that emanated from the houses we stood in front of, i could see a mixture of emotions in his eyes (love, hate, anger, sadness, betrayal), and i noticed for the first time that he seemed haunted by some distant fear. i realized that he was afraid not of what he knew, but of telling me. i was even more intrigued. i saw a flicker in his eyes – the same flicker i had seen right before he had been worn down by my pestering and told me about the girl. i decided to go in for the kill.

“come on, man, tell me,” i insisted.

i could see his resistance to the idea crumbling. “your father was at our house last night. with abbu. they were arguing loudly.” he began

(haiya alal fala, haiya alal fala)

that was news to me. our fathers had no reason to fight – they had always been amiable towards each other, two men who had been forced to converse because their children were best friends. “what about?” i wondered.

f took a deep breath and let it out. “you won’t like this,” he warned, “i didn’t. i overheard, and i hated both of them.” another deep breath, before the words started flowing out.

“when we went to cox’s bazar seven years ago,” he began, “your mother…” he caught the warning flicker in my eyes as he mentioned my mother. “your mother…” he continued, “seduced my father and they had an affair.”

(allahu akbar, allahu akbar)

“what?” i nearly yelled. “that’s crazy, man. why would my mother do that?”

f looked me straight in the eye as he spoke. “it was your abba’s plan. he made her do it so he could blackmail my dad for the rest of his life. abbu’s been paying off your dad for the past seven years, so that he won’t tell ammu.”

“that’s crazy,” i reiterated. f’s eyes had me locked in their grip, and i was having a hard time breaking out of it. there was no way this could be true. my father definitely didn’t need the money, so why would he do something like that? and yet, the look in f’s eyes told me that he wasn’t making any of it up.

the conflicting emotions nearly bowled me over. love for my parents and revulsion if this were true; my love for f and the hate i felt for him if he were making it up; the shock of hearing about the sins of the man i worshipped and confusion about why f would invent this sort of far-fetched idea. “why?” i managed to croak.

“back then, abba had just joined dada’s firm,” f said, his eyes now holding me stronger, locking me in place, so that i could not run away from him. “your father thought that he would make it to the upper ranks of the organization, and would eventually sign the company over to your father, in exchange for his silence. that way your father could unite the two largest companies in the sector under himself. but abba never made it, and he’s got no money left to pay him off, so that’s why your father was screaming at him. he threatened…” f gulped and took a deep breath. “he threatened to tell amma so she would leave him, which would mean that dadu would fire abba, and he would be ruined completely.”

i saw a tear run down f’s cheek, glinting in the semi-darkness that lingered outside our gates. i knew then that he wasn’t lying about any of it. i had never seen f cry before, not once. “i didn’t want to tell you, dosto, i really didn’t. i’m sorry.” he looked down at the road, trying to hide the tears that were now flowing down freely.

freed from the spell that his eyes had cast upon me, i was no longer rooted to the spot. i ran into my house as fast as my legs could carry me, not stopping to answer my parents’ questions about where i was and what was wrong, not knowing if i could ever face them again, now that i knew what i knew about them. i didn’t stop running until i reached my room.

(la ilaha illallah)

it never rains in our street during the night. i know that for a fact, because i’ve stayed up many nights waiting for it to rain so that i can take the perfect picture of the glowing streetlight in the rain. but that night, it poured.

and i stood on my second floor verandah, staring at the spot in the garden across the street where, fifteen years ago, i had first seen the person who would become the best friend i had ever had. this time there was nobody standing there looking up at me.

**********************

dear readers,

before i get bombed to hell and back for putting the azan in a story so rife with sin, i just want to say that the azan is in that story for two fundamental reasons:
a. to serve as an indicator of the passage of time. this is actually a story that happens in a really short duration, but it doesn’t seem that way because of the initial flashbacks, and
b. because the sound of the azan is one of the most beautiful sounds on the planet, and i wanted to include it in at least one of my stories.

this particular story is the culmination and combination of five completely different story ideas that i had running around in my skull. the first notable difference between this story and all the others i’ve written is that this one takes place in bangladesh, which is a first for me, and that, for the first time, i didn’t bother to come up with names, instead using random different initials. but if you want to know the names, f is farhad, q is quamrul, and g is gourav. make of that what you will.

i’d really like to hear some feedback on this story. as you might know, this is the first short story i’ve written in almost six months, so i would really like to know what you thought. so comment away.

and finally, two quick but extremely important things:

• a: thanks for believing that i could write, and inspiring me to actually do it.

• this story is not based on any fact or memory of mine. like much of the stuff on this site, it is complete fiction.

-eb

when you are seven years old, your world is defined by the distance you can travel on your bike, and your life is influenced by those who travel that distance with you. my world was the small lakeside town of st. anselm’s, and my life was influenced by rick and sophie.

rick was born richard anatoli krushkin, and, under the influence of other kids calling him “anna”, had referred to himself as rick for as long as i’d known him. not ricky, not rich, not richie, and definitely not richard. rick had an annoying habit of not responding to anyone who referred to him as anything other than rick, even if the person was talking directly to him.

rick had a bad reputation in st anselm’s – his father was an alcoholic who used beat him, his mother and his elder sister – and the older folks who sat around the town square on warm afternoons often told each other that he was going to grow up to be “bad news”. this declaration seemed to have no effect whatsoever on rick. he seemed not to care at all, and seemed content to enjoy whatever pleasures remained in his life, mostly outside the home.

sophie, on the other hand, was the definition of pure. her family had lived in st. anselm’s for five generations, and her grandfather, in fact, was the leader of the gang of old men who had passed such a hard verdict on rick. sophie had long blonde hair, and often dressed in a simple white one-piece frock. with a smile permanently plastered to her face, it often seemed like she glowed with some strange and seemingly holy radiance.

rick, sophie and i had been friends since the first day of kindergarten at st. anselm’s elementary. it wasn’t much of a coincidence. the desks at st. anselm’s elementary sat three students each, and by some twist of fate, the three of us had chosen the same desk to sit at. it was a trend that continued through to first and second grades, and we had slowly grown inseparable.

riding our bikes was one activity all three of us enjoyed. sophie had inherited her bike from her elder sister, who had outgrown it, i had been given one as a gift for my sixth birthday, and rick had bought his with his earnings from mowing lawns. we might not have been the richest kids in st. anselm’s – in fact, we weren’t; all the rich kids went to st. anselm’s preparatory, a private school – but the bikes made us feel like we were the only kids on the world. st. anselm’s was separated from the lake by a heavily wooded area, and one of our favorite daily activities that summer was to ride our bikes down to the lake, where’d we laze around all day long, swimming, fishing and lazing around.

“hey, have you guys bought fireworks yet?” asked rick as we pedalled along. he was slightly out of breath – we had calculated early on our bike trips that the lake was about three miles away from our homes. fireworks were our fascination that summer – the fourth of july was coming up, and we were thrilled about the fireworks display that was slated to take place over the lake – the first time ever in st. anselm’s long history. rick was more excited, however, about buying fireworks for his own personal show on july third, and somehow had convinced us to buy our own and join him for our own small celebration.

“no,” i said. “dad doesn’t think he’ll last at the plant, and he doesn’t want to waste our savings on fireworks.” dad’s paranoia about being fired had been enhanced over the past few months, when rumors started floating around that the plant might close down. dad had cut down all unnecessary expenditure until further notice.

“man, you’ve gotta get a job!” exclaimed rick, the entrepreneur of his own lawn-mowing business. it always amused us how the same old folks who called him “bad news” had no problems with forking over cash to rick for mowing their lawns. “how long are you gonna depend on your pops for money?” asked rick.

“i’ve been thinking about getting a paper route,” i confided.

“heck, that’s not gonna pay shit!” exclaimed rick. “shit” was one of the curses we had just learned that summer, and we had no qualms about using the word in any context imaginable. “the only local paper is the st. anselm’s record, and that’s only published every week. you should join me in mowing lawns.

this wasn’t the first time the proposal had been discussed. even my parents kept harping on the same topic, constantly reminding me how enterprising rick was for earning his own pocket money. but even at the tender age of seven, i had become quite a rebel, and joining rick’s business seemed to me like knuckling down to the wishes of my parents, something i wasn’t eager to do. “we’ll see,” was my gruff reply.

sophie came to my rescue by changing the topic. “you boys shouldn’t play with fireworks. mommy says they are dangerous.”

that set off rick and i. we called sophie “momma’s girl”, and she replied with her own insults, until we were all laughing too hard to pedal properly.

******************************

when we reached our spot on the beach, we found old man higgins sitting nearby. he didn’t smile when we rode up – in fact, there was no change in his countenance, but we knew that he had acknowledged our presence, and approved of it.

old man higgins was one of the few mysteries st. anselm’s held. no one knew where he lived, but every morning, higgins showed up at the beach and sat there till sunset, when he would trudge back to wherever he had come from. some of the high school kids had tried to follow him once, to figure out where he lived, but had gotten hopelessly lost in the woods, and a search party had to set out to find them. this was nearly four years ago, and since then, no one had tried to follow him ever again.

when we began coming to the beach every day that summer, old man higgins had been sitting quite far away, nearly a speck on the opposite shore. he seemed angry at the beginning, and we guessed that it was because we were robbing him of his solitude and privacy with our whooping and yelling and screaming. but as the summer wore on, he seemed to become more comfortable with our presence. he never smiled or spoke to us or even looked at us, but he began to sit closer and closer to our usual spot. and, in turn, we tried not to be too loud or to disturb him.

rick, being the hero among the three of us, was the first to attempt to build bridges with higgins. we brought sandwiches with us every morning, to serve as our lunch, and one day, rick decided to give him one of his sandwiches. we were all concerned, in fact, because he never seemed to eat during the day. rick set one of his sandwiches down in front of him, but he seemed not to notice. we watched him for over an hour, but he didn’t move a muscle. finally, we got bored and went swimming, and when we returned, the sandwich was gone. since then, each of us had packed an extra sandwich for him every day, and, while he never ate them in front of us, or even thanked us for them, we would come back from swimming to find them gone.

that day, the twenty-fourth of june, was no different. we spread out our blanket, unpacked the sandwiches we had brought for old man higgins, set them out in front of him, and went for our swim. the first swim of the day was usually our longest, with plenty of time spent just fooling around in the water. by the time we got back to our blanket, the sandwiches in front of higgins had disappeared.

we spent a leisurely half an hour eating our lunch, and lay on the blanket side by side to spend the requisite one hour before swimming again. conversation turned to the subject of the lake. the lake was known as lake oberon on most maps, but the locals called it hopper’s lake. ever since we had been coming out to the lake, we had wondered by it had such a strange local name, but no one we knew could ever give us an answer.

“you know what i heard?” asked rick. “mom told me they called this place hopper’s lake because there used to be a beer factory on the edge of the lake, and they poured all their used hops into the lake.”

“what’s hops?” asked sophie. rick didn’t have an answer, and neither did i.

“well,” i ventured, “my dad told me that it was named after the state senator a long time ago to commemorate his fifth term in the senate.”

“you’re both wrong,” said sophie. “my grandma said that the town used to be called hoppersville, and the lake was called hopper’s lake.”

a strange sound, somewhere between a snort and a gurgle, interrupted our debate. we had grown so used to the solitude of old man higgins’ company that we had forgotten that he was capable of making noises. we turned quickly to see him sitting there, staring straight at us. we were quite nervous and scared, because that was the first time that had happened.

“dumb kids,” he said in a gruff and angry deep voice, and that was the first time any one in town had ever heard him speak. this was turning out to be a day of firsts for us. “this here lake,” he began – and as we were too shocked to understand the significance of this great event, we just gawked – “was named after carl hopper, a great historian and researcher. carl’s area of specialization was atlantis, the mythical city beneath the sea. surely you’ve heard of it?” he asked.

none of us had a response, so he continued with a grunt. “hopper spent his life looking for the location of atlantis, and suddenly, late in his career, he realized that atlantis lay below this very lake, the one everyone calls oberon. so hopper came out here, bought a wetsuit, and hired a boat to take him out to the middle of the lake to see if he could find atlantis under the water. he told the fellow who was piloting the boat that if he found anything, he would give two tugs on the rope that connected him to the boat, and the captain was to pull him up immediately. otherwise, he would spend an hour looking for it, and come up himself if he found nothing. and then he went into the water.

“fifteen minutes later,” he continued, “the captain felt two tugs on the rope, so he began pulling up hopper. however, when he got to the very end of the rope, there was no hopper there. he threw the rope back in to the water, in case it had torn, but hopper was never seen again.”

“why not? what happened to hopper?” asked rick.

“it’s said that hopper found atlantis after all. nobody knows. nobody’s been down there since, and his body never floated on to the banks. but the few of us who know about carl hopper believe that he found atlantis, but he didn’t like what he found beyond atlantis.”

“what?” asked sophie. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you’ll figure it out someday,” said higgins. and then he got up and left. and, just like carl hopper, no one ever saw him again.

of course we didn’t know that at the time. we just assumed he’d be back the next day. we spent about five minutes trying to decipher what higgins had said, but quickly gave up and talked about other things. we spent the rest of the day swimming in the lake, and headed home late in the afternoon, when the sun was already beginning to hang low in the sky.

*********************************

the first time we realized that we might never see higgins ever again was eight days later, on the first of july. rick was already very excited about his little personal celebration, and refused to talk about anything else on the ride up to the beach, although he did spare some time to tell sophie and i what fools we were for missing a chance like this. but he knew that both our families, though not always viewing our friendship with rick in a positive light, drew the line at our playing with fireworks with him.

as we rode up to the beach, we noticed the empty spot that, even two weeks before, had been occupied by a solitary man, watching the lake all day. it didn’t feel the same to me, coming to the beach and not seeing higgins sitting there. but though we cast glances towards the spot, none of us said a word. we had yet to stop bringing our extra sandwiches for him, so i guess we did feel a little surge of hope that he might be there. but he never was. we didn’t stop bringing those extra sandwiches until the end of summer.

but on the second of july, sandwiches were the farthest thing from our minds. the entire town seemed electrified by the prospect of the fireworks, and already we could see people working on a barge on the far side of the lake, which was where the fireworks display would originate. everyone in st. anselm’s was eager to express their own excitement at the prospect of the fireworks, and we had been hearing rumors about people from other towns coming in as well for the show. mike at the grocery store was counting on it, and had already set up a table with small american flags for sale to all the thousands of visitors he expected to be coming in to town. aunt rachel, a lady who wasn’t really anybody’s aunt, but was still called aunt rachel by children and adults alike, had set up a table next to mike’s to sell her famous fourth of july apple pies, and was extremely busy baking them by the boatload. the mayor had decided that the town needed to be decorated for the influx of visitors, so the streets were lined with american flags and balloons, and a small parade was being planned in the early afternoon of the fourth.

the three of us were glad to get out of the town that day. all the positive energy flowing from absolutely everyone was getting to us, and we had to escape. we took our regular morning swim, then relaxed with lunch, and then sat around on the beach, watching a solitary gull forage in the waters for its own lunch. we were mostly quiet, as if we were sick of everyone’s non-stop talking, and just needed a break from words for a while.

“i love this lake,” sophie ventured, breaking the silence. rick and i said nothing. sophie had expressed her love for the lake every day, since the first day we had come up here.

“i’m serious,” she continued. “in fact, i’ve been thinking about it, and i want my first kiss to be right here on the banks of this lake. i know that the person i kiss first will be the love of my life,” she said with a small smile. rick and i groaned. sophie’s elder sister had recently become addicted to soap operas and the love stories of imaginary people featured prominently in romance novels, and sophie, in her attempts to emulate her elder sister as much as possible, had become engrossed in the concepts of love and the ever-important first kiss. while rick and i had at first teased her about it as much as possible, we had given up when we realized our teasing had no effect on her obsession. instead, in reply, rick picked up a handful of sand, and saying, “well, kiss this,” poured it all over sophie. she chased him into the lake and i quickly followed.

rick and i dropped off sophie at home, and then sat on my front porch, eating ice creams. i had noticed the newest bruise on rick’s back, and although macho men like us didn’t mention things like this, i couldn’t help but ask him about it.

“it’s the latest gift from dad,” he replied matter-of-factly. “i got it for forgetting to turn off the light in the kitchen after i was done getting a drink of water.” rick refused to hide his wounds. once, after he had broken a rib and gotten a black eye at the hands of his father, he showed off his wounds with pride, telling everyone who would listen that they were for trying to intervene when his mother was getting beaten up by his father.

we sat on the porch silently for a while, concentrating on our ice creams, even though there was lots that we could have said. “look, man,” he said finally, “i don’t know how long i can take this anymore. it’s gotten to the point where either i leave or he does. but every time i tell this to mom, she tells me not to be dumb and sends me to my room. but i’m sick and tired of seeing this happen, of getting beaten up and shit, and taking it without a word, just because my dad earns the money in the family.”

“what are you gonna do?” i asked, not sure how to react to something like this. in fact, i’m sure not many seven year olds know how to deal with a situation like this.

“i don’t know, man. i might have to run. i want to go down to the city and get a job. live my own life.”

and then he got up and left. i had no clue what he meant, and i didn’t want to ask.

******************************

the next day, we made our usual trip to the beach, and rick seemed completely normal, as if our conversation the previous night had never happened. he was very excited about the fireworks he had bought for the next evening, and was only sad that the two of us would not be able to join him.

we returned to the town in the evening, and realized that we wouldn’t be able to make it to the beach the next day. our families had caught the patriotic fever that had swept the town, and there was simply too much for the three of us to do to make it feasible to make a trip to the beach. we said our goodbyes, and promised to meet early on the afternoon of the fourth so we could get a good spot from where we could watch the fireworks.

my parents kept me on the run the next day, with frequent trips to the store to get stuff for the party they were planning on the lawn of our house for friends and neighbors. i didn’t mind. it felt much better to wander around town than to be cooped up in the house all day long. i ran into both sophie and rick, but she was shopping with her mom, and he was running around, trying to find some more last-minute fireworks. so we didn’t get to talk much. after dinner that night, i was too tired from the full day of errands and chores to do much else, so i went to bed.

on the morning of the fourth, i was sent back to the store to buy some milk. my mom had used all the milk i had bought the previous day in her cookies, and we needed some for breakfast. i returned to the house to find a police car parked outside, and my parents standing anxiously on the porch with a police officer. when i walked up to the porch, the police officer was the first to speak. “son, we need to talk,” he said, and the four of us trooped into the living room, where my parents sat me in between them on the couch, and the cop pulled up a chair. i was very confused. why would the police want to talk to me? i hadn’t done anything wrong. and then it hit me. maybe something had happened to old man higgins, and he had mentioned my name!

“son, last night, richard anatoli krushkin…” those three words sent a chill down my spine. “…ran away from home. we think that it happened shortly after a…umm…disagreement with his father. did he ever say anything to you about wanting to run away?”

i was too shocked to answer. rick? ran away? so was that what he meant two nights ago? i stumbled around for words to say. a tear fell down my cheek. rick can’t be gone, can he? “he…he said something a few nights ago about wanting to run, but i didn’t think he meant it,” i stuttered.

“son, i’m sure this is very difficult for you. but we have to be sure that he ran away, and that nothing else happened to him.” the cop let the ominous meaning of his words hang in the air. he took out a piece of paper. “does this mean anything to you?” he said, as gently as possible.

i stared at the piece of paper. it was a simple message. just five words, but five words that held so much meaning, so much pain, so much anger, that it was difficult for my seven year old brain to fully comprehend.

ben,
told you so.
rick

and that was all it said. i started to cry then. i don’t know why i chose that specific moment, but maybe it was because the whole thing struck me right then with its full impact. i couldn’t get any more words out, and the cop sat there for a long time, waiting for me to say something. when the tears finally stopped and i had sufficiently recovered myself, i said, “i guess he wanted to tell me that he had done what he said he would – that he said he would run.”

“did he ever say where he was planning to go?”

“no,” i lied. i don’t know why i lied, but i felt that it was the thing to do. “no, he never did.”

****************************

the rest of the day passed in a blur. the cop had some more questions, none of which i was able to answer completely, and then he left. i went up to my room, and my parents, unsure of what to do, prepared for their lawn party that afternoon. i smelled the charcoal as my dad fired up the grille, and i heard my mom bustling around downstairs, but mostly i lay in bed, just staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why rick would do something like that.

my parents made me come downstairs to the lawn when the guests started arriving, and i moped around for about three hours. when, near dusk, i asked if i could for a ride on my bike, my parents were more than happy to let me go, because my long face was throwing a damper on their party.

i rode down the path towards the beach, thinking about rick all the way. i convinced myself that i had lied to the police about rick’s intended destination because i didn’t want them to find him in the city and bring him back to live with the same family that he had tried his best to escape. somehow it didn’t seem fair to rick, or to our friendship.

as i approached the beach, i was surprised to see a familiar bike resting on the fence at the end of the path. i arrived on the beach to find sophie sitting there, all alone. she sat there, staring out at the lake, watching the dying sun burn out its last few rays on its slow descent beyond the horizon. she didn’t look up at me as i sat down beside her. we sat there quietly for a long time, watching the stars slowly spring up hungrily in the sky, swallowing up the darkness left in the wake of the sun. the moon was large and silver, and the night was completely clear – not a cloud in the sky.

sophie was the first to break the silence. “is this what he wanted?” she asked.

“yes,” i replied truthfully. “this is what he wanted more than anything. just so he could be happy.”

we were silent for a long time as well. i saw people hustling around on the barge, and realized that the fireworks would start soon.

after another long silence, she turned to look at me. “will we make it without him?”

“yeah, i think so.”

as the first fireworks began exploding in the sky, turning the night blue, red, green and purple, sophie and i shared our first kiss.

*****************************

that was the end of the last innocent summer of our lives. for some reason, sophie and i weren’t too comfortable around each other anymore. we had kissed, sure, but that didn’t mean that we were boyfriend and girlfriend, a concept that i thoroughly detested. i started avoiding her, and instead fell in love with books. i spent more time in the library that summer than at home, which concerned my parents to no end. but, as i said, i fell in love with books, and spent an awfully long time trying to write my own stories, but to no avail.

sophie hunted me down in the library after a while, and we had an uncomfortable talk, when we realized that things weren’t going to be the same between us. school started soon, and, on the first day, sophie sat at a different table, and i realized that by not fulfilling her dreams about her first kiss being the love of her life, i had also condemned our friendship. as time passed, we grew more and more distant, until high school, when she got drunk, slept with some random guy, and ended up getting married to him when she found out she was pregnant with his child. i wasn’t surprised to see that i wasn’t invited to the wedding.

the krushkin family, meanwhile, had its own share of problems. the whole town suspected that rick had not run away, but instead had been killed by his father, who buried his body in the yard. the rumors had their effect on rick’s mom, who, almost four months after rick’s absence, suddenly packed up and left with his elder sister. no one ever heard from her again. rick’s father, unable to deal with the suddenly empty house and the increasing suspicion that he had killed his whole family and buried them in the backyard, silently hung himself one night shortly after.

now to me. i quickly grew sick and tired of my parents’ attitude towards me. they had never made much of a secret of the fact that they had always wanted a daughter, but due to complications during my birth, were unable to conceive again. so instead of smothering their only child with affection, they did the complete opposite: they smothered me with indifference. by the time i got to high school and started applying to colleges, i was so eager to leave home that i intentionally chose colleges as far away as possible.

i got on the train to go to college alone, swearing i would never return to st. anselm’s.

i got decent grades in school – nothing to write home about, which is something i seldom did. somehow i got enough credits to graduate, and somehow i got into grad school, which i graduated with a doctorate in english. my old college was glad to offer me a tenured professorship, which i took gratefully, because it would give me time to work on my novel. my first novel was published two years later. i didn’t even mention my parents in the acknowledgements, although i thanked rick and sophie, wherever they were. i don’t think i even sent them a copy, even though they must have known about it, since it hit the top of the bestseller list.

four years and two more novels later, i got a letter in the mail one day, with a postmark from st. anselm’s. not certain what it would be, and suspecting that it was fan mail, i opened it eagerly – fan mail is always such a boost for the ego. it was a short letter, less than a page.

dear ben,

i don’t know if you remember me, but i lived next door to your parents for years. i hate
to be the one to have to tell you this, but i think you should come home soon. your mother
has not been well – not since your father’s death two years ago. we all think that you
should see her one last time. please try to come.

yours lovingly,
angelique scott

i took the next plane home to st. anselm’s.

***********************************

she certainly was not well. the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with her, but since my father’s death – which i had not known about – she had been getting worse by the day. i arrived on friday afternoon, but she was dead by saturday morning.

the funeral was short and filled with emotion. i did not feel able to deliver the eulogy, but the responsibility was taken up by a host of teary-eyed townspeople, all gushing with stories about how wonderful she had been. i felt slightly guilty that i did not have such stories of my own, especially since she was my mother. she was buried next to my father in the graveyard adjoining the st. anselm’s church.

as the sole heir, i had a lot of work to do, packing up all the belongings and determining the exact value of the estate. i arranged for the house to be sold, along with most of the stuff, and kept only some of my own stuff from my youth to take back with me. i spent a week longer in st. anselm’s than i had originally planned.

the day before i was supposed to leave, i suddenly thought about the beach. i hadn’t been there in more than twenty-five years, and i was curious to see what it looked like now. i drove up the path in my car, and parked near the fence where we had always left our bikes, i walked out on to the beach.

i got the biggest shock of my life.

at first, i was certain that the man sitting on the beach was old man higgins. in fact, he was sitting in the exact same spot that higgins had sat at the last time i saw him, 25 years ago. but then i did a quick mental calculation – higgins had to be over 100 years old then, and that wasn’t possible. then the person looked at me, and a distant memory fired up in my brain. “heard you were back in town. oh, thanks for the acknowledgement in your first book,” he said, and that’s when i knew: it was rick.

we had a very awkward moment, when i tried to figure out how to greet him, and whether a hug would be appropriate, but that question was answered by the fact that he didn’t move an inch. not sure what to do, i sat down beside him. in my search for words to say, all i could come up with was, “how have you been?”

rick laughed loudly. “that the best you can do?”

i relaxed. “where were you?” i asked.

“lost,” he answered.

twenty-five years ago he had said something i had not understood, and i had spent the last twenty-five years hating myself for not asking him to explain what he had meant. i wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. “what do you mean?”

“i took a train from here to the city. lived on the streets because i had no other place to live. couldn’t find a single job. out of desperation, i started doing heroin. nearly overdosed three times, but were saved by paramedics. then, six years ago, after my last near-death experience, i realized that where i should be is right here. and so i came back. sorry to hear about your mom.”

“thanks,” i mumbled. i hadn’t yet figured out what to say when people told me they were sorry about my mom’s death. “i’m glad i got here in time, though.”

“yeah, i heard on the grapevine that you hadn’t come back in years. was that intentional?”

“i guess. i was just so eager to get away from them, and when i did, i did my best not to come back. i realize now how much more it would have hurt if i had missed the funeral. did you know that i didn’t even know that my dad had died?”

“yeah, but from what i hear, it was a conscious decision on your mom’s part. your writing career was going so well – your second novel was on top of the bestseller list, and you were working on your third – and she didn’t want to have to ruin it by having you come back. she gave me these.” he pulled a thick sheaf of sealed letters from his pocket, and handed it to me. “after you left for college, they realized how lucky they were to have you as their son, and how unfair they had been to you by treating you like you didn’t exist. they wrote you a letter every week, but never mailed them. here they are”

i took the proffered letters with a shaking hand. of all the wonderful things i had learnt that week from the townspeople, this hurt the most. maybe i should have come home more often, i thought. maybe i should have spent some more time with them. maybe i should have been more understanding. maybe i shouldn’t have been so damn selfish.

we sat in silence for a while. “so did you hear about sophie?” he asked, finally.

“no, what happened? last i heard, she married some guy from high school and had two kids.”

“oh, that was ages ago. she’s had two more marriages since then, and the latest one is falling apart. she comes back to town quite often to visit family, and she told me this last time she was here. she doesn’t blame the husbands, though. she says she blames her first kiss for not turning out to be the love of her life.”

“oh,” i said. i wasn’t sure catching up with rick was turning out to be such a good idea – every thing he said seemed to hurt more and more. i wondered if rick knew who that first kiss was, the culprit behind sophie’s three failed marriages. he didn’t seem to know, or even if he did, he was pretending not to care. we sat in silence for some more time.

just as i was about to get up and leave, rick said, “you know, i finally understand what old man higgins meant.”

this i had to hear, so i stayed put. “i haven’t thought about that in years,” i lied. in fact, i had done a lot of research on atlantis in general and carl hopper in particular, but had been unable to find anything about him. i had been considering using higgins’ line in a book, but hadn’t yet figured out what context to use it in. “so what do you think he meant?” i asked, curious.

“see, i don’t think there really was a carl hopper. i think that was a figment of higgins’ imagination. instead, he wanted to teach us a valuable lesson.”

“which was?”

“atlantis isn’t what matters, it’s what’s beyond atlantis that matters more. only atlantis was a metaphor, for something you want really badly. for me, atlantis was running away to the city, for sophie it was kissing the love of her life on these banks, and for you, it was leaving home and your parents. but none of that provided more than a small amount of satisfaction. the three of us found our own private atlantis, but beyond it was a world of infinite pain and grief and sadness that crept in while we were enjoying the finite satisfaction of getting what we really wanted.”

“ha,” i laughed. “your theory is compelling, my friend, but it’s crap. utter crap. i did some research, and the carl hopper story is well-documented,” i lied. “besides, we later found out higgins had escaped from a mental asylum, so he was nuts. therefore, you can come up with all the philosophy you want, but the truth is that higgins probably had no idea what he was saying.” i saw anger flash across rick’s face. i didn’t want to be nearby if he got angry. i got up quickly. “i’ll see you soon, my friend. i’ll be back in a couple of months.” and then i left.

as i drove back to the house, i kept telling myself that rick was wrong. but i knew he was right. i knew deep down inside that what he had said was the truth, and that, having found the relative shelter of my own atlantis for fifteen years, i was now dwelling in the pain beyond, and, from what rick had said, the same was true for both him and sophie. but it was a frightening admission, one i didn’t want to make. i didn’t want to admit that the pain i felt – the grief of losing both parents simultaneously, the anguish of knowing they really did love me, and that i had been harboring an unfair hatred of them ever since – was all the result of my own desire to get as far away as possible. instead, it was easier to blame it on something else.

i left st. anselm’s the following morning. i have never gone back since.

THE END

******************************

dear reader,

if you made it this far, congratulations. it turned out much longer than i thought it would.

okay, i have several confessions to make.

first of all, i began this story as a screenplay, but after writing about the equivalent of the first paragraph, i got tired of typing FADE IN and ZOOM OUT and all that fun crap. so i just made a story out of it. it turned out a bit long, and for that i apologize.

second, in a previous post, i lied when i said that i begin all my stories with the first line and see where it goes from there. after about half an hour of writing this story, i sat down and thought about what the title could mean and imply, and then, within fifteen minutes, i had the entire story in my head. unfortunately, i then went and played pool for two hours, which resulted in the story losing a lot of the elements and flavor i had originally conceived.

third, i realize this story may be quite bland, and lacking in atmosphere. i’ll try and make some edits along the way. right now, it’s 2 am and i’m exhausted and have tennis at dawn, so i will go to bed.

fourth, i would really like some critical feedback and comments on this story, so please post your thoughts, and ask any bored friends you have to read the story and do the same.

fifth, i must admit that all the creativity required to write the story did not come from me alone. i would like to acknowledge the other people who contributed to this story.
a. for the concept of two young boys and a young girl who are best friends, i would like to thank mr. stephen king for his book “hearts in atlantis”. although the titles may sound similar, the story isn’t, except for the coming back to the town part. but it’s still a great story anyway. i highly recommend you read the book as soon as possible. or at least watch the movie.
b. for the title, i would like to thank a obscure game publisher who came up with an adventure game of the same name. but if they want to sue me for copyright infringement, they can go right ahead – i’m just an amateur writer who posts stories infrequently on his xanga. however, if you work for a major publication or a major movie studio and would like to pay me millions to publish this story or make a movie out of it, let me know and i’ll change the name to something more generic, like “ben’s journey” or something.
c. for the name of the town, i would like to thank p.d. james’ book “death in holy orders”. this is the book i am currently reading, and i must admit, it is the longest book i have ever read, simply because it is so boring. i have been reading it for almost a month now, and it does NOT seem to end. i hope none of you felt the same way about this story though.

sixth, as i said at the beginning, this story is in no way autobiographical. none of this crap ever happened to me in my life (except maybe the three marriages part. i’m kidding, of course). thank god. anyway, if you know me well enough, feel free to engage in some discussion on how this story might possibly reflect my inner psyche. i tremendously enjoy such discussions.

seventh, thanks to all of you for reading all these stories that i post and giving me some sort of feedback. i appreciate it sincerely. it helps me refine my writing style.

finally, i promise to try and keep the stories short from now on, especially when i call them short stories.

thanks again. oh, and once again, congratulations for making it through all the way.

till later.

“so what do you see?” asked marie.

they had been in the art gallery for about an hour at that point. marie had dragged jason to see the latest painting she had fallen in love with, and, to be honest, he didn’t really think much of this latest passion of hers. “i don’t know,” he answered. “impressionism never really made much of an impression on me.”

jason’s attempt at humor was rewarded with a swift punch to the arm. “jason, these paintings are so highly priced for a reason. the artist is renowned for his ability to capture human emotions precisely. i’m sure you see something.”

“i’m sorry,” i replied. “i’m trying really hard, but i can’t really see anything. why don’t you tell me what you see, and i’ll try and figure if i see the same?”

“well, i see a vast loneliness, a desire to be free of this loneliness, and an anger at the emptiness. note the bold brush strokes,” marie concluded.

“uh huh,” jason concurred, “i do see that.” it was a lie. he stole a glance at the brochure that he had picked up on the way in, and saw that the painting was named happiness. so much for marie being an art critic.

“so, honey,” asked jason. “how much does it cost?”

***************************

“so what do you see?” asked dr. williams, holding up the ink blot.

“hmm. that’s an interesting one.” replied carl. “i see an egg smashed against the ground, with the yolk running out all over.”

“and now?” dr williams changed to a different picture.

“well, on that one i see the splatter of a bug against the windshield.” he interrupted the doctor as he was about to change the slide. “honestly, doc, how long do we have to keep this up?”

“well, carl, you came to see me because you had been repressing issues for a long time, and you felt that you were on the verge of exploding. i’m trying to get an idea of what form this explosion might take.”

“you’ve shown me about a thousand ink blots in the past forty minutes, doc. you must have some idea by now,” pleaded carl.

“you’re right, carl,” said dr. williams, putting down the ink blots. “and to be honest, i’m trying to be completely sure, because the picture i’m getting is not a merry one, to say the least.” he took off his glasses. “now let’s go over some history. you’re parents got a divorce when you were 12, correct?” carl nodded. “and, as you told me earlier, you never forgave your father for having an affair and breaking up your family. and then your mother married a man who used to abuse you physically. and ever since then, you’ve been stressed out most of the time, correct?”

“yeah, doc. you know all this, and you also know that i’ve never really opened up to anyone about any of this – before you, that is.”

“i understand. unfortunately, while your coming to see me was a good idea, it may have come a little late. you should have come to see me sooner.”

“why, doc? what’s wrong,” asked carl, concerned.

“well, i see vestiges of aggression hidden inside you. there’s an anger in you, an anger born of all this repression, and while it hasn’t manifested itself yet, i don’t know how much longer that will be the case.”

carl was resigned. he had been feeling this anger boiling inside himself for a while. “so what now?” he asked.

“we continue our sessions. as i said, this anger is born of repression, so the best thing for you would be to open up as completely as possible to me. we need to work through all the issues and pain you’ve been repressing. i’m afraid that’s the only way to deal with this. of course, you understand that there is no simple and quick solution to this.”

“yeah, i understand,” said carl, rising from the chair. “same time next week, then?”

“see you then,” said dr. williams as carl walked out of the office.

***************************

“so what do you see?” asked the voice on the radio.

“i see the fulfillment of all my desires, all my needs, and the only path to my happiness,” replied another voice.

richard’s one secret was his love for soap operas. when he was home, he watched them all afternoon on tv, and when he was out driving his cab, he loved to listen to the radio versions as well. for good measure, he had several CDs filled with audio of soap operas lying on the seat next to him all the time, in case the choices offered on the air waves were limited or not to his liking. he generally did not care what his passengers thought about his sole obsession. it helped him focus on his driving, and it helped him keep his indifferent cool most of the time.

this afternoon, however, he was slowly losing his cool, and the soap operas were not helping. he had been on the beat since eight in the morning, but since the inauguration of the subway, he had been having trouble finding passengers. today had been tremendously bad. he had only had two passengers since the morning, and both of them had only needed short rides. he was due back at the garage in just under four hours, and he hadn’t made enough to pay off his daily rent. on top of that, he had been stuck in dense traffic for almost an hour, managing only to move a couple of inches.

“22,” squawked the walkie talkie lying next to him. “come in 22.”

richard turned down the volume on the soap opera, annoyed at the interruption. however, the dispatcher would only call him in an emergency, or if she had a fare for him. “go ahead, dispatch,” he replied.

“are you still in the downtown area, 22?” came the answer.

“that’s an affirmative.” richard liked using police lingo over the radio, because it made him feel like he was doing something significantly more important than driving a cab.

“head to 22nd and 8th,” came the reply. “fare’s waiting for a ride to cranton.”

richard did a quick mental calculation. cranton was about 40 miles out, a suburb lying on the edge of the city. with this traffic, it would take about an hour or, if he was lucky, an hour and a half. that would more than make up for his daily rent for the cab, and he would have enough left over for dinner and beers at the bar that he frequented. then he cursed to himself. getting to 22nd and 8th meant taking a right turn at the next light, but he was in the left lane. but he could do it. in ten years of driving cabs, he had learned a trick or two. luckily, he was at the front of his lane.

when the light turned green, he was ready, speeding out of his lane and making a quick right, ahead of honking cars that were in the correct lane. he was going too fast to see the man attempting to cross the street. by the time richard managed to stop, a crowd had already gathered, and a policeman was hurrying towards his stationary cab with a determined look on his face.

***************************

“so what do you see?” asked carl.

they were at his favorite spot in the universe. he had discovered it on one of his long drives, and since dr. williams’ diagnosis, he had been coming here more and more often, because of the beautiful view, and because it helped him relax.

they were parked on top of a cliff, with the sea stretching out in every direction below them. they sat in his car, watching the sun set on the horizon. the sea gulls were in a flurry of last minute activity, cawing at each other futilely. more importantly, the entire scene was devoid of any other human existence – no traffic, no noise, and no pollution.

“i see eternity,” replied marie. “i see a vast sadness, yet i also see a semblance of hope, as if the sun will rise again, and everything will be all right.”

“so what next?” asked carl. “you’ve won five million dollars in damages from the cab driver for causing your boyfriend’s death.”

“i wouldn’t have won it without you. you were brilliant, especially in your closing arguments to the jury.” she looked at him, and he thought he saw something in her eyes that he had never seen before. he looked away, embarassed.

“well, you know, that is my job,” he admitted. “so are you going to leave the city now?”

“no,” she replied. “i still work here, and i can’t afford to leave.” there was a long pause. “so, what do you think?” she finally asked.

“about what?” he asked, confused.

“when the sun rises tomorrow, is there hope for you and me?” she asked, looking into his eyes again. he was sure now – in the past ten months that he had represented her, beginning with the criminal case and through the entire civil trial, he had sensed something blossoming inside her, something more than just professional respect.

“that may not be such a good idea,” he replied.

“why not?” her eyes were pleading now, and he thought he could see a hint of tears.

“don’t get me wrong, marie. i would jump at the chance to be with you, because i’ve slowly fallen under your spell the past few months. but it wouldn’t be fair to you. i have problems – i can’t really explain, but they need to be solved.”

she reached out and took his hand in hers. “what ever it is, i’m sure we can work through it together.” she leaned over and kissed him. he kissed her back, eagerly, and pulled her close to him. neither of them wanted to be the first to let go.

they pulled apart after a while, reluctantly.

“so,” said marie, snuggling up to him, “what do you see?”

***************************

author’s note: i’m pretty sure that sucked ass. oh well. had to get something out of my system to make sure i didn’t have only three stories in me for the rest of my life. the next ones will be better, i promise. leave your thoughts.

…i’ve forgotten you
i never think of you
the way you walked
the way you talked
the things you used to say
i’ve forgotten you
i never think of you
i couldn’t say
for sure today
whether your eyes were blue and grey
i’ve forgotten you
i never think of you.

i’m through
thinking of you
i tell you i’m through
thinking of you
you…you…you…

i’ve forgotten you
i never think of you

oh, what a lie
i shall think of you, think of you, think of you
till i die…

her voice cut through the haze of cigar smoke and the dim lightning like the sound of thunder on a clear summer’s day. i sat up straight in my chair, entranced by the sound of the voice boring towards my ears through the mist that surrounded me. i looked around – others had been equally affected by the singer’s voice, and were paying attention to her, instead of to their hastily abandoned conversations.

the year was 1987. i had been coming to the jazz club regularly for about ten years now, and this was the first time i ever heard someone of her caliber perform there. the usual fare of semi-talented musicians had passed through the doors, and had never stayed too long on stage. with her, i could tell that this time it was going to be different. the club would not let her go until her talent had taken her to the lofty heights that she was destined to reach.

her name was rachel armstrong, and she was new in town. she had grown up on a farm outside the city, and had travelled to the city to earn her keep through singing when the farm had closed down due to massive losses caused by the recent drought. i thanked nature for its mercy, as without the droughts she would never have had cause to leave the farm and would never have wandered up on stage at the club to delight us with her voice.

at the end of her performance, the applause was deafening. the crowd, mostly regular attendees, stood together and applauded her till she finally walked off stage. lubricated by the alcohol they had consumed en masse and fuelled by the soulful performance, the audience could not show enough appreciation for the music. i agreed wholeheartedly – i only wish my claps were more audible over every one else’s applause, because i had spent years searching for someone like her.

when she finally proceeded backstage, i left my table and walked towards the dressing rooms. i had to find out all about her, and how often she would be performing, because i planned to be there every night that she sang, just so i could soak up the radiance of her voice. i wound my way through the corridors that made up the backstage area until i found myself near the dressing rooms. the area was in a state of apopleptic chaos – everyone was talking in excited whispers and hushes about the performance, some genuinely appreciative of her talent, while most were more worried about their future with the club. i couldn’t care less about these selfish “musicians” who claimed to have talent that was never revealed when they were onstage.

i walked into her dressing room to find her seated with the manager of the club, who was having difficulty finding words to express his admiration. “my god, that was amazing,” i heard him say as i walked in. “i’m so glad i decided to hire you.” dear old mike. couldn’t stop praising himself for a second. no matter. rachel was a star that was soon going to outshine this crummy little joint, and there was nothing he could do about it. “i’m prepared to offer you a permanent job here at club rio. twice a week, an hour-long set, full publicity, the works. i’ll pay you twelve hundred bucks a month.” i cursed under my breath. mike was offering her much less than she deserved. i was shocked when she agreed, but then i realized that twelve hundred bucks must seem like a lot to someone who just arrived in the city from the brink of destitution. no matter. mike would have his hands full trying to keep other jazz clubs from poaching her from him, and in a few months, when news about her spread, he would be paying her much more than that, just to keep her on board.

mike left, and i sat in my chair, watching her remove her make up. she didn’t seem to mind my presence, which i appreciated. so many other performers felt annoyed when i came to speak to them, brushing me away like a mosquito. rachel, however, did not have a problem with my sitting there, just watching her. i was glad for that. besides, i couldn’t think of anything to say, because her performance had left me speechless. not too many other singers had ever done that before.

she got up and left shortly after, but not before i had found out where she lived – a rundown section of the city, famous for its crime and vagrants. i didn’t feel worthy enough to walk her home, so i watched her leave through the back door, followed by the envious stares of the other performers. i returned to my table, to watch the rest of the performers, all of whom i doubted could measure up to her performance. i was right. i left about an hour later, walking out the main entrance, the walls of the corridors lined with pictures of distinguished members and musicians who had played at the club and reached some sort of fame elsewhere.

rachel was back twice the next week, and twice a week after that for about three months, seducing everyone with the sound of her voice. i was surprised to see that every day the cigar smoke seemed to be thicker – it seemed that news of her talent had already spread, and she was drawing larger and larger crowds with every performance. i still had no difficulty getting my regular table, but there were many more new faces at the club every time. i tried to express my annoyance, but to no avail. mike was too happy with quantity, and didn’t particularly care about quality. i couldn’t blame him. rachel was a gold mine that he had just begun to tap, and he could therefore be excused for his behavior.

i didn’t see much of rachel outside of her performances for quite a while. mike, already worried about his competitors, had hired two large body guards who drove her to the club right before she went onstage, and then hurried her out of the club at the end of her performance. therefore, i was pleasantly surprised to find her sitting in the audience one day, watching the performers. it was a wednesday, and she wasn’t scheduled to go onstage, but her love for jazz had drawn her to watch these mediocre fools who were not even half as talented as she was. i thought i would mention that to her, but before i could sit at her table, she was joined by mike and her bodyguards, who took up all the empty chairs. dejected, i seated myself at a table near her, instead of taking my regular seat near the stage. no big loss. i was too focused on rachel to care about what was going on on stage anyway.

mike was his usual happy self, displaying the bright smile that had not faded from his face since rachel’s first performance. he was commending her on her skill, and her talent, and her voice, but i knew mike well enough to know that he was commending her on bringing in all the money he had made since her debut. selfish bastard, i thought to myself. i wondered if he was still paying her twelve hundred a month, or whether he had given her a raise yet.

rachel smiled at mike benignly, and i could tell from the look on her face that she was paying more attention to the music than to what he was saying. she seemed much happier now, and was still amazingly beautiful, even without the make up or the sleek red dress she wore on stage.

mike, suddenly devoid of any more praise, tried his best to seduce rachel. it was a disgusting sight – an overweight, bald man trying his chances with what was certainly a siren from the gods. rachel seemed not to notice, and i felt my heart leap at the thought. surely i wasn’t falling in love with her?

after several minutes of pathetic lines from mike, rachel decided to change the subject. “i’ve noticed,” she began, “that the table nearest the stage is always empty. why is that, michael?”

mike snorted. “well, you see rachel, one of the chief reasons this club stands here today is because, a few years ago, this slightly…er…eccentric jazz bassist named colter smith left his entire life savings – over 3 million dollars – to the club when he died, on the condition that that table should always remain unoccupied, in case he ever cares to visit. and since the money is in an account overseen by his lawyers, we have to accomodate his wishes. lord knows that that money has come in handy for repairs, maintenance and on the several occasions that this club nearly shut down for lack of profits. plus, the story is a fun one to tell new members, and adds to the atmosphere of the place.”

“interesting,” said rachel, and for a while she kept silent, listening to the music, while subtly evading mike’s attempts at seduction.

half an hour later, she rose. “i have to leave now, mike. i’ll see you on friday. oh, and can you save a table near the front for my husband? he just got back from the war, and he’ll be here to see the show.”

i was shocked, as mike probably was also. a husband? she was married? i had never even considered the possibility, probably because of her spouse’s conspicuous absence for so long. but then, of course he was off fighting for our country in the war. i was dejected, i have to admit. i had been feeling the first pangs of love for rachel, and it was difficult to come to terms with the fact that she could never be mine.

i sat in the club for about fifteen minutes after rachel and her entourage left, followed by a very eager to please mike. i felt i needed a walk and a breath of fresh air – stale cigar smoke, dark lights and jazz was suddenly not the kind of atmosphere i wanted to be in. i would, of course, be back on friday to watch rachel perform, so there was that comfort at least.

i walked out the main entrance, past my picture hanging on the wall. i noticed the plaque below it needed cleaning – one could hardly read the words: colter smith, 1923-1977.

***************

Lyrics to song borrowed from Agatha Christie’s Yellow Iris.

“Don’t look up.” The words still reverberated in my head as I woke up in the morning.

What was that dream about? I couldn’t remember, no matter how hard I tried. It was getting increasingly difficult to remember the dreams I had since I had started drinking. I was convinced I wasn’t an alcoholic, even though the nightcaps I took before heading to bed became more frequent. For the past month or so I had been waking up with a hangover, but I felt I was getting used to it. Nothing a couple of Tylenol and two shots of whiskey couldn’t fix.

But what was that dream all about? For an instant, I felt I remembered the entire dream, but then it was gone from my mind, as if that part of my brain had tripped some invisible switch and turned off right away.

I shook off the thoughts and walked into the bathroom to look at my face in the mirror. For the past six weeks, since I’d been diagnosed, I did this every day. This morning, it seemed the worst. The disease was eating me alive. My eyes were sunken and my cheeks were hollow. My chin, usually inconspicuous, jutted out like the Rock of Gibraltar. I wondered whether anyone would notice at work. I didn’t think so. I had heard everyone talking behind my back about my “alcoholism” and how I needed help, even Gina, who had never said an unkind word about anyone behind their back. Well, fuck them all. If they didn’t have the decency to come and ask me what was wrong, I had no reason to tell them.

I brushed my teeth and decided to shave. Halfway through what had become a conditioned reflex over the years, I cut myself. Immediately I was gripped by this paranoia that I wouldn’t stop bleeding. I gripped the side of the sink to keep myself from falling over and fainting at the thought. Slowly I watched in the mirror as the blood trickled to a stop. My hands wouldn’t come near my face after that. No matter; I’d go to the office half-shaven.

In retrospect I guess the fear of dying had been with me since I walked out of the doctor’s office, stunned and in shock. But I didn’t want to die in such a pitiful manner – I didn’t want to find my half-decomposed body lying in the bathroom, naked and bleeding from the face. I wanted to die in a peaceful, glorious manner – so that I would be buried with the beginnings of a smile on my face. Going to bed one night and not waking up would be much more graceful than dying there and then in the bathroom. Trying to push the thoughts of my death out of my mind, I went back into the bedroom and downed four shots of whiskey in quick succession. To hell with it.

I went to work as usual, and spent the next nine hours listening to whispered conversations outside my cubicle about my health. I headed home and hit the bottles right away.

I died that night in my sleep.

*******

For a while I didn’t realize I had died. I walked into the bathroom the next morning when the alarm went off and tried to look at my reflection in the mirror. Instead of my pale, haggard face, I saw my body lying lifeless in the room behind me.

I couldn’t comprehend what exactly was going on. I looked back into my bedroom, and saw that the mirror wasn’t lying – I was lying in bed. I tried to touch the sleeping form, but my fingers just couldn’t make contact with the body. In an instant, I saw that I wasn’t alone in the room – there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of other people around me, all of whom I could see. All of them seemed to be quite distant, but still gave me expectant looks, as if they were waiting for me to do something. There were people of all ages – a woman carrying a baby, a child holding a toy, an old man with a cane, a man in a suit with a briefcase. They were stuck in some sort of instant, unable to move forward or backward, all staring at me as if I was supposed to do something. Then I heard the voice.

“Go on, follow them.”

I turned around, and behind me stood a man, robed in white. “Walk with them,” the man urged.

“Who are they?” I asked, still very confused and slowly growing nervous.

“They are the ones who died the moment you did. Their souls cannot reach their final destination unless you join them.”

So I was dead? So my wish had come true, and I had died in my sleep? I turned to look at my body, and the face had the beginnings of a smile on it. Just the way I wanted it to be.

“Go on,” the man repeated behind me.

“Just one more minute,” I insisted. I couldn’t take my eyes off my dead, lifeless body.

“I know it’s hard to tear your soul away from the body that has housed it for so long. But you must proceed. Your soul, and the soul of all these others, must get where they need to go.”

Fuck all the other souls, I thought to myself. I was dead. My body was now just an empty shell, soon to be overrun by insects and disintegrated. I wanted one last look at the body that I had taken for granted all my life. Fuck the man, too, whoever he was. Who did he think he was to give me orders?

As if he had read my mind, the man sighed. “Look, you’re my last one. Don’t make this anymore difficult than it has to be. I’ve had to drag all these people away from their bodies and get them here, and now you’re holding all of us up. So do me a favor and hurry up and walk.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the one responsible for getting all of you to your final destinations. So please, turn around and start walking!”

His voice made it obvious that he was losing his patience with me. I took one last long look at my body and turned around and started walking.

“Good,” he said. “It’s not long. And remember, don’t look up.”

The phrase sent shivers down my spine. The dream seemed to leap back into my consciousness, but then jumped out again. I started walking.

******

I don’t know what happened after that. I walked in the direction the other people were facing. Immediately they all started moving as well. The people in front of me seemed to walk into my wall, and so it seemed to be the reasonable thing to do. I walked through the wall, and immediately I was in a huge dark tunnel.

I followed the people in front of me blindly for a while until my eyes adjusted to the light. The man who had spoken to me was in front of the line. I looked around me. I realized that the walls of the tunnel were covered with rubies, diamonds and emeralds, arranged into intricate designs throughout. Light bounced off the gems and formed patterns on the wall. Suddenly I heard the whispers.

“If you think that’s something, just look up at the ceiling.”

“The ceiling’s even more beautiful – beyond your wildest imagination.”

“Check out the ceiling – it’s more beautiful than the freshest flower or the best painting.”

Every step I took, the whispers increased in number and in volume. Soon my head was filled with the reverberations of a million voices, all imploring me to look at the ceiling. I tried to keep my head down, but everytime I looked at the floor, the voices increased in volume even more, until my head was filled with shrieking voices. Unable to bear it any more, I looked up at the ceiling.

The ceiling was nothing beautiful. I felt a tremendous flash of heat on my face, and the brightest light blinded me. My neck was stuck – I couldn’t look in any other direction anymore. I was transfixed by the light.

Several moments later, I felt something running down my cheek. I put my hand on my cheek to wipe it off, and with the hand came a chunk of the flesh on my cheek. I stared at my hand in horror for a split second.

I began to scream.

******

At the front of the line, the man heard the scream, paused for a second, and then kept walking. The man in the suit and with a briefcase asked, “What was that?”

“Don’t worry about it. The last soul we salvaged was just extinguished,” said the man, and kept on walking.

“And you aren’t going to do anything about it?” asked the incredulous woman with the baby.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s the way it’s meant to be. One soul is destined to be extinguished before we reach your final destination. Only by sacrificing one of the souls can we open the gates to your final destination.”

“What will happen to him?” asked the man in the suit.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No. His soul will dissipate and will be added to the energy of the universe.”

“And no one knows about this?”

“Only the ones who’ve walked this way before you. On Earth, they think it’s just a routine voltage fluctuation.”

And with that the man kept walking.

“i’m lost without you,” i told her, looking deep into her eyes.

we had been meeting in the cafe every day for a late morning coffee and sandwich. the muted notes of the jazz cd floated through the haze of coffee vapors and cigarette smoke.

“that may be so,” she said, smiling, “but you know me for three months only. so are you saying you were lost for the other 27 years before that?”

she was right, of course. i had met her one windy night three months ago, a night marred with rain and sleet, a night when she had walked into her house and found her boyfriend lying dead on the floor, a .44 bullet through his head. i was the investigating officer on the case at the time. it was ruled a routine break-in that went wrong when he walked in. there was a substantial amount of cash missing from the wall safe, along with some other trinkets of assorted value that had been scattered through the two storey townhouse. we promptly arrested a burglar who had been known to be operating in the area, and found some of the loot in his house, and the dead man’s wallet hidden underneath the floorboards. the trial had been swift, and he was sentenced to life in prison for first degree murder.

“i’ve always been lost, marie,” i told her, refusing to take my eyes off of hers. “now i find i can’t stop thinking about you, no matter how hard i try. i can’t even seem to focus on a routine case like a break-in without thinking about you all the time. is that wrong?”

“maybe not for you, steve. the more important question now is, are you right for me?”

“even if i’m not right now, i’m sure i can be, if you tell me what i have to do.”

“it’s not for me to tell you, steve. i guess it’s something you have to find out for yourself.” she got up and walked out of the cafe, off to her office in walter towers. i headed back to the precinct, angry at myself for laying my feelings out in the open like that. but she must have known how i felt about her. i’d been having these feelings for her for a long time, and she must have picked up on it at some point. i remembered reading an article in some magazine or the other that clearly stated that women had an inherent instinct for things like this.

******************

“where the hell have you been, whithouse?” asked my partner mark the minute i walked in the door.

“just getting a cup of coffee, durrain. why the hell are your panties in a bunch?”

“because i’ve got fucking internal affairs walking around the precinct, asking me about the de vries case!” he yelled at me.

the words sent a chill up my spine. “the de vries case?” i stammered. “you mean marie de vries?”

“no, i mean santa fucking claus de vries, you asshole,” he yelled. “i thought we had cleared that shit up months ago.”

“so did i,” i volunteered. “did you happen to tell them about where i was?”

“oh, you mean did i tell them that you were now screwing the grieving widow? no i didn’t, asshole, even though they asked if we had been in touch with her since the investigation was closed.”

“durrain, you’re on the fast track to a heart attack,” i told him, trying to keep my cool despite his insinuations about my relationship – or rather, lack of one – with marie. “so what did internal affairs want?”

“the case files, the evidence, the whole shitload. they seem to have found a new suspect in the case, and they wanted to find out how solid our investigation really was.”

“those self-important sons of bitches,” i growled. “did they say who this new suspect was?”

“no, just that they were close enough to an indictment, and they needed more proof…”

the ringing phone interrupted us. a homicide had occured downtown, and we were to look into it. on our way out the door to the car, durrain stopped and apologized. “look, i’m sorry about screaming at you, but I thought that that case was an open-and-shut one, and now internal affairs is pissing all over our investigation with this new suspect of theirs. i’m really close to making inspector, and if they find our investigation was flawed, my chances of a promotion are screwed.” i tried to interrupt, but he kept going. “all i ask is that you cool it with your little romance, so that they don’t start screaming about conflict of interest, or anything like that.”

i was incredulous. “conflict of interest? that would mean…they don’t really think she did it, do they?”

“i don’t know, steve. they seemed quite interested in her, especially her behavior after the murder and shit like that.”

i couldn’t find anything to say to that. the thought that they might suspect marie of the murder hadn’t even crossed my mind.

*****************

for a week, i took mark’s advice and didn’t keep our daily coffee date. i lied to her and told her they were sending me on assignment to another state to cover up for my absences. as usual, durrain didn’t seem to have any reaction to it whatsoever, whether positive or negative.

we were quite busy for that one week. it seemed to me that the whole city had gone nuts. murders were piling up one after another, faster than we could solve the previous ones. the entire homicide division were tense and stressed out. three policemen had been killed during a stakeout of a suspect’s house, and the entire precinct, along with the mayor’s office, were on our backs to solve the case as fast as possible. thankfully the case wasn’t assigned to durrain and i, but to lowell and ray, and we could see that it was taking its toll on them. lowell had started drinking heavily again, and had been leaving the bars after midnight every night since the murders.

saturday, the end of the week, found me at home getting some much needed r and r. i had the football game on and was working my way through a case of bud light, when the door bell rang. i got up cursing to myself, and opened the door, to find lowell and ray standing on the doorstep.

“hey guys,” i said, surprised at the intrusion. “what’s going on? no vacation for you?”

“unfortunately not, whithouse,” said ray. “can we come in?”

“sure,” i said. “what’s up, boys?” i asked once they were settled on the couch

“we’re investigating the murder of the policemen, and we’re kind of stuck. and then we thought, maybe we’re not seeing the whole picture, you know? maybe we’re too close to the investigation, and we need a third set of eyes to look over the evidence and tell us what we’re missing. so we tried to get hold of durrain, but he’s off fishing somewhere, so we came to you.”

i wasn’t insulted by what might be construed by some as an insult. durrain was a senior officer, having been in the department for years, and would obviously be the first choice for such a request, especially from new officers like lowell and ray, who had joined recently. “we were wondering,” picked up lowell, “if you could come down to the precinct with us and take a look at the evidence as well. we’d really appreciate it.”

i cursed under my breath. so much for getting some rest, but then i’d obviously be paid overtime. “sure, guys,” i said. “give me a chance to get dressed, and i’ll be with you right away.” i went upstairs to put on some clothes, and then the three of us headed out of the door together.

***********************

the precinct was mostly deserted, which wasn’t strange for a saturday. we walked up to the homicide division, and into one of the interview rooms. “this is a confidential investigation, whithouse,” said lowell. “we can’t risk anyone seeing and contaminating the evidence.”

i took a seat as lowell went to get the box of evidence. he returned shortly with a box of stuff from the crime scene, and proceeded to spread it across the table. ray explained it all to me, piece by piece.

“okay, so here are the bullets we got out of the cops after the autopsies. as you can see, they are all .44s.”

“where were they shot?” i asked.

“the left side of the head,” answered lowell.

“hmm…execution style, eh? seems to me that it yells gangland connections,” i surmised.

“that’s what we thought as well, especially because they were on surveillance of a suspected gang leader when it happened.”

“then what’s the problem?”

“well, what we can’t figure out, whithouse, is why you would do something like this.”

******************

i sat there stunned, rooted to my chair, unable to move. “what did you say?” i managed to stammer.

“look, whithouse,” said lowell, “we’re both internal affairs. we’ve been investigating you since the de vries case, because we all felt there was something wrong with the case you presented. most notably, the fact that the person you sent to jail still claims that he’s innocent.”

“also,” continued ray, “we thought it was kind of funny that you knew exactly who to arrest after you discovered the murder, and that you found all the evidence that was used against him in the trial, even though durrain was on the scene as well at the same time, and searched the place as well.”

“but we weren’t sure about anything until we spotted you cozying up to the widow after the investigation. then it hit us – maybe she hired you to do it.”

“so we talked to her, and looked at the evidence, and her alibi for the murder checked out, and she kept telling us that she hadn’t known you before the murder. so we were left with you as the only suspect.”

“and then you killed the three internal affairs men we sent in to get the evidence for us. that really wasn’t clever was it, since we matched the ballistics of the bullets to the bullet used in the de vries murder.”

i hadn’t had a chance to speak yet. now i spoke up, in what i thought was a calm, composed voice. “if you’re accusing me of something, i demand to have my lawyer here with me.”

“oh, i’m sorry steve, but the law says that we can interrogate you with no lawyer present, seeing as this is an internal investigation of something as severe as quadruple first-degree murders.”

“i didn’t do it,” i exclaimed. “i had nothing to do with any of these murders!”

“oh, really? then how do you explain this?” said lowell, throwing the gun on the table. the bastards must have dug it up from under the floorboards in the kitchen while i was changing upstairs.

“see, i’m sure that if we test the gun for fingerprints, we’ll find yours all over it. we’ve already talked to the black market dealer who sold it to you, and he will testify, under oath, that you bought it the week before the de vries murder.”

“but what we still don’t understand,” said lowell, “is why you would do something like this in the first place.”

i broke down. i couldn’t take it anymore. the strain of being found out was too much to bear.

through my tears, all i could say was, “i’m so lost without her.”