Avignon

I told Martin what happened in Avignon, what we did four years ago. At least I started telling him. It wasn’t an easy thing to do but I did it, nevertheless, and for reasons inexplicable to myself I thought that, although he would find it atrocious and hard to accept, his respect for me would grow. I thought he would realize what it meant for me, what I had to deal with post factum, until very recently, and in some ways – until the end of my life.

Either that part wasn’t striking him yet or, possibly, the realization of it only contributed to the reflection of revolt on his face.

There were pictures on the coffee table, and a ferociously torn grey envelope next to them. Three pictures. There was nothing in them, tapes would have been a different matter. I almost said that there wasn't one tenth in those photographs of what had actually been going on, but the split second it took me to open my mouth allowed me to have second thoughts about my urge to utter anything of that sort.

I took a sip of my coke, to show how unimportant all this seemed to me now and how exaggerated I thought his reaction was. The can wasn’t opened properly and a stream of the treacly beverage was dripping down my chin and on my white polo neck. That was the last thing I needed, something so petty to contribute to the indignity of the situation. But Martin didn't see it.

He was crying, and I hated him for it. Perhaps he expected me to join in, but God knows I didn’t feel like crying. I felt sick just thinking about how easy it was for him to judge us.

He knew nothing about what had happened and why . And even if we had spent the rest of the week there discussing it, if he had given me a chance to enlighten him, he would still not understand, he just didn’t have the potential.

I found his ignorance immensely frustrating. His lack of empathy was beyond annoying, itching and angering.

Never before had I found it so easy – to think that I would have to kill him. Never before had I been so keen.

I miss him so much. So very, very painfully much. And it makes me angry. Never before has it been so easy: to think that I will have to kill myself.

I know that there is someone else out there who has been asked to do it for me. But what if they’re procrastinators, like me?

I still haven't made my mind up, I don’t know which way it will be, but looking on the bright side (there always is one) - I know it will clarify one thing for me: whether cowardice or impatience is my greatest weakness. I’ve never been able to figure it out. Which is why I’ve never been able to fight either.

Wings and Hearts

Once every Mars year (686 Earth days) all the winged living beings of the Solar System are invited for a free wing check-up and a SPA treatment. This complimentary indulgence is a generous gesture on behalf of the Central Interplanetary Wing Maintenance Committee.

This year the CIWMC had to be particularly careful with the invitations, having learned the lesson from the infamous misuderstanding last time when, by a clumsy bureaucratic mistake, five Boeing airplanes were invited to this medicinal and recreational gathering, four of which turned up, and were consequently sent away with a letter of official apology and an appendix (named ‘FYI’) specifying that the treatment in question strongly relies on the neural response of the patient, which is essential within the context of the method applied.

Quoting the 'FYI': 'It is unlikely that an inanimate object would gain much from such a procedure.'

This time the committee has committed to prevent any unpleasantness of the kind they caused and experienced last time, which is best illustrated by the three complaint letters from three of the four aircrafts who attended the event in vain.

All three claimed their three hearts had been broken thrice by 1) the fatal refusal, 2) the patronizing official apology letter following it, and 3) the appendix named ‘FYI’.

There was never a letter from the fourth plane. Its heart had stopped.

The fifth aircraft didn't have a heart. At all. Or it was never found anyway.Says the official statement from the CIWMC.

***

R

‘My name is R, I’m ten years old, and I want to be a writer. And I hate watching television!’ - R states proudly in front of the camera after asking us to focus it on her.

***

It was summer when I first met R. I was sitting on the grass in this park which also happened to be a social centre and a childcare institution run by a quirky yet sincere commune. I was working on a project there with a friend. R came to me and asked, in an American accent, if I knew her. I had never met her before and honestly stated this fact: plainly, but not without consideration. She left. It wasn’t until the third time of an identical exchange of words that I started feeling that not knowing this unusual girl was something to be changed.

Day after day she spent her summer holidays there, keeping herself company. Occasionally, very rarely she would join other kids, but only for a short moment. The others treated her well, she wasn't being bullied or abused, but it was clear that she preferred to be alone, or to approach other strangers with the same question 'Do you know me?', as if trying to find someone who might introduce her to herself.

Most days she wore floral-print skirts, sporty t-shirts and trainers, and on gloomier days - an oversized pink anorak.

R’s head, for some inexplicable reason, reminded me of old photographs: her wide blue eyes behind glasses always looked surprised: an effect that was empasized by her constantly half-open mouth. Soon I realized it was her 'thinking face', never-ending processing of information that I had initially mistaklen for amazement. Her wheat coloured hair was cut in a simple short bob with a fringe. I remember thinking a very young Iris Murdoch would have looked not unlike R.

Our conversations expanded in diversity. ‘Do you know me?’ was occasionally replaced by ‘Do you want to buy a plant?’ All the funding had been recently cut from the centre-commune-park-project, and to feel like they’re helping adults in the struggle for money, children were selling plants from their garden which occupied a good corner of the park: endearing seedlinngs of tomatoes, peppers, basil and some species of flora that I didn’t even have in my vocabulary.

***

Our own project was approaching its final stage but my friend and I didn’t quite feel like leaving the place for good yet, we volunteered to do some filmmaking workshops with the local kids.

‘R is on the list too, but you should not count on her in any way. She might join you, sometimes, if she feels like it, but she may leave any time, try not to notice it, she’s been diagnosed with this and that, and she lives in the world of her own.’

We had been officially warned. But nobody had warned us about how mesmerizing R's presence could be. It must be admitted, though, that I found it much harder to resist this unintentional bewitchment than anybody else.

‘You cannot film just R!’ my friend would say. Repeatedly.

Or, when we sat down to watch my first cut of the material: ‘So. We have a film about R.’

***

We’re playing the detectives today. The mystery being the question of ‘who’s broken in the park at night and left the umbrellas under the bridge?’

The kids buy our story, they enjoy it. They know it’s a game, but still fully indulge in it: it’s good fun. When they grow tired of it they move on to building a camp, painting or playing football. The suspense has been exhausted.

Only R does not let the story go. She needs answers. She will quietly come to you and ask: ‘So who do you think it was? ’

She'll be a good writer.

She needs to start building a wall, or her worlds and their people will haunt her.

***

R’s mind is disturbingly sharp. She may seem to not know the diference between what’s real and what’s not, but her ability to analyze facts from both these worlds with the uttermost capacity of insight, deduction and logic is frightening and intimidating. R is ten years old. She will burst into tears if she’ll discover you cannot spell a certain word right. The only mistake R makes is that of mistaking her imagination (or stories she's been told) for reality.

***

R is arranging pots of water colours by the window, absorbed in thought.

‘R? We are going to film the scene about Jack’s car now, everyone else is there. Do you want to do it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let’s go then.’

‘Not now. I’m tired now.’

***

I haven’t seen R for months. Her ‘parental unit’ as R calls it, doesn’t want her to go to the park on weekends, they think it wears her out. I think it wears her out too. I don’t know whom she calls her ‘parental unit’ though. All I know about R’s parents is what the papers say, and the papers say that three years ago R was kidnapped by her father who was then arrested as she was found and brought back to her mother.

***

Fun fair at the park: an event organized by or for (or both) ex-convicts of the area. The happiest day of my summer so far, and the sunniest too. Barbecue, cakes, people of all ages dancing tango and salsa, instructed by a bulky man in track bottoms. Former prisoners rapping about how Jesus found them behind the bars and pulled them out. Spectacular ridicule. Face paint, sumo fights, games and attractions.

‘R is not here,’ my friend notices disappointed. ‘She said she would be, she asked for the time.’

‘It’s too crowded,’ I say. ‘There’s not enough space.’

We can only guess the amount of people that surround R when she seems to be alone. They would all be squashed here. She’ll be back tomorrow, asking people if they know her. Maybe, eventually, she'll find someone who will.

The Golden Croissant

We had breakfast at the ‘The Golden Croissant’- a charming corner coffee shop that served everything your  taste buds would desire except for croissants. We just ordered two ‘lattes’ trying to sound as Italian as possible, and were served two glasses of warm milk. We had said we wanted our lattes warm. We’d forgotten to mention we wanted any coffee in them.

It was about to get really warm, and milk wasn’t showing any signs of chilling to more pleasant temperature.

We discussed some things and disagreed on most of them: sometimes genuinely, but mainly on purpose.

We paid our bill and did not agree on how much we should leave as a tip. We added up my version and his version and divided the sum by two.

As we were leaving the cafe, a van stopped in front of the door. The croissants had arrived.

Curiositas

The two men were standing in the monastery hall in front of Solvo, the peculiar guru of the South who had always provided independent counsel and assessment on all worldly things across the many kingdoms. Saltus had known him well, years ago as an apprentice, and was utterly bewildered by the change in his once adored teacher.

‘You do realize that one of us is lying to you?’ Saltus said frostily.This was not a place to manifest his former affections, which he had anyway started to question in this puzzle of loyalties.

‘It is true then. You have lost any skill of judgement,’ said Cassius with scorn in his voice.

‘What I have lost is my patience and desire to spend another moment listening to either of you. Have respect, leave this place! I have no understanding of your affairs nor will I take part in them.’

‘All right then. I am taking Tristan with me,’ Saltus declared.

‘I don’t think it’s in boy’s best interests, nor that it would appeal to him,’ Solvo had again assumed the composed posture and look that were, as he thought, expected of him.

‘May I hear him say that?’

‘Young people’s minds are like rivers,’ the old man said in a softened voice, both his hands raised as though he was holding a very delicate piece of fabric. Saltus did not manage to suppress a little laugh at this sight; the corners of Cassius’s lips too were engaged in maintaining a dignified expression: for the first time in years they agreed on something – the fact that guru’s wits had decidedly abandoned him. But Solvo’s stream of wisdom was unstoppable:

‘In their swift ways of life, that often imply great courage, they’re not bothered by the rocks under their feet and dark caves and traps. They think themselves so sharp, so fearless. And they are fearless. But it’s a good riverbed, an ancient riverbed of old knowledge and tradition, that keeps them safe and guided throughout their journey. It contains them, holds them together and keeps them on track.’

‘Holy treetop, you’re a poet now. Will there be a reading in the tavern?’, said Saltus.

‘A little twisted for my taste. And what do you rely on in your journey, your profundity?’ Cassius was getting impatient.

Solvo closed his eyes, inhaled through his long and narrow nose and uttered in a velvety voice: ‘Fair wind.’ He opened his eyes and smiled with fake slyness.

‘Good luck with your wind!’ Cassius bowed vigorously and left the hall. Saltus bowed and did the same.

He had to go and find Tristan. That should not be too hard he thought. The place had never been overly supervised, and he found it hard to imagine that the man that Solvo had become could actually exert genuine authority over people, be they hermits, monks, guards or soldiers, and thankfully Saltus had not seen any of the latter around. He crossed the courtyard and headed towards the private chambers. As a young man, in other times of confusion, he had spent a good three months living here. They were not bad memories at all, in fact quite the opposite. A pleasant thought crossed his mind: he could not imagine secluding himself in here forever, but another streak of solitude and quiet he could do with when this would all be over: a holiday. For the old time sake he decided to start the search at his own old room.

‘Where do you think you are going, Saltus?’ A familiar voice resounded in the archway: Cassius's fury hadn't taken him far.

‘Are you talking to me?’

‘I believeI am, if you are who you look like. Too often people turn out to not be who they seem these days. Especially among the oak-folk.’

'If there's something you want to say, just say it. I think we’ve had enough of mumbo-jumbo for the day.’

‘Don’t undermine metaphor, Saltus, it's a cunning little thing. Here's an example for you: there will be autumn, sooner or later, and many an acorn will fall. It may be very good for the roots though, especially if they’re weak, to have all those little noutritious heroes rotting on them. What a dignified compost!’

‘You may say what you like. We all may, if we don’t mind having our heads chopped off. Since I’m quite fond of my own and not in such high regard of yours, I’ll leave the talking to you.’

‘Man of deeds, not words? But they’re not two mutually exclusive things you know? Words and deeds. My lot may be a bit mouthy right now, maybe a distastefully so, but we barely ever speak of what we don’t think worth doing. Being not scared of talk is not always a sign of wisdom.’

‘But I’m scared, Cassius. Why wouldn’t I be? Aren't you?’

‘I’m good at spotting danger when it’s around, and I definitely prefer to maintain a polite distance from it. Scared? Concerned. And most of all about you. Fear is an emotion, and weren’t you always the more emotionally advanced one?’

‘If that means that I wasn’t a cold hearted schemer...’

‘I don’t know what it means, I never have,’ Cassius laughed bitterly, ‘But that’s what our mother used to say. To me. Often enough to plant it in my head...’

They looked at each other in quiet. Saltus loved their late mother but he was also aware of how unfair she had been to his brother. For a split second he thought whether they could join in a mutual understanding of it just like they had over Solvo's raving, but before he had time to say anything or even think of what to say, Cassius spoke first:

‘This is not revenge, Saltus. Not for me. But those who do seek revenge have a point.’

‘As do we.’

‘As do you. But I have chosen my side for my own reasons. You may not be aware of them, and they might seem unwise to you if you knew, but I’m not uncertain. I am where I am. Try to believe it is more than cold scheming that keeps me with your enemy.' He bowed to leave before adding: 'Be scared... if that means you'll stay alert.’

Saltus waited for his brother to enter the central building before approaching the bedraggled wooden door that he would still recognize anywhere, and knocked on it. There was no answer. He looked around to see if anybody was about and, being as sure as he could that nobody could see him, he pushed the rusty handle and pulled a wry face at the unwelcome squeaking of the hinges. As the door opened he stood motionless in the doorway for a good moment.

‘Now there’s an uncanny coincidence.’

‘Hello, Saltus.’ Tristan was sitting on a chair near the window, looking out of it. ‘I must look more into the customs of this place. As a former resident you might enlighten me: if you knock on somebody’s door and there’s no answer, you just enter the room, am I right?’ He finally looked at Saltus. ‘You always said I was too curious.’

‘Are you well?’ Saltus asked, but found himself surprised at how good Tristan looked.

‘Very well, trust your eyes. No hidden wounds, inside or out. You?’

‘No damage whatsoever, not recently.'

Tristan got up from the chair, went to a little table with a bowl of water on it and sprinkled his face.

'Tristan, what are you doing here?’

‘I was going to ask the same. Aren’t we both curious?’

‘There are other things you should be curious about.'

‘You tease me!’

‘Maya is missing.’

Tristan seemed disturbingly unaffected by the news.

‘Well. Everything is relative,’ he said, wiping his face and hands in a towel.

‘Meaning?’

‘If someone is missing in one place, they’re not missed somewhere else.’

The uncomforatble feeling of Tristan gazing over his shoulder made Saltus turn around.

‘Tea?’ Maya was standing in the doorway and smiling.

‘I don’t...’

‘I don’t think Saltus will be staying for tea. His ...mission... has suffered failure and he now needs to work on a new plan, he has no time to waste.’

Saltus could not make out if Tristan was mocking him or not, nor could he understand how his nephew knew of the outcome of his meeting with Solvo. This entire encounter was not exactly going the way he had planned it.

‘Jonas and Heather are missing too.'

Maya and Tristan exchanged concerned looks. One couldn't tell whether they were worried about their friends or anxious about what the other two might be up to.

'Don’t tell me they too have joined your little camp here.’

‘Saltus, my excessive curiosity is growing: what do you want?’

‘I will not state the obvious - that something has obviously changed...’

‘These are times of change. Everything changes, voluntarily or not.’

Saltus held on to these words with hope. Was there the unvoluntary side to this awkwardness? He smiled an encouraging smile which seemed to irritate Tristan even more.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m not here on my own behalf. I have been asked to arrange for you to meet someone.’

‘Have you really not worked on a more convincing way to sell me on that?’

‘I don’t know much myself.’

Tristan laughed and looked out of the window.

‘They think you’re curious enough not to miss this oportunity.’

‘Oportunity?... They?’

‘The three of them, although I’ve only spoken to one.’

‘Three... one of whom?’

‘Looks like I’ve got you almost as confused as you’ve got me. If you want to see them, you’ll know where to find me first,’ Saltus had given up his perplexed expression and was now speaking in full bold confidence. He cared for Tristan, but there was a line his nephew had crossed that didn’t allow him to carry on in the same fatherly way.

‘And how will I know that?’

‘Same way I found you. You hadn't exactly scattered pebbles to mark your trace. What is the one, perhaps, the only thing we still have in common?' One side of his face pulled a resentful smile. ‘Curiosity! Sorry I have to miss the tea, Maya. Good day to you both.’

As Saltus was about to turn out of the archway, he took one last look at the chamber door which was still open, and with the corner of his eye he thought he saw a cloak disappear behind it, of the same midnight blue that his brother Cassius had been wearing earlier.

***

25.09.2011.