The receding river, pushed far below its normal levels by sustained and terrible drought, had exposed banks that hadn’t been seen in a time immemorial. Among the finding’s Professor Jacobs and his team had made was a round block so long fossilized that they had, at first, assumed it a common stone. However, when it was taken back to the lab with the rest of the excavation’s haul, the professor had discovered it a mummified turtle. It had been buried in the side of the river post-mortem after a series of hieroglyphs had been carved into its shell.
Fascinated by whatever ritual had required such an odd protocol, he set about deciphering the glyphs immediately. Assuming that it was a sacrifice to some unknown river god or a ghastly part of some spring ritual, he instead found an ominous dictum. Into the shell of this ancient tortoise was graven pictographs that translated thusly:
To start at the beginning go here. To hear an audio reading of the chapter, hit the play button below.
When I woke up the women were gone. The silence was so complete that made the walls of the apartment feel thicker, nothing permeating them, not even birdsong from the few windows in the kitchen. The only thing that came through was sunshine filtered to a sepia through the glass stained with years of dirt.
I stumbled around for a few minutes calling for Sophie. Although I was mostly certain it wasn’t the case, there was a part of me that worried she had left with them never to come back. It was one of the few times I regretted the decision not to have mobile phones.
Maybe because that was eating at me, or maybe it was just old-fashioned hunger, that I decided to head to Simon’s and check on the phone I had left with him. Despite all of the noise that this knotted affair was producing, Mitnick was still at the middle of it; the mysterious girl, the casino, the dead man, Atwell. Mitnick seemed to touch all of it. A part of me warned the rest that if Sarti knew about Mitnick, Mitnick might know about my contact with Sarti. I decided to get cleaned up and head that way, regardless.
In the shower, what I was sure was the mostly imaginary smell of the dead Belarusian stuck to me, compelling me to wash out the inside of my nose. Examining the possible motives for the phantom smell, I knew it wasn’t guilt (I hadn’t killed him), or regret (odds were better people had died in worse ways that day), but something I couldn’t quite nail down. On the way to Simon’s whatever it was compelled me to thumb at the passport in my pocket, wondering who he had been and why he had been killed.
On the tram I took it out and examined the document. The name of its former owner had been Sergei Molotov. He had come from Sevastopol to die in a foreign land for sins unknown. He was a big blonde bruiser of a man, seemed to have hunched himself into the small rectangle of the passport photo. He didn’t smile, but his eyes weren’t without humor. That last part felt like biggest difference between the two of us. But then that smell came back and Cheryl’s voice reminded me that Sergei was lying on a slab somewhere and I was in a nice, smooth tram in a sunny country filled with tourists and money.
Trying to shake whatever phantom hold the photo had on me, I spotted an office supply store and hopped off. I went in for a few minutes and was quickly pointed to a copier by squat and tanned young lady whose name tag pronounced her with the unfortunate name of Candida. After making copies of the passport I remembered I had given Sophie the vast majority of the cash. I sighed, wishing I had thought better of it, but was grateful enough that I still had enough to buy breakfast.
Back on the tram, I headed to Simon’s. He had gotten most of the graffiti off his front door. Whatever cleaner he had used left a lighter spot than the rest of it, the corrosive agent having taken the top few layers of wood with it, like some kind of bad tattoo removal. Chairs were stacked up on either side of the door, ready to be carried inside, signaling that it was near the end of the day. Close at hand should any of the neighborhood miscreants decide to get themselves a free chair, Simon stood sweeping the cigarette butts and dropped bits of food from his sidewalk.
After a polite hello and an exchange about our days I asked him if I could still get breakfast. He smiled, pleased that I had thought of his establishment despite my change in hours, and ushered me in. Sat at the back of the cafe, he presented me with a cup of coffee and I asked to borrow some scissors. He nodded, thinking nothing of it, and brought scissors with him when he returned with a small glass of juice. I was cutting the pictures out of the passport copies by the time he had come back with the eggs. He stood there for a moment, holding the plate hostage, eyeing me with an uncustomary curiosity. I couldn’t blame him – the last few days had been strange.
But I could tell he was smiling. Surprisingly, Simon didn’t say anything straight off, but set the plate down and went outside to finish bringing in the last of his chairs. The smell of the eggs, riding that perfect edge between the bland smell of undercooked and the sulfur of overdone, hit me and I set the scissors down. I scarfed the eggs and most of the croissant before Simon returned.
With my thick fingers making the scissors feel like a toy and the cutting like some kind of collage project, Simon’s minor reprobation at the speed of my meal made me feel small. Not accustom or comfortable with this, I returned his stare. His eyes moved off mine towards what I was doing and his expression became one of inquiry. He sat down across from me, produced a cigarillo from his breast pocket and lit it thoughtfully.
Waving out a match he spoke to me in French. “The rains have become less frequent.”
Returning
to my scissor work, I found myself without much to say. “Oui,”
may have been my insightful reply.
My lack of engagement with the usual topic of our French lesson, though, only enabled Simon to ask what was really on his mind. “What are you doing? Do you know this man?” He indicated the photocopies of Sergei with a smoky motion of his hand.
I thought about it, my tongue sticking out in the slightest bit of concentration, focusing on the paper as well as what I could tell Simon. “He’s gone missing,” I said as I freed another Sergei from the borders of his passport.
Simon
took one of the copies, pinning it to the table with his forefinger
and sliding it to him. He examined the dead man’s photo with an
appraising raised eyebrow. “I don’t recognize him.”
“That’s probably for the best,” I said without thinking, causing Simon’s evaluating expression to turn to me. Searching for an explanation I could manage in French I added, “He’s not a good person.” I didn’t know that, of course, but given what I did know, it was the most likely conclusion.
The stories we tell ourselves are importants tool in deciding who we are. We try them on, keeping some, and casting others away. The decisions, and inevitable rebuffs, that create that image may, in fact, be central to the process of determining who we really are This is true for humans and all human endeavors. Whether it’s is a tribe, a country, or a company, the stories we tell each other, from Beowulf to Briar Rabbit, all speak to how we see ourselves and almost always have layered meanings.
Take, for instance, the tale of George Washington and the cherry tree. In the tale, George Washington ‘cannot tell a lie’ and that is central to the story. The idea is that the founding father of the United States was an honest man and, maybe, this integrity is central to the American character.
But equally important to note is that the Washington of the story doesn’t tell the truth until confronted by a father that (as any parent will attest) most likely already knew who damaged his property. Which brings us to the question, did Washington tell the truth because of innate righteousness? Or because he was practical enough to see that lying would only result in more trouble? Both interpretations are entirely valid. And perhaps both are true.
Like all things of human nature the stories we tell ourselves have a duality that are not always evident upon cursory examination.
To start at the beginning go here.To hear an audio reading of the chapter, hit the play button above.
Sophie smiled and nodded, excused herself from the other women as if she were leaving a dinner party and followed me into the other room. I got myself a glass of water out of the tap and leaned against the sink. Sophie examined my face, clearly trying to discern my emotional state. Good luck with that, considering I couldn’t get a fix on it myself. I sipped my water and then asked with a glance towards the den of women, “So what’s up?”
“We have been asking about the girl,” Sophie stated plainly. “I thought I would ask some of the locals.”
That wasn’t surprising considering the initiative Sophie had shown with the driver. But to confirm a suspicion I asked, “Prostitutes?”
She held her arms to herself tightly under the elbows, looking at the kitchen wall adjacent to the den as if she could see through it. “Si. These women seemed upset. I thought they might have a missing friend.”
“That would be a hell of a coincidence.”
She shrugged, returning a gaze that dared me to say what she could or couldn’t do. “They were missing someone. Jardin. They were very worried.”
Trying to keep any judgement out of my voice I asked, “What did you do?”
“They showed me where Jardin was. And I brought her back.”
“I thought you said she was missing.”
“Not missing.” Still keeping the elbow in her left hand she raised her right, trying to pinpoint the right phrase. “Taken,” she concluded, green eyes back on me.
Frustration caused me to rub my eyes, more out of an effort to conceal it than anything else. “So her pimp took her off the circuit to rough her up and you just…went and found her?” People who traded in the flesh of their fellow human beings are a particularly ruthless group, so I couldn’t imagine whoever this was just gave Jardin up. But Sophie nodded her head as if that’s exactly what happened.
“Did they mention a Corsican?”
“No.”
“Then why did you get involved in this? I thought we were looking for that particular girl.” I gestured towards the wall she had been staring at, “What do they have to do with it?”
Sophie’s eyes became as hard as flecked chlorite. “He was beating her with a wire hanger.”
“Jesus, please tell me you didn’t kill him.”
Sophie’s expression provided me with all of the clarity of a sphinx. After a moment I realized what that meant and I said it. “You don’t know.”
She shrugged. And didn’t care, it said.
I couldn’t help keep the anger out of my voice now. “Sophie, we can’t just go sticking our nose into everyone’s would-be problems. You remember the last time we got mixed up with a neighbor?”
“Si. You found me.” That stopped me short. I had been thinking of Verdicchio and his gang of thugs, the violence and fear and uncertainty that dealing with them had entailed, but Sophie was right. Somewhere in the discussion I had gotten Cheryl and her conflated and that realization burned brighter than any fear.
“OK,” I spoke, mostly to calm myself. “So now what?”
Sophie turned her head to examine me sidewise. “Eh?”
“You found their friend. You brought them here out of the rain. Presumably you have or will feed them.” My voice was getting quieter and smaller with each sentence. “Now what? Are they going to live here?”
“No,” she shook her head, “di certo.”
“Then what?” I could see whatever mixture of anger and compassion had fueled Sophie’s choices through the early morning hours hadn’t allowed for consideration beyond them. She clasped her arms across her chest again, returned to starting at the wall, seeking some kind of answer there. She started to speak a few times, but never got more than a few words out.
I couldn’t provide the answer for her anymore than I would take away the parts of her that had brought these women here. I sighed, then pulled out the wad of Euros. The past evening’s activities had only peeled away its outer most layer. Taking Sophie’s hand, I gave her the money. “Take this. It should help.”
“What will I do with it?”
“I don’t know. Put them up for the night, buy them new clothes. Send them to finishing school.” I shrugged, using the motion to take off the peacoat. “I’m going to bed.”
I hung up the coat on the hat rack next to the door. Watching me from the kitchen, Sophie said, “We will be quiet.”
It didn’t matter. I was so exhausted I slept like it was my first night on Parris Island.
Callisto was a bear, her father a wolf, and her son a hunter. What kind of dreadful world can lead to such a travesty of events? The same kind of world that breeds a father that would murder his own son to lay his flesh upon the table to test a stranger’s knowledge. The same kind of world that would see a woman cast out by her religious order for having the misfortune to be raped. The kind of world that has gods who think turning you into a bear is fair, and who think doing the same to your son is avoiding a tragedy.
Uncertain and pained about her future, she said this to me over coffee, no sugar. The shop we were in was loud with all of the sounds of the modern world; cell phones twittered, doors chimed, laptops chattered. I thought about all of the time that stretched between Callisto’s epoch and now, and how none of that had made the world less random or cruel, only more exact in its explanations. This caused me to remember Callisto’s tale as an explanation of the circumpolar nature of two constellations. I reminded my companion that, after transforming them into bears, the gods had hung Callisto and her son in the stars.
That would complete their cruel fate, she said, to be hung forever in the firmament, as something they never were.
