"I've never seen you before! Go away!" Cory slammed the door in my face. The chain made scraping noises as it rattled against the door. I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, knowing she could see me through the peephole. I couldn't believe it. Of all the people, I thought Cory would be the one person who I could talk to about all this, and she didn't know me either. I walked down the stairs to my car; the space I had parked in was now occupied by a rusty VW Beetle. On the hood, Plymouth stood on all stubby fours, a plush hood ornament.
"Why are you still here?" he asked.
The tips of my fingers and earlobes tingled. I shivered despite the heat as the hairs on the nape of my neck prickled.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"To find out why you weren't erased with the others," he said, matter-of-fact. "You should have disappeared in a blink, instead of this fading-away mess. What makes you so special?"
Very quickly, as they buzz past buses and women in stalls and lunchtime workers on their way back to the bank or telegraph office, Arn lifts himself up onto his knees, turns around over the back of the seat, and pecks a kiss on Luc's cheek.
He plainly could not help it. Luc doesn't blame him. Arn was overcome. But Luc does not know what to make of it. In the end, he decides to pity. His friend could not help it, but he got over-excited, he is from a different culture, and you have to be aware of imposing Western meanings. It was a familial kiss...
No it wasn't.
He stood in the courtyard dominated by ancient oaks, and waited for something to happen. His index finger tingled slightly. In a nearby tree was the fluorescent orange frisbee that he had accidentally planted there the week before in his overzealous throwing (his father had just clucked his tongue and said, "Well that's that, then"). Tristram thought about the word on the inside of his ring, the word in direct contact with his skin, and he jumped.
It was an unremarkable jump, maybe a foot from the ground, but he could have sworn that he had hung at the apex for just a hair longer than normal. He jumped again, and this time he was certain. He jumped again and again, his height and hang time increasing with each attempt, his landings soft, as if cushioned. He couldn't believe it. Up and up and up, as if using an exponential pogo stick, laughing with the joy of it, jumping high enough to reach the upper branches of the oak tree, and then snagging the frisbee with ease.
There came a night so terrible that no one ever dared to name it. There came a night so terrible that I could not. There came a night so terrible that no one could explain it. There came the most terrible of nights. No, that's not right, either. There came the most terrible of nights that could not be forgotten, or forgiven, or even named. That's closer, but sometimes I choose not to revise. Let it be raw and awkward splayed across the page, as it was in life.
Words would later be offered up like "atrocity," "massacre," and "madness," but I reject those words. They did not, could not, cannot contain what they need to contain.
Could we have known? Could we have wrenched our attention from our more immediate concerns long enough to understand the warning signs? Now, of course, it all seems clear enough. Duncan had said the war could not continue in the same way for long, and he was right.
D'Souza loses his balance, slides slowly down the bars, into the darkness of the floor.
"Take a message to my wife or do not take a message to my wife..."
And then, in a self-mocking tone: "It truly does not matter. I have dreamed of flying to her myself, you know. Flying over this country of El Toreador. My arms are like wings and I can feel the wind cool against my face. All the stars are out and there are no clouds. Such a clear, clean darkness. It seems almost a miracle, such clarity...Below me I can make out the shapes of banana plantations and textile factories. I can tell the green of the rainforest from that of the pampas. I see the ruins of the Maya and the shapes of mountains, distant...and yet when I wake I am still here, in my cell, and I know I am lost."
D'Souza looks up at Gabriel, the whites of his eyes gleaming through the broken mask of his face and says, "My wife's name is Maria D'Souza. When I have died, you must tell her so she can come for my body."
There are several inches of slack within which every car can shunt, and our colleagues show considerable skill and cunning in making a space. In no time at all I am able to drive up onto the sidewalk, where the siren terrorizes the pedestrians. Pichai grins. I am skilled at very dangerous driving from the days when we used to take drugs and steal cars together, a golden age which came to an end when Pichai murdered our yaa baa dealer and we had to seek refuge in the Three Jewels of the Buddha, the dharma, and the sangha. There will be time in this chronicle to explain yaa baa.
[...]
We are very happy. Sabai means feeling good and sanuk means having fun. We are both as we race toward the bridge in demonic haste, with Pichai chanting in Pali, the ancient language of the Gautama Buddha, for protection from accidents. He asks also of the Buddhist saints that we do not accidentally kill anyone who does not deserve it, a touchy point with Pichai.
Krung Thep means City of Angels, but we are happy to call it Bangkok if it helps to separate a farang from his money.
Dashed yellow lines strobe past in my headlights, rolling to the left under the car, dividing the asphalt into neat little lanes. The trees flash by in the darkness, blurred purgatory grey. I pull the Mustang out of my lane, line up those pulsing yellow dashes dead center in my grille. I edge the wheel to the left, back to the right, taunting, teasing. The beltline around Raleigh, North Carolina is desolate at 3 a.m., free of witnesses. White Zombie roars out of the speakers: ". . . eye for an eye and a tooth for the truth . . ." I nose the Mustang past sixty, past seventy, past eighty. I’m all over the road now.
Flashing blue lights appear behind me and I smile.
