Pale Hours
He stared at the fake fireplace, which was struggling to pass off electric heat for the real thing. Silence filled the hall. In his contemplation, he had turned his back on the whole world. Maintaining the charade of the wise man in deep thought, he could still sense quite clearly the tense anticipation of the people scattered around the chamber, which was decorated rather meagerly. Suddenly, he was struck by a thought, wiping out the fireplace from his consciousness, and he turned to face the audience.
“We all want something from life,” he started in a monotone and fell silent, studying the eager faces with a trained eye.
They were all kinds of people – young, old, sleek, grizzled, motley, smelly, straight, bent, men and women, asexual and even gender-fluid. They were gazing at him in rapture, waiting to hear some words of wisdom.
“When we get what we want, we start looking elsewhere,” his voice had no inflection, “and so it goes until we die.”
He took a few steps to the right slowly and then stopped. He stood still for dramatic effect and then turned around on his heels casting a glance at the fake fireplace. Cheap fake!
Everyone knew who to thank for the warmth emanating from the gas radiators under the windows. Then, he faced the audience again, frowned and his words came out harsher than before.
“And like everyone else, you too want immaterial things believing they can make your life better. Money, power, women, yachts and God knows what, which will rid you of the monotony in your lives. You recognize it is utterly futile and you come to me.”
Another theatrical pause, which gave him the opportunity to scan the gaping crowd with heavy eyes. He spread his arms in a gesture of consecration and brought the verdict to bear on the witnesses:
“You have come to receive enlightenment!”
The hypnotized people dared not breathe and their skin sparked with static electricity.
“I am hardly the first one you have tried your luck with,” he lowered his hands and his voice sounded preachy. “You wanted great secrets revealed, took part in fancy rituals which promised divinations, took drugs to unlock your potential and some even believed they would see Don Juan. Alas! You were all deceived and your disappointment kept mounting,” boomed the imposing voice and suddenly his words rang with steely resolve: “…Until this day! Tonight, I will reveal the world to you as it is!”
He fell silent, fixing his followers with a stare and then dealing his final blow in a voice from the grave:
“It will cost you!”
He loosened his grip on the audience a bit and stared gravely out of the window at the snow slowly piling up over the unsettling evening. Thunder rumbled in the distance shaking the wintry evening out of its stillness and weather routine. He did not blink – he could not afford to show any signs of stress or surprise during his show.
He had played this game for so long and it was beginning to take a toll. He was not young and full of energy anymore. The determination which had once been strong and kept him going was waning day by day leaving a pale old man behind.
He found himself looking at a small nondescript woman standing at the back of the hall. The look of a superstitious atheist in her eyes spoke of her readiness to gift him everything he wanted but also of the fear of being mocked. His open face, high forehead and fiery eyes had earned her trust. He was more gangly than imposing but deep in the fragile shell his power was lurking.
His hair was thinning and going grey in pockets giving away his advanced age but this only added to his raw charm. She had seen many messiahs who had turned out to be crooks just as he had said and not a single one could hold a light against him. Besides, she was convinced he was the one true warden of the secret lore.
A highly respected seer once foretold she would meet him on a fateful day after a funeral. It was Friday the 13th; exactly a year since the death of her father-in-law. The previous night, she had seen a white raven in her dream and everybody knows what this means. And now, he was right there. He would unlock the gates, save her from grief and ease her pain.
She had suffered a lot and was knee-deep in the second half of her life. Her restless eyes were full of despair and her hair was dry and ashen. Worries had sucked the life out of her body leaving it bent and broken. The poor soul looked like a gnarly old tree branch. Grief over her children dragged her through a life of pain. The pain was so unbearable that she would do anything to make it stop.
Her younger child, a daughter, had gone missing in the chaos of war while her elder son suffered from a mental illness the doctors were unable to explain. For as long as she could remember, she was torn between taking care of her sick child and the fruitless search for her innocent daughter. She was devastated by so much suffering and yet she clung to a vague hope that kept her alive.
Barely alive was more like it since she had paled and could hardly stand on her legs. Eyes still on her savior, she lurched and leaned on a dapper man next to her. He flinched at the sight of the woman, feeling genuine disgust at the general state of neglect in her appearance. She mumbled an apology without looking at him and he stepped away, putting as much distance as he could between them.
How he hated such useless creeps! They stank! He thought she had never taken a proper bath before and what was someone like her doing here in the first place?
The event was glamorous and promised to open the gates to sacred knowledge and make him God’s equal. Surely no one else around deserved it more than he did. He had fought tooth and nail to climb up the social ladder. He had started at the bottom, crawling out like a maggot from the dung heap.
He quickly learned only the fittest survived and never balked at crushing his opponents or even his own kin. If he had ever had a soul, it had departed a long time ago.
He looked at his only son with disdain as the boy destroyed himself slowly with drugs. He used his wife as a punch bag and guinea pig for sexual experiments. Ashamed of his own origin, he had sent his parents out of the way to live overseas. He had gone from rags to riches but craved more because he was convinced he was entitled.
He believed this to be true and yet he felt jaded and bored by success.
His pale eyes found the stage again. Thankfully, he had not missed much from the greatest show in his life. He rudely pushed an interracial gay couple out of his way and moved closer to the stage. Their indignation was obvious but they stepped aside nonetheless out of courtesy.
They had recently gone through a mystic ritual at their wedding ceremony and felt it was the right time to come tonight and drink from the fountain of wisdom.
One was a blonde with blue eyes, while his partner had monolid eyes and long straight pitch-black hair. Mister Blue Eyes looked at his partner, who was following the undoubtedly exotic ceremony intently and was filled with kindness. This man would do anything for such a childishly naïve human being.
As far as he was concerned, there was no way he would fall for the charlatan’s old tricks. It was easy to see through all this affected posturing, the smoky veils of contrived mysticism and grandiose occultist claims. But his partner there genuinely believed that “the Grand Adept of the Order of the Golden Dawn” would divulge the secrets of his past lives.
He was convinced he was Marilyn Monroe reborn because he had those recurrent dreams about Yves Montand cradling him in his arms. This made Blue Eyes intensely jealous and at the same time somewhat ashamed because the popular cabaret singer was dead.
Seeing himself hiding behind the mask of a snob was downright unbearable. The pale hours spent fighting yourself are the ultimate test for any man. Still, he was ready to sacrifice everything in the name of love.
He gently took his lover’s hand and felt the young man lean in affectionately without taking his eyes off the stage.
This display of affection would have remained private if the lover’s embrace did not block the view of the notable New Yorker standing behind them. The corpulent man moved sideways without making any comments because he was polite too. Nevertheless, he was upset. He had his reasons which had nothing to do with this provocative same-sex moment of affection. They just had to put a white guy in this important position, didn’t they? An Indian host would have done more justice to this esoteric ceremony. Darn imperialists! He hoped at least that he was not wasting his time. The fancy invitation by the Lodge advertised a world of infinite possibilities, a life-changing experience and dreams turning into reality.
It could all be one big hoax but so far, he had nothing to complain about. The vast theatre hall was in a central location and real-time translation was provided. Food and drinks were acceptable and the man on stage was really trying. Damn, this guy had tons of confidence. The corpulent man scolded himself because envy was malicious.
On the other hand, he had reasons to be proud too – he had played an active part in redecorating the Statue of Liberty as a Statue of Color. A socially responsible act of importance to the world. The white person was most likely just a crook who made some big claims but had nothing to show for it. Thus convincing himself of his moral superiority, the foreigner looked at the orator with a wan smile. Still, it would not do if the magician’s act was just a scam because people would be bitterly disappointed. He really dreamed about living in a world where color did not matter. He was tired of fighting prejudice and hate.
Nevertheless, he sometimes fell victim to prejudices himself. Someone farted and he turned to look at the elderly man on his right. His hair was white but still healthy and thick, and his face, nestled in a white beard was lined with wrinkles. The old man’s milky eyes looked tired and a woolen overcoat hugged a body that was skinny and bent. He had the venerable looks of a centennial tree which had weathered many storms. He was leaning on a wooden cane, gripping it tightly with his bony hands as if he were reluctant to let go of the land of the living. He harboured little hope the young man on stage would reveal the secret of existence this evening or gift him a fruit from the Tree of Life.
Still, he knew all about slim chances and there he was – ready to play with whatever cards he was dealt. Besides, there was nothing to do at home. He knew he was a burden to his kids, despite their claims to the opposite. His son-in-law was more forthright though.
The old man could not do any housework or tend to his needs, which often caused all kinds of inconveniences. He was better- off surrounded by strangers who seemed not to notice him. Alive among the living. All through the evening, he observed – people drifting inside their own bubbles. The bubbles flashed briefly with life, each a different universe bound to the will of its host and yet isolated from all other universes. Someone had to pop them or these people would remain forever trapped inside their illusory worlds. Perhaps the young man was the one to do it.
Despite leaning on his cane all evening, the old man’s feet grew tired so he rested on one of the warm radiators lining the windows. A snow blizzard was blowing outside. Ever since he arrived, he could hear dull thuds coming from the radiator pipes as if someone was beating them with a hammer deep underground. As a matter of fact, the noise was coming from the basement. The handyman had been trying to fix the damn pipes all day. He was not the patient type and was sure that fate had screwed him because he obviously deserved better than this miserable life. The gas system was causing him trouble all morning and in a fit of rage, he had taken a hammer to the pipes to vent his frustration.
In the gloomy winter evening, he was bone-weary. He tossed the hammer aside and plopped himself on the floor lighting a cigarette.
* * *
The howling wind was packing snow in all the deaf hollows of the dirty city. Night descended upon the sleepy streets enveloping them in a cold embrace. The police officer parked the car by a snowdrift and got out without much enthusiasm. Bracing himself against the freezing wind, he slowly approached the crime scene. The tramcar had stopped a little further down the line and the passengers had piled on the side windows. They were instructed to wait inside until the place was secured and the investigation team arrived.
His partner and he were closest to the location so they were the first to turn up. He was hoping his shift would run smoothly and now this – a pedestrian run down by a tramcar! Earlier that day, the road had been treated with salt which had melted the snow into thick sludge. Buffeted by sudden gusts of wind, the officer slid a few times on his way to the tram lines while his colleague stayed behind to divert late traffic. He lit a cigarette and surveyed the area. The body was lying in a pool of blood by the rails like a doll tossed aside by a cranky kid. The head had rolled a few steps away this side of the rails.
Damn! The tram lines were right on the border between two precincts and the body was in the middle. The investigation had to be run by the precinct where the body had been found. If it was up to him, he would not stay a minute longer out in the cold and then there was all the paperwork to complete. He looked around. It would be some time before other officers arrived and the passengers in the tramcar were some distance away. The lights inside were on while out there it was dark. They could not see much. He sidled closer to the head and sent it across the street with a precise kick. It rolled and came to a halt on the other side of the lines rather despondently. There! It was someone else’s jurisdiction now! It had been a gruesome day; a do-nothing day and he was tired.
The night shift had got off badly enough but experience and resourcefulness helped him get out of a bad situation. He smiled and headed for the car that beckoned with warmth and the promise of a smoke in private before his partner joined him. He had just taken a seat and was looking for his lighter when a weary voice came over the radio:
“123?”
His reply came immediately.
“123 listening”
“We received a signal for a blast at the City Gallery. Suspected gas leak but it could be a terrorist attack. Possible casualties. Apparently, there was a sectarian gathering in one of the halls. You are nearest. Head over and await instructions.
“Got it! Over!”
The radio went dead and he swore. Then he sighed and lit the cigarette.
based on future records
ABOUT THE WRITERS
Some of their stories actually survive. They have been writing since 1994 in Sofia, Bulgaria.
https://www.wearetheana.com/issue-13“Samodiva” by Radus&Mareto, 2024, The Bookends Review, issue 27, US
https://thebookendsreview.com/2024/01/19/samodiva/“Black water” by Radus&Mareto, 2024, Aphelion webzine, issue 295
https://www.aphelion-webzine.com/shorts/2024/06/BlackWater.html
