Love and the Dark Night

TWO

Rudi’s POV        

A child. It was surrounded in a shadow. A child in a lemon-yellow frock, with some stains here and there. She opened her mouth. She was trying to say something. Ru… I am… I opened the door further and stepped aside. But she stood at the same place, only moving her head to one side twice. “Come here,” I said. “Not to worry.” But she stepped back, became hazier, and before I could come out of my amazement, she melted away into the wall of the common corridor next to the elevator.

I stood at the door for how long I didn’t calculate, but the sudden noise of the moving elevator woke me up from my trance. I stepped out, locked the door and hit the road. At Ballygunge Phari crossing, the crowd was a bare minimum. The auto rickshaws cruised along in a smooth, lazy line, their yellow and green colour looking bright and washed against the March sunlight, especially with its slight dryness that was escaping and the cool-dry breeze wafting. I decided to walk. I crossed the four-crossing and proceeded ahead. “It’s gonna be a good day, baibay!” and I mentally patted my shoulder.

Sometimes it’s nice to surrender yourself to your surroundings. The shopkeepers pushing their grill gates open in a slowness that spelled they were yet to remove the last layer of sleep from their minds, the vendors unwrapping their neatly folded goods – bedcovers, bed sheets and cushion covers – seemed to forecast a good and positive day for me. I proceeded ahead, crossing the book vendors having already put up their books on display and promising myself I would have to loiter around here very soon once again.

I turned from the gas station to the right, and there, the second shop with glass door was the coffee shop. I decided to cross the road and walk half the distance of the pavement ahead, on whose left side lay the lake, and return to have coffee. The walk would not take more than fifteen minutes.

The atmosphere here was exhilarating. Nothing could be more thrilling than the breeze hitting the cool water of the lake and wafting out, and transporting you to nirvana. My eyes followed one of the leaves picked out by an invisible hand from the tree and released into space. It sailed down, dancing a dance with the waist swaying from side to side.

A sudden tap-tap on my stomach turned my gaze. I was looking down at the face of a child looking up with a light and entreating smile. Light brown eyes, sharp nose, sweet lips; hair falling just below the shoulders; and slim and pretty looking. A child with a lemon-coloured frock; a several-day old frock; a frock with stains and some dust and dirt. A pair of old footwear covered her tiny feet; and as afore said, a slight smile on her lips, yet certain sadness which came from far away.

The child outside my door!

The crying, my mind said.

My first reaction was she was a road-side child and was looking for alms. I generally don’t dive my hand into my pocket and take out money to give it to the proffered hand. But I look around for a shop selling eatables and buy something and put it in the hand. Now when I looked around, all I could see was a chai trolley, a mobile shop sort of, on the pavement several metres behind me. The owner had his back to the railing of the lake. Bottles of biscuits and one brand of cake slices stood in front of the shelf; and an aluminium container was hissing out steam from a burning stove. I smiled at the girl and gestured her to wait. I turned and walked up the several metres to the chai man, bought a slice of cake and four biscuits. When I turned, the girl had vanished. And there was no soul around, except a middle-aged couple with walking sneakers on, walking on the path around the lake. And outside, the pavement was bare except the chai man and me. I shrugged my shoulders and gave back the eatables to the chai man.

“Please give these to the little girl who was with me, if you happen to see her anytime.” I said. He smiled at my words. “By the way,” I asked him, “does she stay here?” and I pointed at the pavement.

“No, I didn’t see her earlier anytime.” And he continued stirring the tea on the stove. I thanked him but before that I told him to give the eatables to any pavement child if this one didn’t come.

I retraced my footsteps and stepped into the coffee shop. While the coffee was to arrive at my table I connected my cell phone to G Mail. This is a usual feature with me when sitting for a while and chasing my thoughts, to quickly browse through my mail. I looked at the inbox. Another mail from Damasque! I quickly opened it. By the time I came you were gone, Rudi! I need to meet you!

“Came where? Who are you?” I asked the opened mail. To Damasque. To the silent mail.

Calm down, Rudi, I told myself. Breathe in. Breathe out. Deep inhale; hold your breath. Deep exhale; hold your breath. By the tenth count I was breathing normally. I tried recollecting my whereabouts a while ago. Yes, I was outside the pavement of the lakes; I was enjoying the scenery; I commented on the cool breeze; and a poetic line peered into my mind. Then a tap-tap on my stomach; and I looked down at the sweet face of a child. She had a faraway look.

Faraway. Lebanon! Lebanese! Lebanese look! A child with a Lebanese look! Was she    Damasque! Is this Damasque? Lebanese features!

Do I look normal? Does my face give away my thoughts? I looked around the café. A couple was sitting at the other corner of the door about three metres away from my table. The man at the counter to my extreme left was hitting the keyboard and occasionally lifting up his face to look at the computer screen. The two waiters were inside the kitchenette. Otherwise the café was devoid of customers. Still unconvinced, I turned my cell phone to silent mode, lifted it to the level of my face and clicked a selfie. I looked at my picture. Studied it. No marks of excitement did my face reveal.

I put my hand up and looked at the man at the counter. He called one of the waiters. I requested him to lend me a pen and a piece of paper. I wrote in capital letters the name DAMASQUE. Unscramble as many words you can, Rudi, I instructed myself. DAME. MASQUE. MAD. MADE. DAM. ADAM. SAME. MEAD. SAD.

Who is this Damasque? The question came up once again in my mind and reverberated in my skull. Is the name feminine? Masculine? Is she a woman with a mask trying to fake her character? Is she mad? Or does the name belong to a man who has worn a feminine name to ruin me? And, by the way, why me?

Ruin me from what? I gradually began rewinding my life, stepping as back as possible. Friendship. I had a few good friends from school whose friendship existed till today. Then came college life where new friends were made. We did bunk classes, as is the culture among college students. But as far as my memory can stretch, I couldn’t recall any untoward incident involving either the college authorities or any friends. We never indulged in any kind of physical bashing though. All we did was go out for movies together, play football and listen to songs and attend rock shows wherever they performed especially in the Open Air Theatre which was later rechristened to Nazrul Manch. And when I was alone, I remained deeply immersed into composing poems and strumming the guitar and writing lyrics and playing and singing them, especially enjoying them with my cousin whenever he came down from Kurseong. I even dabbled with oil painting. There were parties though where we college friends sometimes drank beer, and other alcoholic beverages. Girls came by. We were friends. We smoked weed.

But no, no harm did I fling upon anyone.

As far as relationship was concerned I’d been good friends. And I gave girls their share of respect. But when my first painting exhibition was put up in the City Gallery, it did make some people jealous, but I had taken their jealousy as my success. Besides, that had nothing to do with my harming anyone.

Professional jealousy. I had an office-room of my own and an attached room used as a classroom. The office-room was where I met my students’ parents and conducted creative writing classes in the classroom. My students were mostly high-school boys and girls and some working men and ladies. Besides, some of my students’ parents too polished up their creative writing skills. Thus, in no way had I incited anybody’s wrath against me.

I looked at the time in my cell phone. It’s time to leave, I told myself. I began walking home. The crowd had increased by now, it being around just past twelve. On the way I picked up some fruits. On reaching home (which I did in thirty minutes) I put my clothes into the washing machine, and while the clothes were looked into, I got the pieces of chicken out from the fridge and set the microwave pan and when the basics were ready, I put the pieces of meat into the pan and timed six minutes and pressed the start button.

But why am I describing all this to myself? I do this every day. No, not every day but most of the days. Because whenever Anais was around, she prepared the dishes. That gave me a break to continue with my writing.

I’m saying all this… well, I don’t know why… Perhaps… perhaps all my movements were being watched. Was there a CCTV somewhere in the corner of my ceiling? I looked up. Except a small cobweb in one corner, the ceiling was as clean as my face. I walked up to the mirrored cabinet of the common washroom and studied my face. Yes, it was undoubtedly clean, except three creases of worry on the forehead. Anais had commented that I was the only one whom she had ever seen without wearing a crease of worry. And she felt proud about the fact. If that was the case, why was there the mark on my forehead today? I clicked a picture of my forehead with my cell phone. I scrolled to the previous picture taken in the coffee shop and compared the two. There was not much of a difference in the foreheads of both the snaps. Was this then in my mind? Like a virus, had this thought penetrated into the corner-most corner of my mind that I, Rudi Lopez was being watched? Who would be watching me? Damasque?

Then a tap-tap sounded on the door.