Niko’s Eye

Chapter 35.

"Retreat."

Aisha.

I was born under the God of War, and with the heart of a child who was always full of vengeance and hatred for all. Perhaps that’s why I have wound up here. Perhaps that’s why I’m a defender, one who seeks to protect myself no matter the personal cost. I am the angel warrior, made to forever guard what belongs to me. I think that is my definition of love. Self-love.

For when you love yourself, you defend everything that involves you, you work to find solutions that keep you safe - unconditional love, no borders or frontiers. This has been a mad world for time out of mind and perhaps it will be that way for a while. Yet I’m here to inject some sanity for myself in keeping my own peace. That’s how you fork in the road and make out the destination each choice will lead to. I wish I was more magical, that there was a way to whisper myself out of this mess. I love myself to sanity, but perhaps there would always have to be a big stick carried softly.

Hollywood crime dramas are my drug of choice. In those choreographed moments, directed by the greats and acted by legends I am free to explore my dark side. I do not root for the hero, but I enjoy the sick logic of the villain. Murder and violence for lust and money, it makes my soul tick in a way that ordinary life fails to. The movies are as much a drama in my mind, my inner self, as it is a story played out on the silver screen. I’m a self confessed "film noir" junkie. Simply buying the ticket is a Saturday night ritual I cannot forego. My heart rate quickens and I feel a tingle in my finger tips as the transaction completes. The cashier smiles, but for all her commercial faux-charm I am already drifting into that fictional mindset.

I am already a hero, a villain, a cheating lover and mob boss. My car is a 1929 Studebaker President, not a run down corvette with chipped paint and a tail pipe more rust than metal. My stride and posture change, no longer the run down gas-station woman from Mexico, there is a swagger in my lengthening stride and a confidence that belongs to Marlon Brando. I can never get enough of his movies: A Street Car Named Desire, Guys and Dolls, The Godfather.

If anyone asks my name from this moment on I say "Marlon," and tip my trilby. I become that genius of filmography and the real world drifts away as if it was the fictional world and the movies are my new reality.

But here I am. Stuck in my own movie. The script is lost. The plot has been destroyed. I can’t get out of the screen. What a bad show.

Aisha begins to laugh.

Officer Rãmirez locks her in a serious gaze.

Aisha paused, head tilted toward the already black ceiling of the holding cell. The moonlight streamed in through the little window on the top and upon her tanned skin.

She pointed to the ceiling and said, "God has a plan for me. He will never allow this."

"Hmm," said Officer Rãmirez, "we’ll see how the judge feels about that you old fart."

He called in two of the police men that were waiting outside of the holding cell.

"Take her away."

Aisha’s screams could be heard in the whole of the gallows.

It was like screams of a woman who was being burnt alive.

Isis.

Amid the starlight was the ever glow of the moon, that mother of the sky whom watched over every beating heart, steady and true.

Alejandro had stopped the car in a spot that was close to her old home. The moon was a warm milky glow in the sky, as if the sight of it could become a song in the eyes of anyone willing to raise their head upward. The midnight sky becomes a sweet embrace of starry black, a fresh chance to dream anew. Moonbeams ride upon the starry air as if the velvet black had asked them to dance.

They cruised down the stress in a steady pace. Car upon the blacktop flow, new tracks in an otherwise pristine expanse, driving becomes such meditative bliss, feeling the breeze and smelling the sea. The wind had become the orchestral conductor of the sea, sending waves into their crescendos’ all through the ballad that was the night. All about us was the perfume of the salty water and the fine spray that came as boldly as any viola flurry. It was as if life herself had entered the water and the energy was so great that this great pulse came upward to form a steady rhythm.

The sea air arrives with a nostalgic and humble majesty. Its brine is memories of yesteryear and a promise of days to come. Yet in that salty moment I am right there in the present, to the very smallest fraction in which time may be measured. The sea air has a way of doing that, of anchoring the emotions to Earth’s spirit.

As they passed her favorite beach, memories flooded in.

Upon this primrose sand, the hue as gentle on the eye as a vintage photograph, there is a steady warmth from the grains. Already the stars glow as if they have kept a pocket of the daytime to shine all through the night sky. Sometimes I think the earth and the moon choose to give of their borrowed warmth and light until the return of the sun, the brilliance forever promised at dawn. Until then, here I remain, breathing deeply of ocean carried air, listening to the percussion of waves that has been my lullaby since before I was a consciousness wrapped in human form.

With browning legs curled under, dusted with sand like flour on bread, I sit close to the lapping waves. They feel warm and cool, like tea that’s been forgotten and returned to. My fingers wiggle in the water, in these lips of the ocean as she sings. In this place I will remain until the tide is lower, scooping the sand that runs like cold lava through my star-fish fingers and onto the dry beach. With each handful I twist my body as if dancing in a chair, gazing at the falling sand. Below it rises a drip-castle, a sandcastle that looks for all the world like a melted candle. By sunset there will be a long skinny line of them following the ocean as she chases the moon.

Car upon the blacktop flow, new tracks in an otherwise pristine expanse, driving becomes such meditative bliss.

Alejandro had stopped the car in a spot that was close to her old home.

The old house is the sanity of these hills, the ever present home amid such change. I can remember each brick for as far back as my memory goes, touch them, feel the texture that has greeted strong summers and hail stones with such dignity. How I love the brown door, a bit weather worn and in others sporting a shiny new coat, and imagine its pride in showing the island it is still loved. In my daydreams I sit by it in a wicker chair listening to the village, of the chattering wildlife around. I imagine that it is my home, that the calling of the years somehow takes me there.

She creased her furrow brows and questioned him.

"What are we doing here."

"Look around you and think."

After a few minutes of hard concentration, the confusion started to clear from her forehead.

"Alex...," she whispered softly, ever so sweetly.

The realizations were settling in.

"The dress."

He nodded.

"You gave me your card, we went out on dates, you always helped me, you were ways there, you always cared for me, you were never mean or brutal, you were comfort and protection, you were nurture and acceptance. You were calm and passionate. You were stoic and spontaneous. You were generous and forgiving, a steady ship into any horizon. You aren’t the fire, yet you bring a warmth that’s new to me. You aren’t intensity, yet you steady this heart in a way I have needed for so long. You see my differences, things others run from, and find them as beautiful instead. You have become more than my anchor, for you are also the boat and the warm sunny rays that kiss me softly. You are my rest, a calmness to soothe my flames to a steady heat instead of the consuming inferno that has raged within, unable to quell. To find someone similar is flattering, joyous, creating higher highs - this is better. This is finding the other half to a broken locket, a feeling of completeness.

But, how is it that you could have been the one who was behind my father’s death?"

I’m tired and I want chicken wings, but, let’s take it there.

"The One That Got Away."

Sergio.

This is actually happening. When I am nervous it is because what I am doing matters and I feel the need to get it right. Yet that is also the motivation I need to conquer it and move onwards at a good pace. Nerves are a signal of truth of what you value, of what you need and cherish. This is a big moment for me. I’m one step away from finding the flesh of my flesh.

Sergio stared at the information in front of his eyes.

The girl was 21 years of age, and she lived right there in Barbados. She was given up for adoption, by the nurses on that very day Aisha had given birth to her, with Aisha’s full consent. A contract was attached to it, including the child’s birth certificate.

Tears stung his eyes.

He skimmed through the papers for an address or a phone number.

32 Deacon Avenue, Westmoreland, Barbados.

Followed by a woman’s name, and telephone number.

Beyanka Peterkin, +1 246.402.5430

With shaking hands, Sergio dialed the number and placed the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" said the woman on the other end.

He rapidly ended the call and switched off his phone.

Fuck.

He swallowed hard, and grabbed a glass of water. His mouth felt dry and his brow was sweating.

What was I going to say? Hi, I’m Sergio, Zainab’s father? Wait, who named her that anyways? It sounds like a bad porn name. I have to think of a strategy. And what if, Aisha knows the family that adopted her and she’s also made sure with them that if ever I had to look for Zainab, they were to make that more difficult for me? That’s why this is a subtle and delicate issue. I need to handle it with care.

Sergio cracked a smile.

I did it. I found her. I’m so glad she’s not halfway across the world. That would be so draining. My mother would have been really proud of me.

He thought of his mother, and how she suffered for him.

Through the swirl of sickening fears comes my mother’s voice, casual and light - as usual I can’t hide my problems for more than a few seconds. But what can she do? Fight the police? Alter the minds of the masses to accept my colour not as a characteristic of a criminal? To see me just as I am - a teenager, a boy, stressed about homework, deadlines and making money at my part-time job. How can I tell her that my biggest fear isn’t drugs or gang indoctrination but those who swore to protect and serve? She’s worked all her life to give me a good home, food and more. I’ve never been left wanting for hugs, smiles, laughter and acceptance in these four walls. But out there. Outt there, I’m marked by my black skin and curly-hair. My white friends are envied for their physiques and I’m feared. Somehow my muscles threaten and theirs protect. What did I ever do? How can you prove a negative - that you’re not bad? So I turn and flash a boyish smile, "Nothin’ Mam, just thinking about math. He’d come home and vent to his mother, and she’d always say,"Once you stop seeking to belong, you can accept that you belong in a way that is secure and deep. When you ask if you belong you give someone else power and power corrupts. So have the courage to simply be yourself and tell yourself that you belong. When you do that your confidence will grow and others will see in you that you have accepted the land beneath your soles and it has accepted you."

Sergio always felt that family values are a thing you develop when you value your family - when they become what you most cherish beyond any material possession or vehicle for either positive self esteem or negative ego.

He couldn’t wait to meet Zainab. He wondered what she was like. She must have the most beautiful skin. And really bouncy curls atop her head.

But above all, he had a really nasty legal fight ahead of him and he was well aware of that.

Alejandro.

He spent the most part of the night, trying to calm Isis down. He’d found her sitting on his coffee table, shaking uncontrollably. He remembered that he didn’t even have time to ask further questions from the officers. He simply soared into his home, searching for Isis. She had been surrounded by a couple of paramedics and some dumb police officers who kept pestering her with questions.

Who does that when somebody is clearly under a lot of stress and trauma? Couldn’t they wait? And even after we’ve answered their questions, they never get things done anyway.

He didn’t only see the fear in her eyes, he also smelt it. She looked like a little mouse that almost got eaten by a big house cat.

As he was stroking her hair, he thought of how Aisha could’ve possibly gotten into his home. His security was really tight, and..

Sergio’s connections. Aisha knows that they are aren’t too many mansions in Barbados. So, she went to his office and asked his secretary for the Real Estates agent’s number. The same one who handled his case too. She then told him that she needed the keys to my mansion. But what story did she come up with? Maybe she said that I had kidnapped her daughter? And then asked them to check the surveillance cameras. That story could’ve added up because I had locked all of the main doors. They then helped her get into the house, but couldn’t get passed the corridor because that’s where the security company differs. Hmm. Am I making sense to myself here? Or it just sounds too far-fetched? I don’t know. Somebody help me. But wait, I forgot that she’s a hardened criminal. And apparently, she’s the Red Dragon. That’s cold.

Isis was peacefully asleep on his lap. He was nursing a glass of whiskey, his face filled with worry.

It’s not wrong to drink. Unless I get really drunk. Right? Right.

He thought about his playboy days and huffed. But then he also decided to acknowledge the growth.

There was something about Alejandro, that drew people to him. I guess it didn’t hurt that he was a good looking boy; but it was more than that. He was quiet, but not out of painful shyness. It was a reservedness, like a conscious choice to observe the lie of the land before he got involved. Yet he wasn’t stand-offish, he remained friendly faced and welcoming in body posture. It wasn’t like he sat down one day and planned to be like that, it’s just the way he was. He never went out to deliberately make friends, they just came to him. Just like the women. Isis was different, because he followed her. He set traps for her, and now he’s trapped. And now there was nothing threatening about him, nothing at all. He was an easy listener, a good audience, giving encouraging feedback laced with intelligent comments. He worked hard, he got his work done and he didn’t hurt people just to get what he wanted. He had made good progress.

They were out in the balcony of Isis’ room. He was glad that he had decided to buy a home in Platinum Bay, Holetown, SJ, Barbados.

They had been there the whole night, he reckoned, as the sun began to rise and people started to walk by.

He spotted a boy.

The boy had a stunned look about him, like not long ago he was blending with the peers he towered over. On gangly, thin limbs he had the stoop of one not accustomed to such altitude. Though his height was man-like, I couldn’t mistake that face for anything but a boy. I’d put money on it that he isn’t even a teen yet. His face was lacking any hint of acne and his movements that gave him away; they were too unrestrained. He wasn’t encumbered by trying to impress potential love interests, he was boyish from his too shiny shoes to his mother-trimmed hair. Perhaps another year would have him in worn out sneakers and a boy-band hair style.

He reminded him of his youth, one that was quite odd. He frowned at the memories and brushed them off.

He decided to say a prayer, one he was taught at church.

"Lord, help us to learn your ways,

Your ways that are only love,

We are grateful for our mother earth,

We are humbled by your gift of life,

We will only move our lips to say good words,

We will open our minds to friendship and love,

We understand that your creation is divine and to be cherished,

We will only serve the Power of Love,

Working every day to bring your Heaven on Earth,

Healing your children,

Protecting our natural world,

Our God that is Love is the keeper of our souls,

The One we Trust.

Amen."

Standing up carefully, he stretched himself and carried Isis onto her bed.

And before he left, she gently tugged his arm.

"Make love to me," she whispered.