danielmorozoff
07-06-2009, 03:53 PM
Beware fellow reader this is no story of love, murder or sex. It is less than that.
As a young man caught in a world he is part of, a world which by its very definition is a dream, the following is a testimony of someone who sees the shatters of the past, and yearns to believe that there is still hope for something good to come.
Humanity has long gone extinct, there are no people, only the shadows of those who once lived. Life above all else has ceased to have meaning; purpose has replaced it. Through purpose, we seek to answer those questions that haunt us. What shall I do at work today? How is my daughter doing in school? Is my wife cheating on me with my best friend? Is my dog well fed? Such questions, questions that we believe are important…
We all know that nudging feeling, when looking at the television after a hard day’s work; in the back of our minds we realize that we have forgotten to complete one of those fundamentally important and crucially valuable tasks, a task that promotes an answer to such irreproachable questions. Yet we refuse to move, tired of the hardships we faced that day, continuing on, gazing at the television, awe-struck by how Larry King is still alive, and furthermore continues asking those delving questions to those celebrities who ****ed up and got caught, or suffered some sort of physical, mental or psychological trauma of some sorts.
Like you for the past 20 years I have been watching Larry, ESPN, HBO and the likes, in the hope that it would bring closure to my own life’s demented purpose. It seems destiny has come back, but not in the form of God, or the spirit, or even anything else un-earthly. Destiny is now in the hands of those who fit the systematic process of wake, eat, ****, work, reproduce and sleep. Day in and day out, except for the reproduction part sadly, 315 days a year, for 65 years, till we are faced with the conscience dilemma that we have reached that age to purchase life insurance in order that our next of kin may afford to bury us.
Yes, my life sure has changed.
As I rode the bus to work today, I found myself staring at a bum who had just gotten on. Our gazes collided, followed by a harrowing stench, and I came to one simple conclusion. We are from two totally different steps of life, better yet two separate planets; it wouldn’t change a thing if he was from Pluto and I from Mercury; we would still perceive each other in same way: one the lucky gold-plated snake and the other society’s parasite.
Confirming my initial sentiments, standing on the first step his blood-shot eyes, indicative of a bad habit, or perhaps the lack of sleep, provided an opportune reason for me to be disgusted with him. Instinctually, I thought to myself what a bastard, trying to eye me down; and a bum, nonetheless, the lowest caste of all. Who the hell does he think he is? Suddenly, in the next milliseconds, out of the blue, he gathers the audacity to come over put his garbage bag full of bottles down and sit next to me. My facial expression summarizes the incomprehensibly powerful cramp in my stomach: abhorrence. Remember, this is 7:30 in the god damn morning not only is it early, why the hell would a bum wake up at this time. ****, if I didn’t have a job I wouldn’t wake up, at least not at 7:30 AM.
As the bus begins to move his odor permeates not only the air, but also my skin. Seeming as though the smell of Gordon’s 7 dollar vodka and Nassario’s trash would be absorbed by every pore of my body, marking me as the one who chose the wrong place to sit on the way to work that day. Suddenly, as my mind shifts past the anguishing bouquet, something else strikes me, yes it seems ironic that on the bus, on the way to work, I and a bum are all but equal, equal in that we share similar seats, that we pay the same fare; the only difference on that bus, at that moment in time, is that he wreaks and I do not and yet that still is a matter of opinion, I guess. Equality sure has its benefits.
The bus makes its way down its usual route, stopping at the proper spots, packing the usual people, and some newcomers. I realize that I have at least another 30 minutes to go before my destination, and that the likelihood of me escaping the man next to me is out of the question, for he seems keen on igniting a squalor of a conversation.
His name is Patrice, a common name according to him, just as common as his decision of not working, I wonder? I am reluctant to speak to him; his unique wardrobe has attracted an army of bustling flies, making my ability to examine his person even more dreadfully aggravating. It makes me sick to the source, that through this conversation I become nothing more than petty change, nothing more to him than something that he may have for free, just as society has him. He wishes to speak with me, but I have no desire to reciprocate. My gaze now pinpoints on a glistening spot emanating from his lips, so powerful it blinds me momentarily. As I focus in, I see: rock, diamond, I wonder. Instantaneously, disgust turns to rage.
Small talk progresses in the usual manner, him doing all the talking and me just nodding my head and counting the seconds till my stop. I try to space out, but I can’t. Unlike all the other mornings that week, this time my mind is sharp as an arrow, no thanks to the smell or the bristling of insect wings, I presume.
After the yes and no questions, comes the next step of probing, one that I cannot shake off or avoid as deftly. He asks me where I work, after a pause… I pronounce the name, the name of the hellhole that has had me slaving for three years now, Newlands Bank. He seems surprised and even impressed, commending me on such a fine place of work. I thank him, but am amused by his reaction, as if this bum could say any job is better than the next, I decide to ask him a question of my own.
Mine is less involved in gaining knowledge of his personal life, but rather targeting him, attempting to gain my vengeance for the previous answer that he milked out of me. He says it’s a very prestigious bank, but how would a bum living on the street know, we are located on the 67th floor of the Trans-America Tower and it sure isn’t a household name, for we do not cater to the average household American client.
Established in 1907 in New York, on Wall Street, it has long carried the reputation of being one of the most involved and powerful banks in the nation, leading the nations premiere private investors, handling assets of the individuals who like to remain anonymous, while ruling the world from the luxury of their homes (mansions…). A bank that has carved its name into the tablets of the 20th century with invisible ink.
He looks at me as if in disbelief as if the question I asked him caught him of guard. After a short pause, a glitter glared in his eyes, and he says: “You know I was not always a bum…” The glistening glare ferries his words the few centimeters to my ears, and the rage, which had rooted itself deep within, momentarily morphed into bewildered embarrassment.
And so began the story of so many “Americans.”
It appeared that Patrice came from Eastern Europe, not exactly sure which part; that was hard to place according to him. He moved around a lot, due to the war and him being so young. His parents were Jews, and after the end of the war immigrated to the States. Supposedly his father Isaac, was a jewel dealer, and had spent his fortune buying their freedom and safe passage in the early forties. As a new “American” he came to work on the New York docks, for some local Jewish place. At the age of 19, Patrice ended up going to college, an oddity amongst his friends, from his recollection. The drive for education back then was surely not what it is now. Oh, and the college wasn’t any regular school it was above all Harvard. A poor Jew from the New York docks, wasn’t adding up in my mind. And now he is in San Francisco, with a nouveau rich boulder in his mouth living on the streets? But he continued...
Out of college he received a job working for Breeman Sacks, a Jewish ran firm, as the name implies. Receiving a regional manager position from the start he worked his way up the echelons to the top. He says his name: Patrice Zelubbee.
Suddenly, the bus comes to a halt. The driver yells Embarcadero, my stop. Patrice, smiles looks me square in the eye, a sparkle, the blood lifted, only empty darkness remains, drowned in blinding macular light; and the rest of the story some other time.
That name, it seems familiar, seen before somewhere, something having to do with Nastan Brask, a Serbian arms dealer, a former client… But I have no time to ask, the bus door is closing and I’m late, yet at the same time manically intrigued by a story.
Walking to my office, I can’t stop thinking, is it true? Who is Patrice Zelubbee, and what of those eyes? The questions dog at me, who was this man, who is he and now a bum… who is he?
I walk into the lobby of Trans-America. Jake, the on-duty security guard, says good morning, as usual in a pleasant voice. I skip the reply and pace to the elevator with a gate of a man with a purpose. I have no time; I am running late to my appointment with Mr. Guillaume DeBoulogne, a Frenchman who represents a family from the ‘New’ Russia, which wishes to remain anonymous and has wealth to invest.
Mr. DeBoulogne is shown into my office, he struts in, his nose raised above the level of my eyes, he glares making most snobs look selfless. His black pin-stripped suit with a burgundy-red flower pinned to his left chest seems to be out of some new Parisian haute-couture house that prides itself with making the most pretentious people standout pretentiously. Removing his matching blackish hat marred with tar stains, a statement of fashion certainly, reminiscent of the Chicago gangster era but with a twist, says good morning, seats himself and puts a 5 centimeter thick envelope on the table. He reeks of expensive cologne, but it is masking something, probably the fact that he hasn’t showered in a few days, I can’t figure it.
I think to myself, the envelope must be the contracts if an agreement is reached. He glares on, as if the size of his envelope should intimidate, and frankly it does.
Daggers from his eyes pierce me and accent the urgency and impatience he feels when dealing with an American… As I search for his dossier, he finally begins discussing the miserable weather here in San Francisco. “Always fogge…” His thick Parisien accent provokes feelings of renaming French fries to the much more patriotic Freedom fries. The blasted French, practically forcing their own ways.
I ask him if he shares Jack London’s misery. He laughs, brushes off his hat, and replies, “If Mr. London spent more than a summer here, perhaps his opinion of this place would be slightly different, if not altogether erased.” He smirks, as if he testing my own knowledge. I seem confused; did not Jack London despise San Franciscan summers, no matter? Weather quickly becomes a discussion of logistics concerning the proposed investment portfolio.
He wants guarantees, most of all, the guarantee that his client will receive a minimum 10% earning the first year, if not from the investments then from the company’s pocket. I respond 5%… The sums that are invested at Newlands guarantee profit, which is what we are known for. He waits, as if summing everything in his head, then asks. So my client may expect 50 million dollars by year’s end? I reply yes. He laughs, a small risk for such a valuable commodity. The statement as bewildering as his look, sizing me up or attracted to me, I avoid the stare.
The daggers are dulled, I now serve a purpose to him, I am needed. He grins, his nose still reaching for the heavens, but curving to the inner depths of the earth, pitches itself forward as he readjusts his seat. He asks: “How do youu du it?” I apologize for not understanding his question. He says: “these guarantees?” The nature of the question seems to be rhetorical, but he waits, expecting an answer. I simply say off-shore investments. His grin turns to a beaming smile across the bureau, with his cigarette stained teeth matching his attire, in constant conflict with the gaudy rose. “No faith in the American economy, sir?” He knows I am lying, but it pleases him. Giving no time for a response, he stands, as do I, placing his hat on his egg shaped head he stretches out his hand with the contracts. I accept them and thank him, we shake hands, he turns begins to walk out. As he reaches the door, his hand motionless, never turning his back, he asks me:
The price of my soul.
I close my eyes, attempting to register the question.
My memory betrays me.
It is cold, the sun numbs the pain, but only slightly, rays quenching the infernal desire for warmth, I place my leather wrapped hands into the grey woolen pockets of my coat. It is winter, mid-December, and the morning forecast could only attempt to describe today’s weather. St Petersburg’s canals amplify the formidable frost, channeling the winds directly into my face. The dwellers of the city seek shelter, the thermometer displays -40 centigrade.
It has been seven days since I arrived in the former capital of Russian power, and the reek of the communist transformed oil machine is inescapable. A freezing inferno, drenched in the stink of diesel, an irony in itself. I stand looking, starring, lost in my transfixed stupor, at the Hermitage Museum. I am awaiting the arrival of Mr. DeBoulogne to discuss the potential investment his clients seek to place.
He never shows. A call rings the familiar Waltz, my cell… I pick up, it is DeBoulogne, informing me that he is sitting across the street in the limousine, and cannot manage to leave it; he does not deal with the cold. I agree to see him in the car. The driver opens the door, I sit. A young woman accompanies him, Russian by her looks, long flowing blond hair, stretched out legs and eyes that shine of emeralds. He speaks words as chilling as the cold: “We need more time, I will come see you in the States when we are ready.” He slips me an envelope; thick, a familiar green face shining through. “Inform your associates that you have received the contracts and that everything is on schedule.” I think to myself, what game is he playing.
I take my leather gloves off, place them on the seat next to me, across from the young woman. Her red dress and golden sable coat stress the beauty of her body, tempting the power of any man’s will to maintain his composure. DeBoulogne verifies my stare, shakes his head and waits for me to make my move. “Temptation,” he says, “ is power of our humanity, with out it we are merely animals.” I grin, he smiles back, the Mona-Lisa smile, unexplainable yet mesmerizing. My muscles twitch, bending and thrusting my hand forward. The woman sighs, her spirit lifted, DeBoulogne puts on his glasses, his long nails scratch the rim.
As I exit the limo, the envelope in my left coat pocket warms me, no longer is the frigid winter menacing, but rather rewarding. I begin to feek sweat; trickling down my forehead, arms and back. I don’t understand, am I sick? Do I have the flu? The heat is pulsating, like a sledgehammer pounding at my heart.
I have turned the corner, I am alone, I see no one. The white snow underneath my steps begins to blacken, I feel like ash is falling. I keep on walking, faster and faster, pretending to give purpose to my sweat.
Finally, I stop, my legs refuse to move, there, planted, I attempt to scream in vain. No help will come, I am all alone. The ground is now tar colored, the air is thick, the buildings seem to melt away, but the pulsating heat is still throbbing at my heart. I feel the envelope parasitically consuming me from within. I toss it; my gaze follows its trajectory and marks its final location. As I rid myself of it, my body no longer throbs, but I desire, yearn for it, willing to deal with the pain. Quickly, it disappears into the ashes.
As I abandon hope of recovering the package, I look up, and see DeBoulogne. He stands, perched like a crow atop of a rock at the end of the used to be street. I make him out not by his face, but by his teeth, the unforgettable grin, he seems to be missing a tooth, it glows.
My body collapses, my breathing slows, and as my world begins to turn black, I see DeBoulogne walking to me. I attempt to scream, or to assume the fetal position, but to no avail. The fire burns inside me.
As he closes the gap between us, he towers over me and cuts some imprint into my heel.
My blood mixes with the ash, thickening it into a molt, thick yet mobile, red yet black.
I feel myself give up. I close my eyes.
I wake.
Dawn is breaking, bright red with traces of yellow all but shifting to green. A feeling of refreshment, the cool breeze strikes my brow. I feel the moisture in the air, I see the ocean, endless in all direction, covering everything, but the patch of land I stand on.
I look to my right, I see a path forming, the evaporating water is leading me. I stand, starring, deciding to check the legitimacy of my eyes, I throw a handful of sand at it. It leaves no trace; similarly to the stolid sensation in my liver, a feeling of emptiness devours me. I strut down the path, it holds yet leads me.
I pace, walking, fidgeting my feet, striving to see my destination. The journey seems endless, nothing marks the distance I have traveled. I traverse the solitude, I have reached it…a trench.
I look down, nothing reflects from within it. I hear a faint whisper, beckoning, inviting me. “All of your dreams await within,” I stare, and as my look guides my step I take the plunge. My right foot touches the surface, it is not empty, but black. I begin to sink, it is tar, its warmth attests to my assumption. My sinking body causes it to warm, it is getting hotter, a tingle downs my back, scolding, it burns.
Something begins to pull my feet, I try to fight, ceaselessly kicking, but the thick tar draws it ought of me: desire. My head submerges, time begins to slow, every second seems forever. I fall…
Branches begin to break my collapse. I hit the ground. Rising, I peer from where I fell. And as my vision begins to adjust to the darkness, I find that these branches are not branches at all: they are arms, with hands and digits, marking 3, stretching out to me, yelping for help. To these limbs are attached the bodies of their handlers, their eyes empty. The blackness of the tar ceiling is pierced by blinding light, my heart races, a caged bird in a cell of fleeting hands. Backpedaling, I turn to run, my legs lead the body as I turn there stands Patrice his piercing gaze, dying to speak to me once again, familiar. His diamond provides the sole source of light in the abyss, brilliant and clear.
He wears a beautiful suit; black as the reflection of night off the hood of a newly polished Mercedes-Benz He does not carry the bottles and cans with him any longer, but the fetor is still there as are his tiny companions. As we look at each other in silence, I begin to understand that the smell is from the tar, and that reek that I smelt that morning was the smell of this place. The hands no longer stretch towards me, I am forsaken.
His hands clasped in a non-threatening way; he welcomes me. “Not a bad place, wouldn’t you say? It becomes lonesome though, after a few years,” he smiles. I am awestruck, frightened to the core, the sweat pouring off of me is no longer cold, just wet. He continues “you see, it seems that you are not content with the world, yet I agree with you. I too hate that place, it angers me. Given so much love, yet ridden with hate. Even you dear sir, fortunate, young, healthy and yet dreadfully loathsome, and that is why I come to you. By no means to teach you a lesson, who am I to preach, but to make you of my own image.”
He looks around, grinning, “these are those that have refused to accept my offer, hands still attempting to change the inevitable.” “We all have a place in this world, I guess. He laughs, and breaks the block, which has been preventing me to see the obvious truth.” The laugh has a familiarity. “That’s right, now you are catching on, I have been watching you for quite some time.” Patrice Zelubbee and Mr. DeBoulogne are one in the same.
“I seek a sort of accountant, something you have been quite proficient at based on your record.” An accountant I ask? “Yes, you shall stamp the contracts I have, contracts that will grant you hope to avoid becoming one of these hands, for they too have a purpose.” Which purpose, I ask? “To hold up the egos that have inflated the world, men like yourself, to give you a chance to pretend to be normal, to be on the right track. A fabulous fantasy, one that you all strive to attain. But be no fool, it is but a fairytale told only to men. And you my friend have a chance to become purpose.”
Will I be able to leave this place, what will become of me, anything but the fate of those arms, hands and digits. I agree to his offer.
His smile turns to a serious grin, he steps forward stretching out his hand. The diamond light focusing on his palm
I shake it.
My heel begins to buckle shifting, morphing, I cringe. I look up as if God will save me, or show mercy, but there is no God in this place. I look down, my ankle has become a stamp, “your tool,” he says, ever grinning. The stamp has become my fate, my curse, the weight that binds me and sets me free.
He turns and as his weight shifts so does the entire pit.
We are in an office, beautifully carved, my foot, back to normal. I look around he is nowhere to be found, in front of me sits an old woman. For a moment I think that this has all been a dream, a hallucination. I look to the ceiling and sigh the deepest breath of my life, fresh air.
A sigh of relief I guess, hell I am only crazy. I look over at the woman, introduce myself, ask her for her name. Her name is Clara, that of my girlfriend, I smile. As usual, I pull out a dossier and begin filling in her information, grotesquely familiar. Finally comes time for the date, I forgot it, asking her I am terrified at her response.
She says 9/11/2012.
Clara begins to cry, she complains how old and pathetic she is, I flip the page.
I smell tar.
As a young man caught in a world he is part of, a world which by its very definition is a dream, the following is a testimony of someone who sees the shatters of the past, and yearns to believe that there is still hope for something good to come.
Humanity has long gone extinct, there are no people, only the shadows of those who once lived. Life above all else has ceased to have meaning; purpose has replaced it. Through purpose, we seek to answer those questions that haunt us. What shall I do at work today? How is my daughter doing in school? Is my wife cheating on me with my best friend? Is my dog well fed? Such questions, questions that we believe are important…
We all know that nudging feeling, when looking at the television after a hard day’s work; in the back of our minds we realize that we have forgotten to complete one of those fundamentally important and crucially valuable tasks, a task that promotes an answer to such irreproachable questions. Yet we refuse to move, tired of the hardships we faced that day, continuing on, gazing at the television, awe-struck by how Larry King is still alive, and furthermore continues asking those delving questions to those celebrities who ****ed up and got caught, or suffered some sort of physical, mental or psychological trauma of some sorts.
Like you for the past 20 years I have been watching Larry, ESPN, HBO and the likes, in the hope that it would bring closure to my own life’s demented purpose. It seems destiny has come back, but not in the form of God, or the spirit, or even anything else un-earthly. Destiny is now in the hands of those who fit the systematic process of wake, eat, ****, work, reproduce and sleep. Day in and day out, except for the reproduction part sadly, 315 days a year, for 65 years, till we are faced with the conscience dilemma that we have reached that age to purchase life insurance in order that our next of kin may afford to bury us.
Yes, my life sure has changed.
As I rode the bus to work today, I found myself staring at a bum who had just gotten on. Our gazes collided, followed by a harrowing stench, and I came to one simple conclusion. We are from two totally different steps of life, better yet two separate planets; it wouldn’t change a thing if he was from Pluto and I from Mercury; we would still perceive each other in same way: one the lucky gold-plated snake and the other society’s parasite.
Confirming my initial sentiments, standing on the first step his blood-shot eyes, indicative of a bad habit, or perhaps the lack of sleep, provided an opportune reason for me to be disgusted with him. Instinctually, I thought to myself what a bastard, trying to eye me down; and a bum, nonetheless, the lowest caste of all. Who the hell does he think he is? Suddenly, in the next milliseconds, out of the blue, he gathers the audacity to come over put his garbage bag full of bottles down and sit next to me. My facial expression summarizes the incomprehensibly powerful cramp in my stomach: abhorrence. Remember, this is 7:30 in the god damn morning not only is it early, why the hell would a bum wake up at this time. ****, if I didn’t have a job I wouldn’t wake up, at least not at 7:30 AM.
As the bus begins to move his odor permeates not only the air, but also my skin. Seeming as though the smell of Gordon’s 7 dollar vodka and Nassario’s trash would be absorbed by every pore of my body, marking me as the one who chose the wrong place to sit on the way to work that day. Suddenly, as my mind shifts past the anguishing bouquet, something else strikes me, yes it seems ironic that on the bus, on the way to work, I and a bum are all but equal, equal in that we share similar seats, that we pay the same fare; the only difference on that bus, at that moment in time, is that he wreaks and I do not and yet that still is a matter of opinion, I guess. Equality sure has its benefits.
The bus makes its way down its usual route, stopping at the proper spots, packing the usual people, and some newcomers. I realize that I have at least another 30 minutes to go before my destination, and that the likelihood of me escaping the man next to me is out of the question, for he seems keen on igniting a squalor of a conversation.
His name is Patrice, a common name according to him, just as common as his decision of not working, I wonder? I am reluctant to speak to him; his unique wardrobe has attracted an army of bustling flies, making my ability to examine his person even more dreadfully aggravating. It makes me sick to the source, that through this conversation I become nothing more than petty change, nothing more to him than something that he may have for free, just as society has him. He wishes to speak with me, but I have no desire to reciprocate. My gaze now pinpoints on a glistening spot emanating from his lips, so powerful it blinds me momentarily. As I focus in, I see: rock, diamond, I wonder. Instantaneously, disgust turns to rage.
Small talk progresses in the usual manner, him doing all the talking and me just nodding my head and counting the seconds till my stop. I try to space out, but I can’t. Unlike all the other mornings that week, this time my mind is sharp as an arrow, no thanks to the smell or the bristling of insect wings, I presume.
After the yes and no questions, comes the next step of probing, one that I cannot shake off or avoid as deftly. He asks me where I work, after a pause… I pronounce the name, the name of the hellhole that has had me slaving for three years now, Newlands Bank. He seems surprised and even impressed, commending me on such a fine place of work. I thank him, but am amused by his reaction, as if this bum could say any job is better than the next, I decide to ask him a question of my own.
Mine is less involved in gaining knowledge of his personal life, but rather targeting him, attempting to gain my vengeance for the previous answer that he milked out of me. He says it’s a very prestigious bank, but how would a bum living on the street know, we are located on the 67th floor of the Trans-America Tower and it sure isn’t a household name, for we do not cater to the average household American client.
Established in 1907 in New York, on Wall Street, it has long carried the reputation of being one of the most involved and powerful banks in the nation, leading the nations premiere private investors, handling assets of the individuals who like to remain anonymous, while ruling the world from the luxury of their homes (mansions…). A bank that has carved its name into the tablets of the 20th century with invisible ink.
He looks at me as if in disbelief as if the question I asked him caught him of guard. After a short pause, a glitter glared in his eyes, and he says: “You know I was not always a bum…” The glistening glare ferries his words the few centimeters to my ears, and the rage, which had rooted itself deep within, momentarily morphed into bewildered embarrassment.
And so began the story of so many “Americans.”
It appeared that Patrice came from Eastern Europe, not exactly sure which part; that was hard to place according to him. He moved around a lot, due to the war and him being so young. His parents were Jews, and after the end of the war immigrated to the States. Supposedly his father Isaac, was a jewel dealer, and had spent his fortune buying their freedom and safe passage in the early forties. As a new “American” he came to work on the New York docks, for some local Jewish place. At the age of 19, Patrice ended up going to college, an oddity amongst his friends, from his recollection. The drive for education back then was surely not what it is now. Oh, and the college wasn’t any regular school it was above all Harvard. A poor Jew from the New York docks, wasn’t adding up in my mind. And now he is in San Francisco, with a nouveau rich boulder in his mouth living on the streets? But he continued...
Out of college he received a job working for Breeman Sacks, a Jewish ran firm, as the name implies. Receiving a regional manager position from the start he worked his way up the echelons to the top. He says his name: Patrice Zelubbee.
Suddenly, the bus comes to a halt. The driver yells Embarcadero, my stop. Patrice, smiles looks me square in the eye, a sparkle, the blood lifted, only empty darkness remains, drowned in blinding macular light; and the rest of the story some other time.
That name, it seems familiar, seen before somewhere, something having to do with Nastan Brask, a Serbian arms dealer, a former client… But I have no time to ask, the bus door is closing and I’m late, yet at the same time manically intrigued by a story.
Walking to my office, I can’t stop thinking, is it true? Who is Patrice Zelubbee, and what of those eyes? The questions dog at me, who was this man, who is he and now a bum… who is he?
I walk into the lobby of Trans-America. Jake, the on-duty security guard, says good morning, as usual in a pleasant voice. I skip the reply and pace to the elevator with a gate of a man with a purpose. I have no time; I am running late to my appointment with Mr. Guillaume DeBoulogne, a Frenchman who represents a family from the ‘New’ Russia, which wishes to remain anonymous and has wealth to invest.
Mr. DeBoulogne is shown into my office, he struts in, his nose raised above the level of my eyes, he glares making most snobs look selfless. His black pin-stripped suit with a burgundy-red flower pinned to his left chest seems to be out of some new Parisian haute-couture house that prides itself with making the most pretentious people standout pretentiously. Removing his matching blackish hat marred with tar stains, a statement of fashion certainly, reminiscent of the Chicago gangster era but with a twist, says good morning, seats himself and puts a 5 centimeter thick envelope on the table. He reeks of expensive cologne, but it is masking something, probably the fact that he hasn’t showered in a few days, I can’t figure it.
I think to myself, the envelope must be the contracts if an agreement is reached. He glares on, as if the size of his envelope should intimidate, and frankly it does.
Daggers from his eyes pierce me and accent the urgency and impatience he feels when dealing with an American… As I search for his dossier, he finally begins discussing the miserable weather here in San Francisco. “Always fogge…” His thick Parisien accent provokes feelings of renaming French fries to the much more patriotic Freedom fries. The blasted French, practically forcing their own ways.
I ask him if he shares Jack London’s misery. He laughs, brushes off his hat, and replies, “If Mr. London spent more than a summer here, perhaps his opinion of this place would be slightly different, if not altogether erased.” He smirks, as if he testing my own knowledge. I seem confused; did not Jack London despise San Franciscan summers, no matter? Weather quickly becomes a discussion of logistics concerning the proposed investment portfolio.
He wants guarantees, most of all, the guarantee that his client will receive a minimum 10% earning the first year, if not from the investments then from the company’s pocket. I respond 5%… The sums that are invested at Newlands guarantee profit, which is what we are known for. He waits, as if summing everything in his head, then asks. So my client may expect 50 million dollars by year’s end? I reply yes. He laughs, a small risk for such a valuable commodity. The statement as bewildering as his look, sizing me up or attracted to me, I avoid the stare.
The daggers are dulled, I now serve a purpose to him, I am needed. He grins, his nose still reaching for the heavens, but curving to the inner depths of the earth, pitches itself forward as he readjusts his seat. He asks: “How do youu du it?” I apologize for not understanding his question. He says: “these guarantees?” The nature of the question seems to be rhetorical, but he waits, expecting an answer. I simply say off-shore investments. His grin turns to a beaming smile across the bureau, with his cigarette stained teeth matching his attire, in constant conflict with the gaudy rose. “No faith in the American economy, sir?” He knows I am lying, but it pleases him. Giving no time for a response, he stands, as do I, placing his hat on his egg shaped head he stretches out his hand with the contracts. I accept them and thank him, we shake hands, he turns begins to walk out. As he reaches the door, his hand motionless, never turning his back, he asks me:
The price of my soul.
I close my eyes, attempting to register the question.
My memory betrays me.
It is cold, the sun numbs the pain, but only slightly, rays quenching the infernal desire for warmth, I place my leather wrapped hands into the grey woolen pockets of my coat. It is winter, mid-December, and the morning forecast could only attempt to describe today’s weather. St Petersburg’s canals amplify the formidable frost, channeling the winds directly into my face. The dwellers of the city seek shelter, the thermometer displays -40 centigrade.
It has been seven days since I arrived in the former capital of Russian power, and the reek of the communist transformed oil machine is inescapable. A freezing inferno, drenched in the stink of diesel, an irony in itself. I stand looking, starring, lost in my transfixed stupor, at the Hermitage Museum. I am awaiting the arrival of Mr. DeBoulogne to discuss the potential investment his clients seek to place.
He never shows. A call rings the familiar Waltz, my cell… I pick up, it is DeBoulogne, informing me that he is sitting across the street in the limousine, and cannot manage to leave it; he does not deal with the cold. I agree to see him in the car. The driver opens the door, I sit. A young woman accompanies him, Russian by her looks, long flowing blond hair, stretched out legs and eyes that shine of emeralds. He speaks words as chilling as the cold: “We need more time, I will come see you in the States when we are ready.” He slips me an envelope; thick, a familiar green face shining through. “Inform your associates that you have received the contracts and that everything is on schedule.” I think to myself, what game is he playing.
I take my leather gloves off, place them on the seat next to me, across from the young woman. Her red dress and golden sable coat stress the beauty of her body, tempting the power of any man’s will to maintain his composure. DeBoulogne verifies my stare, shakes his head and waits for me to make my move. “Temptation,” he says, “ is power of our humanity, with out it we are merely animals.” I grin, he smiles back, the Mona-Lisa smile, unexplainable yet mesmerizing. My muscles twitch, bending and thrusting my hand forward. The woman sighs, her spirit lifted, DeBoulogne puts on his glasses, his long nails scratch the rim.
As I exit the limo, the envelope in my left coat pocket warms me, no longer is the frigid winter menacing, but rather rewarding. I begin to feek sweat; trickling down my forehead, arms and back. I don’t understand, am I sick? Do I have the flu? The heat is pulsating, like a sledgehammer pounding at my heart.
I have turned the corner, I am alone, I see no one. The white snow underneath my steps begins to blacken, I feel like ash is falling. I keep on walking, faster and faster, pretending to give purpose to my sweat.
Finally, I stop, my legs refuse to move, there, planted, I attempt to scream in vain. No help will come, I am all alone. The ground is now tar colored, the air is thick, the buildings seem to melt away, but the pulsating heat is still throbbing at my heart. I feel the envelope parasitically consuming me from within. I toss it; my gaze follows its trajectory and marks its final location. As I rid myself of it, my body no longer throbs, but I desire, yearn for it, willing to deal with the pain. Quickly, it disappears into the ashes.
As I abandon hope of recovering the package, I look up, and see DeBoulogne. He stands, perched like a crow atop of a rock at the end of the used to be street. I make him out not by his face, but by his teeth, the unforgettable grin, he seems to be missing a tooth, it glows.
My body collapses, my breathing slows, and as my world begins to turn black, I see DeBoulogne walking to me. I attempt to scream, or to assume the fetal position, but to no avail. The fire burns inside me.
As he closes the gap between us, he towers over me and cuts some imprint into my heel.
My blood mixes with the ash, thickening it into a molt, thick yet mobile, red yet black.
I feel myself give up. I close my eyes.
I wake.
Dawn is breaking, bright red with traces of yellow all but shifting to green. A feeling of refreshment, the cool breeze strikes my brow. I feel the moisture in the air, I see the ocean, endless in all direction, covering everything, but the patch of land I stand on.
I look to my right, I see a path forming, the evaporating water is leading me. I stand, starring, deciding to check the legitimacy of my eyes, I throw a handful of sand at it. It leaves no trace; similarly to the stolid sensation in my liver, a feeling of emptiness devours me. I strut down the path, it holds yet leads me.
I pace, walking, fidgeting my feet, striving to see my destination. The journey seems endless, nothing marks the distance I have traveled. I traverse the solitude, I have reached it…a trench.
I look down, nothing reflects from within it. I hear a faint whisper, beckoning, inviting me. “All of your dreams await within,” I stare, and as my look guides my step I take the plunge. My right foot touches the surface, it is not empty, but black. I begin to sink, it is tar, its warmth attests to my assumption. My sinking body causes it to warm, it is getting hotter, a tingle downs my back, scolding, it burns.
Something begins to pull my feet, I try to fight, ceaselessly kicking, but the thick tar draws it ought of me: desire. My head submerges, time begins to slow, every second seems forever. I fall…
Branches begin to break my collapse. I hit the ground. Rising, I peer from where I fell. And as my vision begins to adjust to the darkness, I find that these branches are not branches at all: they are arms, with hands and digits, marking 3, stretching out to me, yelping for help. To these limbs are attached the bodies of their handlers, their eyes empty. The blackness of the tar ceiling is pierced by blinding light, my heart races, a caged bird in a cell of fleeting hands. Backpedaling, I turn to run, my legs lead the body as I turn there stands Patrice his piercing gaze, dying to speak to me once again, familiar. His diamond provides the sole source of light in the abyss, brilliant and clear.
He wears a beautiful suit; black as the reflection of night off the hood of a newly polished Mercedes-Benz He does not carry the bottles and cans with him any longer, but the fetor is still there as are his tiny companions. As we look at each other in silence, I begin to understand that the smell is from the tar, and that reek that I smelt that morning was the smell of this place. The hands no longer stretch towards me, I am forsaken.
His hands clasped in a non-threatening way; he welcomes me. “Not a bad place, wouldn’t you say? It becomes lonesome though, after a few years,” he smiles. I am awestruck, frightened to the core, the sweat pouring off of me is no longer cold, just wet. He continues “you see, it seems that you are not content with the world, yet I agree with you. I too hate that place, it angers me. Given so much love, yet ridden with hate. Even you dear sir, fortunate, young, healthy and yet dreadfully loathsome, and that is why I come to you. By no means to teach you a lesson, who am I to preach, but to make you of my own image.”
He looks around, grinning, “these are those that have refused to accept my offer, hands still attempting to change the inevitable.” “We all have a place in this world, I guess. He laughs, and breaks the block, which has been preventing me to see the obvious truth.” The laugh has a familiarity. “That’s right, now you are catching on, I have been watching you for quite some time.” Patrice Zelubbee and Mr. DeBoulogne are one in the same.
“I seek a sort of accountant, something you have been quite proficient at based on your record.” An accountant I ask? “Yes, you shall stamp the contracts I have, contracts that will grant you hope to avoid becoming one of these hands, for they too have a purpose.” Which purpose, I ask? “To hold up the egos that have inflated the world, men like yourself, to give you a chance to pretend to be normal, to be on the right track. A fabulous fantasy, one that you all strive to attain. But be no fool, it is but a fairytale told only to men. And you my friend have a chance to become purpose.”
Will I be able to leave this place, what will become of me, anything but the fate of those arms, hands and digits. I agree to his offer.
His smile turns to a serious grin, he steps forward stretching out his hand. The diamond light focusing on his palm
I shake it.
My heel begins to buckle shifting, morphing, I cringe. I look up as if God will save me, or show mercy, but there is no God in this place. I look down, my ankle has become a stamp, “your tool,” he says, ever grinning. The stamp has become my fate, my curse, the weight that binds me and sets me free.
He turns and as his weight shifts so does the entire pit.
We are in an office, beautifully carved, my foot, back to normal. I look around he is nowhere to be found, in front of me sits an old woman. For a moment I think that this has all been a dream, a hallucination. I look to the ceiling and sigh the deepest breath of my life, fresh air.
A sigh of relief I guess, hell I am only crazy. I look over at the woman, introduce myself, ask her for her name. Her name is Clara, that of my girlfriend, I smile. As usual, I pull out a dossier and begin filling in her information, grotesquely familiar. Finally comes time for the date, I forgot it, asking her I am terrified at her response.
She says 9/11/2012.
Clara begins to cry, she complains how old and pathetic she is, I flip the page.
I smell tar.