Invisible City

Nik stared out the window at the dim lights of the train station as they pulled into it. The brakes made his teeth jar, kind of like the way chalk on a blackboard did. The shadows played across his face as the waning of one light turned into the waxing of another. It looked like someone was staring at his face frame by frame in slow motion.
"Will you be alright, son? Is someone coming to the station to pick you up?" asked the old man in the seat across from him.
"Yes, my aunt is coming to the station" Nik lied.
The old man settled back in his seat, satisfied that the young lad would be taken care of.
Nik, relieved that the old man hadn't probed too much or offered to wait with him for his aunt, turned his attention to collecting his things - the green "Scooby Doo" colouring book, his crayons, his soiled handkerchief that he'd used as an eraser in the absence of a real one. He carefully stuffed all of his things into his olive green canvas school bag along with his Batman action figure, the few clothes he was carrying and his most prized possession, a clay piggy bank, pink in colour, complete with the snout and coiled tail. The clasps on the bag closed with a soft click. Nik double checked the clasps, like he'd been taught. Satisfied, he bent to put on his floaters. Grabbing the one he saw, he got on the floor searching for the other of the pair under the benches of the booth. Retrieving the floater from the recesses of the bench he drew his hand back carefully so as not to disturb the cockroach he found staring at him.
The sight of the bug had put an extra spring in Nik's step. He fastened his floaters, collected his solitary bag and ran straight for the door to the train compartment, the sound of the old man's goodbye barely even registering in his racing mind. The screech of the brakes resounded through the silent compartment, a few snores the only other sound to be heard. The disadvantage of reaching your destination in the middle of the night and ahead of schedule to boot. The compartment swayed as the brakes kicked in, pushing Nik off his feet and into the sleeping form of a man soon to become quite disgruntled. He woke with a grunt and stared at his attacker, or his prey. His eyes gleamed in the sparse lighting, holding Nik to his current position. The movement of the man's hand broke the spell the boy had been put under, his young legs carrying farther and faster than he thought were possible. He reached the end of the compartment just as the train stopped at the platform. Jumping off without giving it a second thought, Nik continued to run away from the man, who hadn't even found his way out of his blankets yet, who loomed larger than the Beanstalk's giant in Nik's mind, whose eyes gleamed like the wolf's.
Nik ran past the dirty metal pillars, through puddles of water, over refuse dumps, ahead of desperate porters and disparate passengers until he ran out of platform to run on. Caged by a once white metal fence that loomed large over his head, he grabbed the rusted bars of his cage, struggling against them. He pushed against them, pulled at them, tried to lift them off the ground, tried to climb over them to the other side ... anything to get to the other side ... anything to get away from the eyes in the dark.
Holding onto the bars he sank to the ground, broken. He wanted to go back home. Settling down on the dirty ground with his back to the bars he put his face between his legs, remembering who he was, remembering what he was, remembering where he came from. Holding desperately onto his identity lest the memory slip away from him into the black hole of the city.
The smell of spices as he stepped into the house after playing with his friends in the evening.
The sound of anger mixed with amusement when he came back from playing in the dirt.
The feel of strong arms holding him when the sound of anger drove him away.
The sensation of a large hand engulfing his own as he crossed the road.
The grooves of a wooden cane he held onto as he walked through the park so that he wouldn't get lost.
Wrinkled hands feeding him a sweet, brushing away the hair from his eyes as he ate.
He sat there with his head resting on his knees, his back against the fence, aching to go home, weeping for he used to be, weeping for who he wanted to be. His resolve weakened,
under attack by his sweet memories.
He remembered the angry voice that tore away the dirty clothes from his body.
He felt his cheek burning where those large hands had slapped him.
He felt the end of the wooden walking stick prodding him to move faster.
He felt those wrinkled forcing medicine into his mouth.
His resolve strengthened, quenched in his bitter memories, but it had developed cracks. Cracks through which doubt flowed ... he wanted to go back home. He wanted to see his parents and his grandparents. He wanted to be the apple of their eyes again, even if it meant having to hold the bitter seeds. He wished he'd never run away. The sounds of the city swallowed his sobs, the rattle of the trains, the sounds of traffic outside the station, the sound of footsteps coming closer.
Wolf's eyes stared at Nik from the darkness, shining with anticipation in the sparse illumination of the overhead lamps. The man walked slowly towards Nik, his designer shoes polished so that they gleamed in the shadows, the only other part of him that could be seen apart from his shimmering eyes. A grin spread across his face, baring his teeth in a rictus of anticipation as he stared at the little boy on the floor.
"What's wrong, son? Why are you crying?" he asked, stepping out of the shadows into circle of light.
The deep voice startled Nik back to the present.
"I'm not crying!" he said as he wiped away his tears.
Nik's eyes widened as he recognised the man standing before him. Once again he was fixed in place, staring at the man's eyes. He didn't even notice the bulldog shaped face or the grey suit that the man was wearing, the red silk tie or the or sparkling gold rings.
The man approached the boy slowly, as though expecting him to bolt at the slightest movement. Nik's eyes were fixed on the man, though, like a bird hypnotised by a snake. He didn't move a muscle, he didn't even think of moving a muscle. The somewhat heavyset man struggled to crouch ahead of Nik's knees and offered him a silk handkerchief.
"Here, wipe your tears. Big boys don't cry."
Nik made no movement to take the handkerchief. In fact, he made no movement at all.
The man reached out and wiped the boys tears himself. The touch of the silk against his cheek seemed startled Nik out of his trance.
"I'm not crying!" he said in a quivering voice.
"Of course not, you're a big boy. Big boys don't cry!" came the kind response.
"Yes!" said Nik with confidence that he didn't feel.
"Where are you from?" the man asked.
Nik shied away from him, pursing his lips as though to will them from not opening. 'Never talk to strangers', the phrase kept playing in his head.
The man sat down next to him and started to search his coat. Fishing out a lollipop from his breast pocket he handed it to the boy.
"Go ahead. Take it" the man urged.
Nik looked at the lollipop intently. Exactly like the ones his grandmother bought from him. He reached warily and grabbed the lollipop from the man's hand. The wrapping was off and the confectionery in his mouth in a flash. The smile on the man's face grew a little wider.
"Now, where are you from?" he asked again.
"My village. I'm going back on the next train." Nik said with false bravado.
"Ah, ok. Do you know when the next train is?" the man asked in all practicality.
"I'll find out from the man at the station. He wears a red coat. He knows everything about the trains. He even showed me the engine of the train before we left from my village."
Nik's eyes gleamed with the awe he felt seeing all of the levers and dials in the engine.
"And how are you going to pay for the ticket?"
Nik turned to his bag and carefully retrieved his piggy bank.
"Here, I have money. See!" he said shaking the clay pig, smiling at the sound the coins made. The man smiled right back at him.
"So you're going to break that open?" he asked with a mock sad expression on his face.
Nik put the pig in his lap and stared at it for a couple of seconds.
"Well .... I have to, don't I" he said sadly, looking up at the man.
"No, you don't. I'll pay for your ticket and you can come and stay with me tonight, I'll even drop you to the station in tomorrow" the man said. His hand found its way to Niks thigh and gently started massaging it.
"You'd do that?" Nik asked him delightfully, ignoring the goosebumps that had risen on his thigh.
"Of course" the man said, staring at the boy's thigh, feeling his skin pebble against his palm.
"Everybody always told me that the people in the city were not nice. But you're a very nice man."
"Oh, there are a lot of nice people in the city. This is the first time you've come to a city?" he probed.
"Yes. I've heard a lot of good things about it. And bad things too." Nik volunteered.
"Tell me what you know about it. But first, welcome to the city ...."
Where no one sees nothing, he thought to himself.
----
Approximately 30% of the populace under the age of 18 has suffered some form of sexual abuse.
World day for prevention of Child Abuse is on November 19th.

The Sound of Silence

This is a prologue to 'The Post War Dream' and so doesn't answer any of the questions that people had asked me.
I will write one more piece based on these characters which will answer most if not all of those questions. Furibundo, rest easy till then. :-)

---
The bottom of the polished metal door scraped the pitted concrete floor as it swung open with a creak. The silhouette of a bald man made itself apparent against the bright light of the bulb outside flooding into the dank gray room through the wide doorway.
Garbed in a black dress uniform the colonel strolled to the record player in the far corner of the room paying no attention to the prisoner bound to one of the two metal chairs in the room. Retrieving a large record from its jacket he examined it carefully, blew away some of the dust that coated the old record and put it onto the waiting turntable. The record player started with a loud click as he turned the switch, the whirring sounding suspiciously loud. He carefully placed the needle on the turning record so as not to break it. A brief burst of static to be replaced by the violins of Beethoven's 9th Symphony.
The colonels swift movements were being weighed and measured by the attentive eyes of the other occupant of the room, a prisoner of war. A short man in dirty, ragged clothes, the defiance in his eyes made him seem larger ... made him seem beyond the mere chains and conditions holding him there. A metallic screech permeated the room as the colonel dragged the empty metal chair closer to the prisoner and deposited himself in it. The two men sat face to face, staring at each other, neither of them blinking, like they had all the time in the world. Teacup sized, calm eyes confronted deep set, defiant eyes.
The colonel sighed and shook his head, looked at the prisoner again and pushed himself out of the chair. The sound of his boots almost in time with the music as he paced around the chair, staring at the prisoner once more. Two pairs of eyes, one calm, the other defiant never left each other.
The mutual scrutiny was interrupted by a knock on the door. The creak of the hinges registering its protest, it opened to admit two soldiers, one wheeling in a small metal cart who and another carrying a pair of buckets. Depositing their burdens the soldiers left with a nod to their superior officer.
The colonel slowly walked from the corner of the room to the cart. The two men stared at each other all the while. Calm eyes now had wrinkles at their edges with a slight smile below them. Defiant eyes, now hard as stone with a quivering lip below. The eye contact was broken when the colonel turned his back on the prisoner to busy himself with the paraphernalia on the cart.
The colonel hummed in time with the music ... Tchaikovsky. He broke a blade in half and stuck it in the razor that was on the cart. Losing himself in the valleys and peaks of the piano he directed an imaginary orchestra using the now sharp razor as a baton. A deep sigh and a shake of the head as the piece reached its end. Bending over his prisoner the colonel began cutting his pants just below the knees with flicks of his wrist, leaving the calves exposed. He picked up a large black rag, frayed at the edges with small holes in the material, smelling of petrol. The prisoner kept his eyes open in spite of the petrol stinging his eyes as the colonel folded the rag and lowered it over the prisoners eyes. He could still see through a hole in the rag partially exposing his left eye.
The colonel dragged the two buckets to the prisoners chair. One filled with boiling water and the with cold water, large pieces of ice floating on the surface. Lifting the prisoners legs he dropped them in the hot water with a splash. Picking himself up the colonel walked over to his own chair and lit a cigarette, closed his eyes and enjoyed the music, Bach's "Cantata No. 147". The orchestra played in the large dimly lit hall. Gold cornicing reflecting the light to make it seem brighter. The red carpets and blinds soaking up just enough of the sound to make the acoustics perfect. If only ....
The prisoner stared at his legs, his calves submerged in boiling water. He set his jaw and shifted to look at his captor through his limited viewport. He wondered why he was here. The guards had just picked him up from the field. His friend had tried to stop them, ask them why they were taking him. One of the guards had hit him with the butt of his rifle. Hopefully, he hadn't been hurt too badly. They'd been talking about going back home, about looking at the stars from the roof of their houses. If only ...
The colonel stared at the prisoner over his waning cigarette.
Puffing on the stub of the cigarette the colonel walked over to his victim. He lifted the now beet red legs out of the bucket to examine them. They were scalded. He gently touched the part that seemed to be the most affected and watched the prisoner's face. It seemed to have been set in stone. The colonel could see only the eye moving through the hole in the blindfold. Even an increase in pressure did not seem to make any difference to the expression on the idol's face.
The colonel shrugged and puffed on his cigarette stub. Holding the stub carefully between his forefinger and thumb so as not to burn himself he pulled it out of his mouth and put it out on the prisoners calf, at the exact spot where he had been pressing it. The reluctant embers went out with sizzle. A circle of crimson stood out against a background of red. The only acknowledgment was a soft grunt from the prisoner.
The colonel lifted the prisoner's legs once more and dropped them in the ice water. A stifled yell as the extreme change in temperature assaulted his legs. The fresh wound seemed to be on fire and bathed in snow at the same time.
Bach's third Orchestral Suite seemed a fitting accompaniment to the conflict of sensations.
A softer sound ... a humming, barely audible over the organ could be heard but the prisoner didn't pay attention. The humming became louder and turned into a whistle as the colonel directed the music, his fingers moving following the rhythm, he stood on the tips of his toes with the rise in tempo. He looked down at the brass and string orchestra behind closed eyes.
An extraneous sound interrupted his tryst with the destiny of his choosing ... a repetitive sound, almost regular, but not quite. The prisoner's teeth, chattering. The colonel stared at the man in the chair with a mixed look of respect and disdain. The starch in his uniform made his sleeve crinkle as he folded the one sheltering his right arm. The sound of his boots seemed at odds against the soft notes of Mozart's Piano Concerto.
After pulling his charges legs from the bucket, he put his arm into the freezing water. Gritting his teeth against the bitter cold he fished from the bottom a bottle of wine. He glanced at the label, raised his eyebrows and nodded his approval.
The colonel dried his hand on the blindfold. The rusted corkscrew squeaked in protest as it was inserted into the bottle. A pop as the cork was rudely pulled from the place it had rested in for almost a decade. A metal clothespin found its way to the prisoners nose, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. He walked behind the prisoner's chair and grabbed his neck below the chin, roughly pulling his head back.
The colonel forced the bottle into the prisoners mouth despite muffled protests. The red fluid began to flow. A gurgling sound as he tried to close his mouth enough to spit it out, only to be replaced by the sound of him swallowing as much of the wine as he could. The intensity of his thrashing against the chair dropped until it stopped altogether.
The colonel took the bottle out of his mouth, almost all of the wine gone, some of it on the prisoners already stained clothes.
The record player finally finished its run filling the room with static. The colonel walked to the door and dragged it open, the scraping of metal against concrete mingling with the already jarring sounds. The two sentries posted outside filed into the room as the colonel walked over to the record player, waving his hand towards the prisoner, gesturing that he be taken back. One of the sentries untied and lifted the prisoner over his shoulder and walked out the open door. The colonel lifted the needle of the record player, leaving the room in a sudden vacuum.
"Sir, may I ask a question?" the remaining sentry asked in a voice that seemed too young for a soldier fighting in a war.
"Of course, son. Of course." the colonel replied in a deep voice that making the young man's voice sound all the more out of place.
"The man that was in here earlier, sir, he's never spoken a word in all of the interrogations. I've heard you say that he probably doesn't know anything. And .... and he didn't even steal that bottle of wine this time...." the young man's voice trailed off.
"Your point being?"
"Sir, if he didn't do anything, why was he in here?"
"Oh." A deep throated chuckle. "I just wanted to have some fun."

Who am I?

I speak. I listen. I imagine. I dream.
These define who I am ... define all the irregularities and the imperfections that are me.
I am the sum of my experiences and opinions, of my victories and mistakes.
I am the realisation of my wants and losses, of my hopes and prejudices.
I am the whole of my affections and affectations, of my perceptions and inabilities.
I just am.

Fumbling Towards Ecstasy

His footsteps were muffled by the red, moth-eaten carpet ... his shallow breathing lost in the music ... his dark pupils masked by the reflection of the screen in his eyes ... the light played across his face, contorting it, turning it into masks of pain, masks of anguish, masks of despair ... masks of sadness. Chaplin tumbled onto the ground in his usual tramp style. The million times he's done it before and it's funny every time. The black and white poster was put up at the end of the row of chairs -

Charlie Chaplin Film Festival
Final shows of the Plaza

'The Kid' - the movie they'd opened with all those years ago. A fitting tribute. And what a way to go out ... with a bang!
The music picked up tempo, a pivotal scene. He didn't laugh though ... the cramps were getting worse, pain seared his brain, his vision ... but he had made a promise, one that he was going to keep. The consequences of not keeping it were bad, but he was beginning to feel that the effects of keeping it were worse.
He doubled over, keeping his head low .... the sounds of laughter from the audience mingled with the music. He tried to concentrate on the irregular screeching sounds coming from the speakers. The place really had gotten too old.
Sweat soaked the surface of his palms as beads of sweat meandered down his face through the day old stubble. He started to scratch his arms ... it seemed like the flesh beneath his skin was itching ... like the blood coursing through his veins was burning, growing worse with each beat of his heart. Mind over matter, he tried to keep his thoughts focussed on the movie. He'd loved Chaplin when he was a kid ...
He bent over as a wave of nausea washed over him. He picked up his backpack and headed for the exit to the restrooms. The padded door creaked as he pushed against it using all of the strength he had remaining. The narrow crack that opened was enough for his slight frame to get through.
He felt the cracks in the walls against his palm as he stumbled to the rest room at the end of the darkening corridor, the tube light flickering on and off. Faltering, irregular steps closed the distance to the outline of the door. He fell to his knees ... unable to hold himself up, his legs felt like they were made of water. The journey continued in a crawl, toward a goal ... mind over matter. The carpet on the floor felt coarse under his hands.
The wave of nausea finally reached the tipping point as he reached the door. He lifted himself up using the sink as support. The foul odour of his vomit blended with the comparable essence of the old restroom. The nausea had passed leaving emptiness in its place ... emptiness that he'd felt before ... all too many times. Emptiness that craved to be filled ... filling it meant everything. No more ....
He walked into the closest stall and sat on the floor ... the moldy smell overpowering his senses ... threatening to bring the nausea back .... no more! He pulled open the zipper on his back pack with one hand while scratching his neck with the other. Emptying the contents on the floor he leaned back against the wall of the booth ... he was going to break his promise ... the promise he'd made just that morning, standing at the train station. He closed his eyes ... her face ... he saw it light up as he said 'I promise' ... he remembered her lingering touch as she boarded the train ... he remembered the whispered, almost hallowed 'thank you'. The tears mingled with the sweat flowing down his cheeks. He opened his eyes to stare at graffiti scrawled on the booth wall in permanent marker ... a heart with an arrow through it, "R+N" written inside it, the entire work of modern art scratched across as though with someone's fingernails.
He picked out two small brown paper packets, one marked 'H' and the other 'C' and a bottle of Sprite from the stuff on the floor. The bottle fizzed as he opened he opened it and dumped half its content down the toilet. He opened the first packet and stared into it. Stared at the one thing that could provide relief ... stared at his health and his sickness ... stared at the object of his addiction.
Slowly, he poured some of the brown powder into the waiting bottle ... a little of the powder at a time. He'd spent ... lost way too much getting it. He had nothing left to sell except his soul ... and maybe that was already damned. He opened the other packet and poured some of the white powder into the bottle, a little more than the brown stuff.
Taking a lighter out of his pocket he held it under the bottle holding it at the neck. The turbid liquid began to clear as the smell of burning plastic filled the booth. He stared at the bottle, at the tepid liquid inside it ... and after a while through it. Sorting through the stuff on the floor he started to put things back in his bag ... until he found what he was looking for. He tore open the sterilised paper packing exposing the syringe to the elements.
Tilting the bottle to one side he put the syringe in and filled it. Licking the tip of the syringe he tore open the plastic wrapping on the needle ... He had to try twice before he could steady his hands enough to push it onto the syringe.
Holding the syringe in his left hand, he tapped his arm to find a vein. His heart was pumping a mile a minute ... his vein stood out, bluish against the colour of flesh. He winced as he injected himself.
Almost immediately his heart slowed, sounds became distant, the horrible odour of the rest room went away. The face from his memory smiled and faded away. He felt ... lighter, like he was about to float away. His vision swayed with each beat of his heart ... with each movement of the seconds hand of his watch. He could hear his heart ... the soft ticking of his watch ... the drip of a leaky faucet ... the wind blowing his problems away. The graffiti on the wall began to move, began to flow, began to fade.
Pushing himself up against the ground his palm stuck on the floor on the booth ... he stared at it in bewilderment. Stumbling out of the booth, he headed back to his seat ... past the crumbling corridor, through the padded door ... into darkness. Suddenly the screen lit up in blacks and grays startling him into movement.
He got to his seat and stared at the screen ... the tinniness from the speakers was gone, but he didn't notice. He watched the myriad of images formed by the shades of gray on the screen without registering any of them. All he saw were vague shapes that played across his eyes. Sounds that he could see, colours that he could hear ... none of it made sense, but then none of it mattered. The tramp was crying on screen. The music slowed to just over the pace of a dirge. The audience was quiet and tense at the same time. They'd seen Chaplin way too often. This was the calm before the storm. The Sprite bottle found its way to his lips.
All of a sudden he gasped for breath ... the grays turned to white as the cocaine kicked in. He kicked against the seat in front of him, holding his throat. The music reached a crescendo ... the trumpets and violins timed to the movements on the screen, out of sync with the arms that reached out to grab hold of some support, to get the attention of someone ... anyone.
The screen went black.

Running on Empty

A citrine night sky. Ironic, or may be fitting, that a city with a soul so dark would have such a bright night sky. The colour of the sky, a reflection of her cataract ridden eyes, hidden behind the spectacles whose thick lenses haven't been cleaned in days. Callused hands smudge the soot caked over the lens as she takes them off and carefully wipes them on her clothes. Trembling fingers unsteadily perch the cleaned yet now dirtier spectacles on the bridge of her nose. Uncertain eyes focus on the blurry image of dirty fingernails reduced to jagged stubs. They find their way to waiting mouth that hasn't tasted sweet or sour in too long. The gritty texture of the dirt beneath her fingernails hurts her sensitive teeth as she bites into it. Her exploring tongue feels the shard that's broken off into her mouth, pushes it against the back of her teeth trying to delay swallowing it. She finds the gap that was once occupied by a tooth made of solid gold. The tooth that her son had pulled out.
Her heart jumps at the metallic taste of blood that floods her mouth. Her nails tearing her tender gums, adrenaline pumping, making her tongue seem swollen and numb. Suddenly being bathed in the red of the traffic light shocks her back into the present ... time to go to work. The once straight walking stick creaks under her weight as she hauls herself up and limps to the nearest car, hoping that she'll get enough money to sleep with something in her stomach. To sleep ... to dream ... to wake the next morning.
She watches her reflection reaching towards her, hears the soft chime of coins held her in her precious cloth bag. She mouths her plea to her own reflection in the window of the car, unable to see her hopeful benefactor. The window is unmoved, the reflection is unmoved. Onto the next soul. A few people make her richer by a few pennies, a few spurn her for what she has become, oblivious to see what she has been ... a mother spurned ... a wife widowed, her identity lost leaving a fragile shell behind.
The signal turns a shady amber, telling her to start moving back to the sidewalk. Limping slowly towards a destination that seems to be retreating from her, she holds her wrinkled hand up against the rearing monsters facing the starting line hoping that they'll heed her prayer. The light turns, the monsters charge, she hears a screech, all she can make out is a blur ... something large coming towards her.
"Out of the way, you hag!!"
She moves, fast as she can to the safety of the sidewalk. Too old. She's too old for this. Panting, she leans on her walking stick hoping that it won't break under the weight of her feeble frame. She makes peace with the thought that she'll go to bed hungry. A little more money and she might just be able to eat the next day ... the cloth bag jingles in agreement. Just a few minutes ... a little rest. She feels her stick being kicked out from under her.
"Am so sorry! Was in my own world. Didn't see your walking stick. Am so sorry!"
A deep voice from a blur that moved.
"It's alright, son. No harm done ... Could you spare some change? I haven't had anything to eat in days. Please ... "
Maybe he's sorry enough to give her some money.
"Um ... I don't have any change ..."
The genuine sound of regret in his voice.
"Oh, alright. It's just that I haven't had anything to eat ... Thanks, anyway"
The sound of soft footsteps walking away. She settles back down on the sidewalk. Just a few minutes ... just a little rest.
"I'm sorry. But I've had enough bad luck to know that you sometimes need a helping hand. How about I get you something to eat?"
That deep voice again ... Her smile takes in all of him ... the stubble on his face, the large crumpled envelope under his arm, the rumpled coat, the dirty sneakers ... all of it. She tries to get a good look at him ... tries to remember the way he looks ... one of the few kind people she's met, like the woman who had given her the coat she was wearing.
They move towards the closest restaurant ... she limping, he shuffling along. She tells him about her son, her husband who passed away, the street urchins who throw stones at her and call her a hag ... her life.
The shady establishment is identified only by the sign above the olive green door saying 'Restarant'. The greyish paint on the walls peeling, the dingy interiors lit by four bulbs spreading barely enough light to read by.
"So, what would you like?"
She names dishes that she's eaten ... that she's cooked ... that she's heard of but never seen.
"Can I get a sweet too?" in the most innocent voice she can manage.
"Ha Sure, why not."
"And could you please have it packed ... I'd like to eat at home ..."
"Are you sure? It looks like it's going to rain."
"It's ok. I live close by."
He just nods and places the order. They wait and watch the drizzle turn into a downpour. He listens as she rambles about the time she was accused of stealing, about a grandchild she can't remember anymore, about the streets and how they treat her ... about her life.
A child dressed in a dirty vest and even dirtier shorts brings him a white plastic packet and runs off towards the dim outline of a door in the back of the small hall.
"Are you sure you don't want to stay here until the rain stops?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I live close by. Don't worry."
He offers her the parcel. Her trembling hands slowly reach for the parcel as though scared that it might disappear if she touches it. She seems genuinely surprised by the warmth that escapes through the plastic.
"Thank you, son! Thank you so much! May God have mercy on me and give my remaining age to you!"
A sharp intake of breath followed by a sigh.
"Thank you. You don't know how much that means to me."
They pass through the olive green door once more and turn to face different directions. They part ways with a nod and a smile ... one limping, the other shuffling along.
She limps under the awnings of shops, under the cover of trees, clutching the white packet to her chest. She enjoys the contrast in temperatures, the warmth of the packet against the cold of the rain.
A turn into a narrow dark alley puts her in front of a large concrete pipe, its mouth partly covered by a large blue plastic sheet. She moves the rock on the pipe firmly anchoring the sheet in place so that it covers the whole mouth. Home sweet home.
She lights a candle to make out the blurs before her, unpacks the still warm parcel and stares at the food, still unable to believe that she's about to eat, still expecting it to disappear in a puff of smoke at a touch. The lack of a spoon doesn't bother her. She sticks her hands out in the rain but thinks twice about wiping them on her clothes. The contrast in temperatures becomes conspicuous as she puts her wet fingers in the warm rice. She savours each morsel of her supper ... the sweet, the sour, the pungent, the bitter, she tastes it all ... she feasts.
She stares at the empty dishes trying to remember what they looked like when they were full. Hoping that the memory of a feast will sustain her until her next meal. She blows out the candle. To sleep ... to dream. The cold of the night seeps into her bones.
--
The young man lived for a year longer than the doctors said he would.