An Untitled Short Story
The moon was almost quite full now, and it was high into the sky. The last time I looked at the moon was just less than twenty-four hours ago. I sighed as my laptop disconnected once more. I moved the pointer to try connecting again one last time. For three hours I had been sitting here trying to get a connection to the hotel’s wireless router, and I only had a vague idea of how annoyed I had become. The mere fact that a place like this would have a terrible wireless network connection should be noted in any hotel reviews.
I glanced over to my side and saw the empty space in the bed beside me. As it should be. I had precious little time for myself, and a woman would find no pleasure in what little I could spare. I yawned and shifted where I sat; it had been a long day and sleep was something that softly beckoned, but would not come. Besides, I had to remain awake.
I stood up, and walked to the window and admired the view. The city was below me, a sea of lights flickering yet undying with the dark shroud of night and fog obscuring everything else. It was strangely relaxing to watch. I turned to look at the digital clock on top of the television, and it read ten-fifteen in the evening. I looked back outside the window, trying to discern the lights in the distance, far away. The city I called home. The trip had been long, and crying children provided no comfort. I would not return for at least a week. It would soon be ten-forty, I told myself.
I decided to give up on the hotel’s router and go outside for a walk in the cool mountain air—and to find the coffee shop, which might possibly have free Wi-Fi. A quick trip into the bathroom to wash my face and to make sure my hair was neatly tied back. I picked up my phone, my laptop, my notebook and a pen, and I headed outside into the cold hallway. Cold’s creeping fingers pierced right through the British khaki coat and tickled my bones.
Outside, I heard the buzz of conversation. There were three cleaning ladies in the hall, obviously cleaning. It made sense for them to be cleaning now, when no one was in getting in the way. Cleaning during the day would be troublesome, given that guests and their children tend to wander the halls in-between their scheduled activities. It was a good time to clean when everyone else was either asleep or probably having a good time at some bar half-way down the slope. They greeted me good evening as I passed, and I returned the greeting. The empty hall resonated with my footsteps, with nothing soft to dampen the sound. At this hour of the night, I was alone. No one else was here but me; all the lights were either dimmed or turned off, and only one lift was o perating. Perhaps to cut costs of keeping many things turned on when there was no one there to see?
As the lift doors opened, I stood expectantly. Tonight felt like it was such a night, prone to unexpected events. There was no one inside. Half-disappointed, I entered the car and pressed G, and watched the doors close. For some reason, I had expected someone to be inside. I looked up, to the display, and watched the LEDs flash to form the number seven.
In the moments that passed in-between floors, I let my mind wander. Why was I here, on this cold November night, instead of being warm at home? The number seven faded, and was immediately replaced by six. Why was I here alone, when there could be someone else with me? Five. Someone’s company would be lovely, I keep telling myself. Someone to talk with, even if there was nothing important to say. Four.
I was expecting the number three to follow immediately after, but the number four did not fade. Instead, it remained steadfast and bright; the lift stopped with a barely noticeable lurch. The doors opened to another hall, almost identical to the one I had entered from, but instead of me, it was a young woman stan ding there. She looked at me from head to toe before entering the car. We stood there in silence, as the ride down resumed.
The doors opened for a second time and revealed an empty lobby. It seemed highly unlikely for any guests to be checking in at this hour of the night. It seemed slightly gloomy despite the warm orange glow, possibly because of the sombre looking receptionist, who seemed to be passing the night reading a novel; a cheesy romance novel from the looks of the cover. The girl got out and walked briskly towards the hotel’s twenty-four hour café. I followed behind her, but instead of turning into the café to the right, I walked straight and out of the hotel. A bellhop appeared by the door and held it open for me, and wished me a good evening. I thanked him and inhaled the cold evening mountain air.
I stopped half-way down the steep driveway that led down from the hotel to the main road, and turned. The hotel was an impressive structure: the lobby was built into the side of the mountain, with a tower rising into the sky like a tall tree. Except it wasn’t tall, it was stunted at the eighth floor. It was more of an English country manor built into the mountain rock. Most rooms were dark, with their guests asleep. Some were lit, and some had silhouettes of strangers standing by their windows in the solemn darkness of night. But none paid attention to me as I walked.
I met the road with a relaxed step. It was a few hundred metres to the nearby arcade. What used to be an old American army commissary had since been converted into a line of restaurants and shops. I turned my head to the left and peered into the empty shops; not a few hours ago, these would have been full of light and laughter of people. But now, they were dark, lifeless and quiet, a grim reminder that life can so easily be silenced.
Two drinking places were open at this hour, with a poor population for each. It seems that on such a day as this, only a few brave souls braved the chilling evening to have a few drinks with their friends. A few watched me as I passed, but ultimately, I was just another passerby. My goal was ahead, the familiar round lit sign reminding me of what I was looking for.
There were a few people inside: a small group of four sat on the farthest table, with partially eaten sandwiches and empty cups of coffee on their table. They spoke briskly, and ending each word in staccato; implying it was business which I had no business busying myself with. Closer to the door sat a couple, or perhaps just friends. One sat asleep, with his head resting on the couch’s plump backrest. The other sat reading a book of some sort, but I could not see the title. The barista watched me as I walked into view, and entered the shop. She greeted me with a smile, and asked if there was anything she could do for me.
"Hi, one ice-blended java vanilla, please." I said. "Just tall."
She said confirmed my order and said something about the weather outside, but for some reason, everything sounded so distant.
"Oh, yes, yes it is indeed." I pulled out indigo and orange paper bills and handed it to her. It was probably enough. She said something along the lines of I received a hundred and twenty. She stacked the coins for my change, and handed me the receipt. She left promptly to make my drink, and I busied myself with finding a seat facing the door.
As I settled down, I was hoping to check my mail, and possibly report in with my employer, but I decided that it could wait until tomorrow. I put the laptop on the low table, and instead picked up my notebook and pen and started scribbling. It wasn’t mindless scribbling, it was writing down ideas that flowed through my head faster than I could write.
I’m a writer, see. I write for a living, or at least I like to think I do. I made notes of whatever it is saw and wherever it is I went. I kept writing, the conversations of the people on the ride here, the gossiping hotel maids and barely heard the voice of the young barista who was calling my name, until she was beside me and gave me a tap which startled me. My pen went flying, and she looked terribly frightened and began muttering apologies.
"Sorry, sorry." I apologised, as I got up to pick my pen up. "I must have lost touch with the world... tends to happen when I write."
She gave me my drink and apologised again before returning to the counter. I took a sip and closed my eyes to savour the flavour of the cold, sweet cup of coffee. The pureness of vanilla ice cream merged with the impenetrable blackness of coffee. Coffee is like the truth, humans are afraid of the dark and bitter nature of truth. And yet, at the same time, we’re fascinated and bewitched by it. Maybe that’s why humans drink the darkness that is coffee, to remind us of the truth; only we use milk and sugar to hide the dark bitterness in our cup. Blacker than the moonless night, hotter and more bitter than the summer sun. That is coffee. And it is always good to the last drop. Although, mine was cold.
Where was I? Oh, yes. I remember. The moon was not quite full yet, though it was almost, and it was barely over the mountains that loomed like dark giants standing shoulder to shoulder on the horizon. The chill air of the night was a refreshing change from the usual humidity, but I could still feel the beads of sweat forming on my lower back. I shifted where I stood and looked around.
The small side street I stood on had no vehicles, and a few pedestrians walked past minding their own business. It was a bit past dinner time, and most people were either at home or crowding into restaurants. These appeared and disappeared as they crossed the pools of pale orange light separated by the sea of darkness, like ethereal forms flitting in and out of existence. I stood in the centre of one such pool of light, under the street lamp on the corner of the Third National Road and Forty-First Street.
I was waiting on that particular street corner that night for a specific black car to pull up. After ten minutes of standing, it did. A European car, and I will not pretend to be knowledgeable of cars, but it was definitely European. Or, at least the brand was. And a raspy voice told me to get in as a window lowered; a voice I knew well.
"Ed." I said as I got in. The car started moving.
"Here." Ed said. "Everything is inside."
He handed me a manila envelope, and fifteen minutes later, the car stopped at the train station. The driver came down and opened the trunk for me to retrieve a suitcase, one of my own from my apartment. Ed must have sent someone to enter my apartment and pack my things for me while I was busy somewhere else. Typical of Ed; this probably meant I would be away for another few days.
I opened the suitcase to check the contents and found my khaki coat folded nicely on top, with a handkerchief peeking out of the pocket. Rachel, Ed's oldest daughter and secretary, probably did the packing. Like father, like daughter I suppose. I closed the suitcase and took it out and nodded at the driver, Alfonso if I am not mistaken. He nodded at me and closed the trunk. I watched as Ed's car drove away, probably to his youngest daughter's ballet show.
My tickets and orders were inside the envelope, as well as any money I would need for this job. It was a good twenty minutes before I got into the train waiting to depart and settled down to read the details of the job. Ed trusted me to get things done, and betraying his trust would be dangerous to my health.
I glanced over to my side and saw the empty space in the bed beside me. As it should be. I had precious little time for myself, and a woman would find no pleasure in what little I could spare. I yawned and shifted where I sat; it had been a long day and sleep was something that softly beckoned, but would not come. Besides, I had to remain awake.
I stood up, and walked to the window and admired the view. The city was below me, a sea of lights flickering yet undying with the dark shroud of night and fog obscuring everything else. It was strangely relaxing to watch. I turned to look at the digital clock on top of the television, and it read ten-fifteen in the evening. I looked back outside the window, trying to discern the lights in the distance, far away. The city I called home. The trip had been long, and crying children provided no comfort. I would not return for at least a week. It would soon be ten-forty, I told myself.
I decided to give up on the hotel’s router and go outside for a walk in the cool mountain air—and to find the coffee shop, which might possibly have free Wi-Fi. A quick trip into the bathroom to wash my face and to make sure my hair was neatly tied back. I picked up my phone, my laptop, my notebook and a pen, and I headed outside into the cold hallway. Cold’s creeping fingers pierced right through the British khaki coat and tickled my bones.
Outside, I heard the buzz of conversation. There were three cleaning ladies in the hall, obviously cleaning. It made sense for them to be cleaning now, when no one was in getting in the way. Cleaning during the day would be troublesome, given that guests and their children tend to wander the halls in-between their scheduled activities. It was a good time to clean when everyone else was either asleep or probably having a good time at some bar half-way down the slope. They greeted me good evening as I passed, and I returned the greeting. The empty hall resonated with my footsteps, with nothing soft to dampen the sound. At this hour of the night, I was alone. No one else was here but me; all the lights were either dimmed or turned off, and only one lift was o perating. Perhaps to cut costs of keeping many things turned on when there was no one there to see?
As the lift doors opened, I stood expectantly. Tonight felt like it was such a night, prone to unexpected events. There was no one inside. Half-disappointed, I entered the car and pressed G, and watched the doors close. For some reason, I had expected someone to be inside. I looked up, to the display, and watched the LEDs flash to form the number seven.
In the moments that passed in-between floors, I let my mind wander. Why was I here, on this cold November night, instead of being warm at home? The number seven faded, and was immediately replaced by six. Why was I here alone, when there could be someone else with me? Five. Someone’s company would be lovely, I keep telling myself. Someone to talk with, even if there was nothing important to say. Four.
I was expecting the number three to follow immediately after, but the number four did not fade. Instead, it remained steadfast and bright; the lift stopped with a barely noticeable lurch. The doors opened to another hall, almost identical to the one I had entered from, but instead of me, it was a young woman stan ding there. She looked at me from head to toe before entering the car. We stood there in silence, as the ride down resumed.
The doors opened for a second time and revealed an empty lobby. It seemed highly unlikely for any guests to be checking in at this hour of the night. It seemed slightly gloomy despite the warm orange glow, possibly because of the sombre looking receptionist, who seemed to be passing the night reading a novel; a cheesy romance novel from the looks of the cover. The girl got out and walked briskly towards the hotel’s twenty-four hour café. I followed behind her, but instead of turning into the café to the right, I walked straight and out of the hotel. A bellhop appeared by the door and held it open for me, and wished me a good evening. I thanked him and inhaled the cold evening mountain air.
I stopped half-way down the steep driveway that led down from the hotel to the main road, and turned. The hotel was an impressive structure: the lobby was built into the side of the mountain, with a tower rising into the sky like a tall tree. Except it wasn’t tall, it was stunted at the eighth floor. It was more of an English country manor built into the mountain rock. Most rooms were dark, with their guests asleep. Some were lit, and some had silhouettes of strangers standing by their windows in the solemn darkness of night. But none paid attention to me as I walked.
I met the road with a relaxed step. It was a few hundred metres to the nearby arcade. What used to be an old American army commissary had since been converted into a line of restaurants and shops. I turned my head to the left and peered into the empty shops; not a few hours ago, these would have been full of light and laughter of people. But now, they were dark, lifeless and quiet, a grim reminder that life can so easily be silenced.
Two drinking places were open at this hour, with a poor population for each. It seems that on such a day as this, only a few brave souls braved the chilling evening to have a few drinks with their friends. A few watched me as I passed, but ultimately, I was just another passerby. My goal was ahead, the familiar round lit sign reminding me of what I was looking for.
There were a few people inside: a small group of four sat on the farthest table, with partially eaten sandwiches and empty cups of coffee on their table. They spoke briskly, and ending each word in staccato; implying it was business which I had no business busying myself with. Closer to the door sat a couple, or perhaps just friends. One sat asleep, with his head resting on the couch’s plump backrest. The other sat reading a book of some sort, but I could not see the title. The barista watched me as I walked into view, and entered the shop. She greeted me with a smile, and asked if there was anything she could do for me.
"Hi, one ice-blended java vanilla, please." I said. "Just tall."
She said confirmed my order and said something about the weather outside, but for some reason, everything sounded so distant.
"Oh, yes, yes it is indeed." I pulled out indigo and orange paper bills and handed it to her. It was probably enough. She said something along the lines of I received a hundred and twenty. She stacked the coins for my change, and handed me the receipt. She left promptly to make my drink, and I busied myself with finding a seat facing the door.
As I settled down, I was hoping to check my mail, and possibly report in with my employer, but I decided that it could wait until tomorrow. I put the laptop on the low table, and instead picked up my notebook and pen and started scribbling. It wasn’t mindless scribbling, it was writing down ideas that flowed through my head faster than I could write.
I’m a writer, see. I write for a living, or at least I like to think I do. I made notes of whatever it is saw and wherever it is I went. I kept writing, the conversations of the people on the ride here, the gossiping hotel maids and barely heard the voice of the young barista who was calling my name, until she was beside me and gave me a tap which startled me. My pen went flying, and she looked terribly frightened and began muttering apologies.
"Sorry, sorry." I apologised, as I got up to pick my pen up. "I must have lost touch with the world... tends to happen when I write."
She gave me my drink and apologised again before returning to the counter. I took a sip and closed my eyes to savour the flavour of the cold, sweet cup of coffee. The pureness of vanilla ice cream merged with the impenetrable blackness of coffee. Coffee is like the truth, humans are afraid of the dark and bitter nature of truth. And yet, at the same time, we’re fascinated and bewitched by it. Maybe that’s why humans drink the darkness that is coffee, to remind us of the truth; only we use milk and sugar to hide the dark bitterness in our cup. Blacker than the moonless night, hotter and more bitter than the summer sun. That is coffee. And it is always good to the last drop. Although, mine was cold.
Where was I? Oh, yes. I remember. The moon was not quite full yet, though it was almost, and it was barely over the mountains that loomed like dark giants standing shoulder to shoulder on the horizon. The chill air of the night was a refreshing change from the usual humidity, but I could still feel the beads of sweat forming on my lower back. I shifted where I stood and looked around.
The small side street I stood on had no vehicles, and a few pedestrians walked past minding their own business. It was a bit past dinner time, and most people were either at home or crowding into restaurants. These appeared and disappeared as they crossed the pools of pale orange light separated by the sea of darkness, like ethereal forms flitting in and out of existence. I stood in the centre of one such pool of light, under the street lamp on the corner of the Third National Road and Forty-First Street.
I was waiting on that particular street corner that night for a specific black car to pull up. After ten minutes of standing, it did. A European car, and I will not pretend to be knowledgeable of cars, but it was definitely European. Or, at least the brand was. And a raspy voice told me to get in as a window lowered; a voice I knew well.
"Ed." I said as I got in. The car started moving.
"Here." Ed said. "Everything is inside."
He handed me a manila envelope, and fifteen minutes later, the car stopped at the train station. The driver came down and opened the trunk for me to retrieve a suitcase, one of my own from my apartment. Ed must have sent someone to enter my apartment and pack my things for me while I was busy somewhere else. Typical of Ed; this probably meant I would be away for another few days.
I opened the suitcase to check the contents and found my khaki coat folded nicely on top, with a handkerchief peeking out of the pocket. Rachel, Ed's oldest daughter and secretary, probably did the packing. Like father, like daughter I suppose. I closed the suitcase and took it out and nodded at the driver, Alfonso if I am not mistaken. He nodded at me and closed the trunk. I watched as Ed's car drove away, probably to his youngest daughter's ballet show.
My tickets and orders were inside the envelope, as well as any money I would need for this job. It was a good twenty minutes before I got into the train waiting to depart and settled down to read the details of the job. Ed trusted me to get things done, and betraying his trust would be dangerous to my health.
A few taxis made their way up the hill, presumably from the city below to the hotel or other houses past the rise. I crossed one leg over the other and stared blankly outside into the night, with thoughts that may or may not have made sense. The bell on the door gave a slight ring as it opened and shut; a young woman had entered. She seemed burdened with all sorts of things: a wide and flat wooden case of some sort that she clutched to her chest, a duffle bag presumably full of clothing and a long wrapped bundle on her back. Her eyes wandered over the half-empty establishment. She seemed to be looking for someone. She wore black sneakers over a pair of black pants that hugged her legs; she seemed to like black. Her head turned slightly as she dismissed the couple on the couch; a carefully maintained straight set of bangs fell back in place, and the straight-cut edges of her shoulder-length hair blending with the light grey coat she wore. She dismissed the professionals at the back as well. It was only a few moments before her bright eyes would inevitably lock with mine. And they did. I held her gaze for a few seconds, and she blinked and looked at the barista and approached the counter. Pretty eyes. She looked at me, as though she considered whether she should approach me. I watched her walk slowly towards me, each step careful and yet precise. She stopped three tiles away from me, and raised her eyebrows. "Um, good evening." She said, trying to smile as warmly as she could. There simply was no way to avoid the awkwardness of a situation where you were forced to speak to someone you did not know. I stood up. "Are you..?" "Good evening." I gave a slight bow, mostly because I had no proper response prepared. I was enjoying my own thoughts. "Yes, Sigmund at your service. Anna, I presume?" "Oh, thank God." She laughed, she was visibly relieved. She smiled widely, and I noted that her nose wrinkled when she smiled. Wrinkled in a cute and adorable way, but I didn't say anything.
I invited her to sit, and she put her things down. She told me of how she had forgotten that she was supposed to meet me here, she had almost gone directly into her hotel room. Her family was here on vacation, and she had only just arrived to join them. And apparently, she was staying at the same hotel as I was. Her drink soon arrived, a cup of hot coffee. She smiled at each sip she took; clearly grateful for the warmth.
We spoke of various interests such as what we did for a living. I told her I write, or I at least pretend to. She was an arts oriented person, who worked with various forms of multimedia such as photography, film, painting, and singing. We spoke of how the other parts of the world were struggling to keep themselves together after decades of liberal lifestyles, how said lifestyles affected literature and art in general, and disagreed on several points. Still, she was good company.
The deep and profound aroma of her hot cup of coffee entered my system. The rich dark coffee in her cup was a contrast to her fair skin. It was impossible not to feel invigorated watching her smile and breathe the fragrance of her coffee at the same time. But, there was work to be done, and she had fallen silent as she took another sip. She broke the silence right after though.
"Have you published anything?" She asked. "Like a novel, or a story of any kind?"
"Well, honestly? No, nothing entirely my own." I said. "Unfortunate isn’t it?"
"I suppose it is." She replied. She seemed fascinated by the fact that I write, but she probably found it boring at the same time. "Would you like to look at what I have now?"
"Perhaps later. It might be better to conduct our business at the hotel."
See, the hotel was an excellent businessman’s hotel, with facilities for younger guests; and it had a good reputation. And, seeing at she agreed to sort things out at the hotel and it was getting late, I picked up her duffle bag and the long bundle, as well as my own things.
We spoke little as we made our way up the dark road leading up to the hotel. The men, who still sat there drinking, paid us no attention as we passed. The same lifeless and dark stores were still covered in darkness. The steep climb up the hill did not seem to change in the few minutes since I had last passed, and more than once did we have to stop for a moment because she wanted to catch her breath.
The lobby was just as empty as it was earlier. The bellhop offered to take the bags from me, but I declined. Despite having a warm orange light, the lobby was as cold as the outside. Anna rubbed her hands together and breathed into them as she entered the lobby. And the elevator ride was slightly less dull as there was someone to speak with.
"And what exactly do you do?" She said.
"You mean other than writing?"
"Yes, other than writing. You’re clearly no simple writer, so you must be doing something else."
"What makes you think that?"
"No simple writer would offer to purchase my paintings just like that. Not with the kind of money you're offering! Or, you’re lying to me and your name is not Sigmund."
If there was one thing I hated, it was being called a liar. She was pretty perceptive, or maybe the charade was just too weak.
"Well, alright. If I am not what I say I am, what am I then?"
"A spy who wants to use my art work to smuggle nuclear and biological weapons in the frame?"
"You watch too many crime drama shows."
"So, who do you work for?"
"I work for the Kingstons."
"The Kingstons? You mean Kingston Technologies?"
"Well, yes. But not as a salesman, I work a more exciting job."
"What could be more exciting than being a salesman for the Kingstons? Living your life on the road, selling technology and relying only on your wits to get you through the week."
"You’ve definitely clearly watched too much television." I said.
"Tell me then! It’s not like it’s such a big secret, now is it?"
"Well, I... I find things." I said. "Things that do not necessarily want to be found."
"Is that what brought you up here?" Anna inquired. She seemed to know where this was going. "Someone wanted you to find my paintings?"
"Well, not exactly." I replied. "A client specifically requested us to obtain several of your paintings, and my employer made sure it would happen. It was Ed you were negotiating with."
"Yes, I remember. And, they sent you to make sure it happens?"
"Like I said, it’s more exciting than being in sales."
"Well, have you found other things more exciting than a painting?"
"No, I don’t think so."
We left the elevator car and the halls still resounded with the clear clicking of my heels, now with the soft shuffle of Anna’s sneakers. The hotel maids were gone, possibly having moved on to the next area.
Anna's room was on the same floor as mine, and the same floor had a common area where there were couches and a television as well as complimentary computers. It was here that she opened the wooden case she carried. It contained three paintings: one oil painting, and two watercolours. The oil painting was of a pensive looking young woman wearing a short black dress, looking out of a window with a cigarette in her hand. A young man, with a green cup of liquid, stood behind her, with his mouth opened as if to speak. And they were lit only by moonlight pouring in from the window. The two watercolours were studies of fish, a black fish and a reddish-brown fish. A simple but elegant watercolour painting.
"What’s the oil painting about?" I asked, as I pulled out a small envelope from my pocket.
"I had a dream about it." She said. "A young man stuck in a hospital went on a short adventure, and he returned in a short while with a cup of green tea latté and met the woman on his way back to his hospital room."
"Do they have names?"
"No, I’ve never thought of giving them names."
"Paintings with stories deserve names." I said with a small grin.
"Fine. The woman was called Soledad."
"And the watercolours?"
"My pet fish." She grinned.
"Huh, I guess art does come in various forms that most people do not understand."
"What do you mean?"
"The client is paying good money for these." I handed her the envelope. "An awful lot, as I am sure you know."
"Yes, I was surprised when I received a call from your boss about the paintings. I never imagined someone would be interested in it."
"Life has a strange way of sorting things out." I said, closing the wooden case. "Shall I walk you back to your room?"
As she closed the door, and as I walked away, she opened the door slightly; just enough for me to see her face from the crack. "One last thing."
"What is it?" I stopped in the middle of the hallway. Was something wrong? Was some of the money missing? Ed would kill me if any of the money went missing.
"Is someone waiting for you at home?"
"No, unfortunately, no. Why do you ask? Is it something you should really know?" I gave a sigh of relief.
"Oh, nothing really. I just remember reading this thing in college: the world is filled with those who have said, ‘I wish I had never asked.’ For every spoken word is an accomplice to some great consequence. Good night."
I spun around to look at her, and the last I saw of her was her smiling at me as she shut the door. I had written those lines for an inter-university writing workshop, and was one of the few who had their work published in a small book. A book that never really sold outside of the schools that participated. She knew I wrote it? Who was this woman?
On a regular day, coffee would have had no effect on me. But today, it did. I could not sleep easily. I tossed and turned in bed, before sleep finally overcame me at around 3 A.M., but even then, the rest I longed for did not come. I had dreams I could not remember; sensations I did not wish to feel. And yet, I could do nothing. I woke up with cold sweat at 8 A.M., the air was chilly but I could not feel it.
I reached for my phone, and called my employer, Edward Kingston. A classic rags-to-riches story, Ed and his brothers used to work as waiters in a small restaurant in the shady parts of town, and now they run a giant technology company producing everything from computer chips to industrial freezers. This sleuthing business was more of a hobby for him, but it paid the bills so I don't complain.
Morning, Sig. You didn’t report in last night, you feelin’ alright?
"Chief, I have a question about the job."
What’s wrong? She didn’t arrive?
"No, not that. Who’s the client, and who is Anna?."
The client is some film maker, I forget his name. He’s more of an upstart than anything else. Why?
"Who’s Anna, chief?"
What's this about? Something happened? You been drinking last night, Sig?
"No, chief, I..."
I didn’t hire you for your lack of wits, boy. He could read my mind. Rachel, hand me that order sheet for Sig. Anna Wilkinson. Sound familiar enough to you?
I sank back into my bed and slapped my forehead but ended up poking my right eye. How could it be? I had no idea who she was at all.
"I have no idea who she is."
She knows you, doesn't she? She told me as much. Look, we'll sort this out when you get back. Go get something to eat; your next meet is in two hours. Oh, and you got voicemail. Seems that Toni Marie is back in town and is looking for you. Report back when you’re done, and I'll see what I can do to get her in-touch with you. Or, should I send someone else to finish the job?
"No, no, I got it."
The front desk told me Anna and her family checked out six in the morning. Considering it was Monday tomorrow, they were probably already on their way down the mountain. I went into the garden restaurant at the back of the hotel; for breakfast and more thinking. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I failed to recognise an important artist, or was she only important because Ed was getting plenty of money from this? It could have been any assortment of conditions that led to this specific outcome. Anna plagued my mind for the rest of the day, and even on the way down the mountain. Perhaps in the future, something could happen. Perhaps I could see her again. Perhaps circumstances would enable us to have coffee together.
Perhaps.
End?
June 04 2013
I invited her to sit, and she put her things down. She told me of how she had forgotten that she was supposed to meet me here, she had almost gone directly into her hotel room. Her family was here on vacation, and she had only just arrived to join them. And apparently, she was staying at the same hotel as I was. Her drink soon arrived, a cup of hot coffee. She smiled at each sip she took; clearly grateful for the warmth.
We spoke of various interests such as what we did for a living. I told her I write, or I at least pretend to. She was an arts oriented person, who worked with various forms of multimedia such as photography, film, painting, and singing. We spoke of how the other parts of the world were struggling to keep themselves together after decades of liberal lifestyles, how said lifestyles affected literature and art in general, and disagreed on several points. Still, she was good company.
The deep and profound aroma of her hot cup of coffee entered my system. The rich dark coffee in her cup was a contrast to her fair skin. It was impossible not to feel invigorated watching her smile and breathe the fragrance of her coffee at the same time. But, there was work to be done, and she had fallen silent as she took another sip. She broke the silence right after though.
"Have you published anything?" She asked. "Like a novel, or a story of any kind?"
"Well, honestly? No, nothing entirely my own." I said. "Unfortunate isn’t it?"
"I suppose it is." She replied. She seemed fascinated by the fact that I write, but she probably found it boring at the same time. "Would you like to look at what I have now?"
"Perhaps later. It might be better to conduct our business at the hotel."
See, the hotel was an excellent businessman’s hotel, with facilities for younger guests; and it had a good reputation. And, seeing at she agreed to sort things out at the hotel and it was getting late, I picked up her duffle bag and the long bundle, as well as my own things.
We spoke little as we made our way up the dark road leading up to the hotel. The men, who still sat there drinking, paid us no attention as we passed. The same lifeless and dark stores were still covered in darkness. The steep climb up the hill did not seem to change in the few minutes since I had last passed, and more than once did we have to stop for a moment because she wanted to catch her breath.
The lobby was just as empty as it was earlier. The bellhop offered to take the bags from me, but I declined. Despite having a warm orange light, the lobby was as cold as the outside. Anna rubbed her hands together and breathed into them as she entered the lobby. And the elevator ride was slightly less dull as there was someone to speak with.
"And what exactly do you do?" She said.
"You mean other than writing?"
"Yes, other than writing. You’re clearly no simple writer, so you must be doing something else."
"What makes you think that?"
"No simple writer would offer to purchase my paintings just like that. Not with the kind of money you're offering! Or, you’re lying to me and your name is not Sigmund."
If there was one thing I hated, it was being called a liar. She was pretty perceptive, or maybe the charade was just too weak.
"Well, alright. If I am not what I say I am, what am I then?"
"A spy who wants to use my art work to smuggle nuclear and biological weapons in the frame?"
"You watch too many crime drama shows."
"So, who do you work for?"
"I work for the Kingstons."
"The Kingstons? You mean Kingston Technologies?"
"Well, yes. But not as a salesman, I work a more exciting job."
"What could be more exciting than being a salesman for the Kingstons? Living your life on the road, selling technology and relying only on your wits to get you through the week."
"You’ve definitely clearly watched too much television." I said.
"Tell me then! It’s not like it’s such a big secret, now is it?"
"Well, I... I find things." I said. "Things that do not necessarily want to be found."
"Is that what brought you up here?" Anna inquired. She seemed to know where this was going. "Someone wanted you to find my paintings?"
"Well, not exactly." I replied. "A client specifically requested us to obtain several of your paintings, and my employer made sure it would happen. It was Ed you were negotiating with."
"Yes, I remember. And, they sent you to make sure it happens?"
"Like I said, it’s more exciting than being in sales."
"Well, have you found other things more exciting than a painting?"
"No, I don’t think so."
We left the elevator car and the halls still resounded with the clear clicking of my heels, now with the soft shuffle of Anna’s sneakers. The hotel maids were gone, possibly having moved on to the next area.
Anna's room was on the same floor as mine, and the same floor had a common area where there were couches and a television as well as complimentary computers. It was here that she opened the wooden case she carried. It contained three paintings: one oil painting, and two watercolours. The oil painting was of a pensive looking young woman wearing a short black dress, looking out of a window with a cigarette in her hand. A young man, with a green cup of liquid, stood behind her, with his mouth opened as if to speak. And they were lit only by moonlight pouring in from the window. The two watercolours were studies of fish, a black fish and a reddish-brown fish. A simple but elegant watercolour painting.
"What’s the oil painting about?" I asked, as I pulled out a small envelope from my pocket.
"I had a dream about it." She said. "A young man stuck in a hospital went on a short adventure, and he returned in a short while with a cup of green tea latté and met the woman on his way back to his hospital room."
"Do they have names?"
"No, I’ve never thought of giving them names."
"Paintings with stories deserve names." I said with a small grin.
"Fine. The woman was called Soledad."
"And the watercolours?"
"My pet fish." She grinned.
"Huh, I guess art does come in various forms that most people do not understand."
"What do you mean?"
"The client is paying good money for these." I handed her the envelope. "An awful lot, as I am sure you know."
"Yes, I was surprised when I received a call from your boss about the paintings. I never imagined someone would be interested in it."
"Life has a strange way of sorting things out." I said, closing the wooden case. "Shall I walk you back to your room?"
As she closed the door, and as I walked away, she opened the door slightly; just enough for me to see her face from the crack. "One last thing."
"What is it?" I stopped in the middle of the hallway. Was something wrong? Was some of the money missing? Ed would kill me if any of the money went missing.
"Is someone waiting for you at home?"
"No, unfortunately, no. Why do you ask? Is it something you should really know?" I gave a sigh of relief.
"Oh, nothing really. I just remember reading this thing in college: the world is filled with those who have said, ‘I wish I had never asked.’ For every spoken word is an accomplice to some great consequence. Good night."
I spun around to look at her, and the last I saw of her was her smiling at me as she shut the door. I had written those lines for an inter-university writing workshop, and was one of the few who had their work published in a small book. A book that never really sold outside of the schools that participated. She knew I wrote it? Who was this woman?
On a regular day, coffee would have had no effect on me. But today, it did. I could not sleep easily. I tossed and turned in bed, before sleep finally overcame me at around 3 A.M., but even then, the rest I longed for did not come. I had dreams I could not remember; sensations I did not wish to feel. And yet, I could do nothing. I woke up with cold sweat at 8 A.M., the air was chilly but I could not feel it.
I reached for my phone, and called my employer, Edward Kingston. A classic rags-to-riches story, Ed and his brothers used to work as waiters in a small restaurant in the shady parts of town, and now they run a giant technology company producing everything from computer chips to industrial freezers. This sleuthing business was more of a hobby for him, but it paid the bills so I don't complain.
Morning, Sig. You didn’t report in last night, you feelin’ alright?
"Chief, I have a question about the job."
What’s wrong? She didn’t arrive?
"No, not that. Who’s the client, and who is Anna?."
The client is some film maker, I forget his name. He’s more of an upstart than anything else. Why?
"Who’s Anna, chief?"
What's this about? Something happened? You been drinking last night, Sig?
"No, chief, I..."
I didn’t hire you for your lack of wits, boy. He could read my mind. Rachel, hand me that order sheet for Sig. Anna Wilkinson. Sound familiar enough to you?
I sank back into my bed and slapped my forehead but ended up poking my right eye. How could it be? I had no idea who she was at all.
"I have no idea who she is."
She knows you, doesn't she? She told me as much. Look, we'll sort this out when you get back. Go get something to eat; your next meet is in two hours. Oh, and you got voicemail. Seems that Toni Marie is back in town and is looking for you. Report back when you’re done, and I'll see what I can do to get her in-touch with you. Or, should I send someone else to finish the job?
"No, no, I got it."
The front desk told me Anna and her family checked out six in the morning. Considering it was Monday tomorrow, they were probably already on their way down the mountain. I went into the garden restaurant at the back of the hotel; for breakfast and more thinking. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I failed to recognise an important artist, or was she only important because Ed was getting plenty of money from this? It could have been any assortment of conditions that led to this specific outcome. Anna plagued my mind for the rest of the day, and even on the way down the mountain. Perhaps in the future, something could happen. Perhaps I could see her again. Perhaps circumstances would enable us to have coffee together.
Perhaps.
End?
June 04 2013
