On Sundays, when the weather was caught between sun and rain and the birds slept till noon, little Oort walked down to Pine Valley, to the Blind Eye tavern behind the market. The tavern was a cold sore on the lip of the road, standing more from will than wood, but Oort liked it because it was ancient and it was noisy. And on Sundays when the market was closed, the merchants would gather for drink, merriment, gossip and the occasional conspiracy against the public. They also played games.
Games of luck and wit, games with dice and little coins, games with wooden boards and carved pieces that clacked and clicked, games with cards. Oort loved them all, and he played them all. All but one. There was a game that the older men played, with dog-eared cards and an old pine board. The old men weren't merchants, they weren't anything. They had no homes, they wore soiled robes and begged for bread and water. Sometimes people came to them for advice, for they had seen much of the world, but not often. Oort had seen them walking and begging along the dirt roads with bare and sometimes bleeding feet. Each had a small cup that they carried and people dropped coins or bread or fruit into the cup. When they walked, the coins rattled against the cup-walls and you could hear the old men a long ways off, though they never spoke. On Sundays their eyes took on the sheen of tiger's eyes and each had his beard twirled along one long, bony finger.
They played on the floor, in a dark corner away from the tables. Sometimes Oort would watch them play, hoping to understand the game or be offered a seat in the circle. He was unsuccessful, thus far, on both accounts. He never had the courage to ask to play and the game was too fast to ever know what was happening. There were cards, he knew that. And each card had a picture on it and each picture was different. Sometimes he even thought the pictures changed, like magic - but he dismissed it (everyone knew there was no such thing as magic). The cards had names, written in runes Oort did not recognize (or have time to recognize). The cards were slapped down one by one, clockwise, starting from the center, until every man had played a card. Then there was a brief pause, looks were exchanged, some people nodded or shook their head or coughed or sucked their teeth. And then the cards were taken back and the play started again. No matter how many times Oort watched the game, he could never understand what the rules were. And he could never bring himself to ask. He would practice, throughout the week, little speeches to convince the old men to let him play. But when Sunday rolled around and the men huddled by the walls, Oort lost his tongue, his voice and his practiced courage.
One particular Sunday, Oort saw an old man he'd never seen before, among the card players. His skin was burnt brown and he had only three teeth. The other players smiled at him when he sat down and exchanged glances. No words traded between any of them, the play began as normal. Oort sat and watched as he always did. The hands and cards moved with speed and sound as they always did. The regularity of the rhythm lulled Oort into a daze - then there was an abrupt silence, like a rooster beheaded in the middle of its morning call. Oort stood up and looked over at the cards. In front of the newcomer was a faded brown card with a picture of a skull. The other players were looking at the newcomer - some with surprise, others with disgust. The newcomer leaned back, closed his eyes and sighed. Then he raised his eyebrows, as if to say "Well?" and the play resumed. After the game the newcomer stood up, looked at Oort and smiled. He beckoned for Oort to come closer. Oort looked around and stepped forward. The newcomer patted Oort's head and knelt down and looked into Oort's eyes. Then he grabbed Oort's hand with his and brought it forward. The old man's hand was cold as glass in the winter night. Out the folds of his robes he took out the deck of faded, bent cards and placed them on Oort's hand.
"Y-You're giving this to me?" said Oort. The old man nodded. Then he smiled and patted Oort's head again and left. Oort looked in disbelief at the gift. Then he realized - "Wait, but I don't know how to play-" but the newcomer had vanished. Oort went outside into the twilight, but the streets were empty. He looked back down at the cards - "But, I don't know how to play" he murmured and walked home.
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In fading darkness of the dawning hours, bewitched and bedight with light, panted Opik. He awoke in between sunlight and night, naked as birth, grasping himself between thumb and forefinger, his feet off the bed and body towards the shutter-covered window. He gasped pinprick breaths and drops of long summer sweat dripped down his brow and closed eyes. He could taste salt and summer-stuffed air and imaginary lips. O that this too too sullied flesh bounded his mind, his jaw set, preparing for the inevitable. Thaw! Thaw! Thaw! he cawed in his vacant head but it was not to be. He sagged forward and his limp hand dropped from him. He looked down and sighed. He leaned over and loudened the little fan. His other hand slapped the sweat-beads on his forehead. Must be the heat he lied to his heart.
He peeked through the dirty shutters and grimaced from dirt. He picked up his phone and gave it life. It glowed pale white in the darkness. He read the time. He placed the phone on the bed stand and leaned back into his bed. He closed his eyes but sleep did not come. He debated the merits of early rising and yawned. Sucks to be alive in the morning. He rolled a few times, tried the covers, threw the covers. Rubbed the crust from his eyes and grabbed his phone. Read the time again. Sighed. At least its Sunday. I could sleep. Opik lied a lot, mostly to himself. He threw his fists above his head and twisted his torso. He undid the bolt of his lock with professional care, opened the door, realized his nakedness with the frankness of Adam, closed the door. He went over to his drawer, his hand dove for pajamas, found socks, tried a different drawer, found nothing. He looked over at the black sad bag by the corner, with half-opened mouth and half-filled belly. Laundry. I have to do that. He went over and his hand groped for soft pant-sleeves and found one. He pulled it out and put it on. Armored from shame, he tip-toed to the door. The sun crawled over the horizon. He slipped sagging and shirtless into the bathroom.
The medicine cabinet mirror, layered with dust looked at him with disapproval. He smiled, letting the falseness of the grin swell to insanity. He examined himself in the mirror. Shave? Not today. A single finger dragged across the sliver-glass image frowning at him, lifting a line of dirt. He ran the tap across his fingertip, enjoying the coolness. Then squirted some soap in his palm and washed. It was women soap, flower smelling and sweet. He inhaled his hand. He grabbed his brush and dribbled some paste on the head. He watched the swirling spit mix with water and go away, and felt a great loss. He rinsed and washed his face, went for the towel but released it. Blow wind, blow, crack your cheeks. He went out and the opening door brought a cool breeze to his wet cheeks. He sighed with pleasure inside closed eyes. He opened them, to find her sitting by the sky reading yesterday by morning light. His hand shot to his chin and ruffled the rough hairs. Should've shaved. She smoothed the pages and noticed him and waved.
He smelt the sweet soap flower on his hand and waved back. He dove into his room and shoved a shirt down his back. He took soft steps toward the veranda door and sat down. She sipped some drink, dark-smelling and warm, he could feel in the pit of his stomach from smell alone. She looked up, her golden threads matching sunlight.
"What are you doing up?" she asked. Her teeth tinkled in the little light.
"Nothing" then, covering up silence "Where's Sam?" Her eyes looked away, searching.
"Still asleep."
"Oh." She turned her pages and smoothed them. Her lips walked along the words, those lips of his imagination.
"Do you want some coffee?" she asked, and gored him with eyes, green and glowing in the coming light.
"No. No thanks."
"I have some left over. Come on, have some."
"Alright." And what was poison to him if offered by a hand of knitted milk? He grabbed the mug, brushing hands. He shivered despite the heat.
"Careful, its hot."
"Yeah."
He sipped between secret glances at her form, hiding his smile behind the cup. Below him, traffic and car horns awoke with the sun. She looked with easy grace over the babel-buildings, watching the dawn rays ricochet from corner to corner, casting shadows on the road.
"Beautiful isn't it?" she said and threw her neck and arms back. He stared at her bare neck, glowing from the sun rising to her side. He gripped his mug till blood could burst from his fingers. Such as the day when the sun is hid. We should hold day with the antipodes, if you would but walk in absence of the sun.
"Yes. Extraordinary." She is that wall, shoved near to me. There's nought beyond. But 'tis enough
"I like to wake up early sometimes and watch. Its nice." Love me honey, snugly bunny, love's as good as soma
"What, the sunrise?" I'd say we suffer and we strive-
"Mmm. Its the special occasion of every day" She smiled again, the harp strings of his heart were between those teeth. -Not less or more than men or boys-
"That's one way to put it." -With grizzled beards at forty-five
"Oh?" Her thin brows arched up. "How would you put it?"
"Well, if its every day, it can't be special. Once in a while its beauty; every day, its tedium." As erst as twelve in corduroys She pouted. At hell's heart she stabs at thee!
"Hmm. You're a cynic aren't you?"
"Only on the weekends."
"Ha. D'you want some breakfast?" She stood and stretched.
"Uhh, I don't want to trouble you."
"No trouble at all, I was going to make some for Sam - I always make too much."
"Oh. Yeah, alright." She pulled in her chair and breathed in and walked past him. She wafted to his nose and he fell in love with breathing. He knuckled his nose with his soaped hand, trying to her keep her captured. But the scent had mingled with the metal of the table. He could hear the clanging of cooking ware and then a sizzle.
"How d'you want your eggs?" She leaned over the door way, whisk in hand. Hair over shoulder.
"However. Whatever you want."
"Scrambled ok?"
"Sure." She swished back humming some ditty he'd never hear. He slid the newspaper towards him and pretended to read.
"Hey you're up early" said Sam and leaned in for a kiss.
"Yeah. Sit down, breakfast is almost ready." She said and returned the kiss. Opik pretended to read harder. Sam stepped out the doorway and into the sunshine. Bare-chested and shoulder under towel, he leaned over Opik and eyed the paper.
"Hey, you're up too." said Sam. "And...you're drinking coffee? I thought you hated coffee?" Opik grimaced into a smile.
"We're making amends" he said. Lifting the coffee mug as if to toast and gulping down a cold mouthful. Sam shrugged and sat opposite Opik.
"Is that the Journal?" asked Sam
"No. Times." replied Opik.
"Let me get the crossword when you're done." He got up and went to the doorway. "Babe, we have any coffee left?"
"Check the thing - its right there" she pointed. He lifted the metal jug, testing weight.
"Nah, its empty."
"I have some in my mug, I'll make some more if you want." said Opik and started to get up. Sam turned and shook his head.
"No I got it." he said. He bounded the kitchen with the empty coffee mug, added the water and powder, put it over heat. "Babe watch the thing, I'm gonna take a quick shower."
"Mmm." she replied, tasting her finger.
They could hear the sleet of shower drops on ceramic and a loud singing voice. She leaned over the doorway again and he turned expectantly.
"Come and eat" she said. He got up. "Actually, stay there." He sat down. She drifted back into the kitchen and came out with plates. He stood and took the plates from her, setting them evenly on the metal circle. He went to follow her but she waved him back. She brought out the jug of coffee and another plate. Some butter she brought out, and knives and forks, and salt. He waited for her.
She sat down and they began to eat.
"How is it?"
"Mf-ood" He swallowed. "Its good." Could use a little more salt
"Could use some salt, I think." She said and reached over for the glass tower. She sprinkled the salt with care and it disappeared under the pudding yellow. She offered him the vial.
"No. I'm good." he lied. Sam returned with the towel around his waist. Like two meters of bronze he stood, in arcing sunlight.
"Grab a seat." said she.
"Yeah" and he ducked behind doorway for a chair. They could hear it drag across the tiles, then Sam lifted the chair to his shoulder and carried it out. He sat with a thump and reached for his mug. Sighed, contented. Grabbed a piece a toast and began to munch it bare. She took a glinting knife and buttered, evenly, her roasted toast. Opik chewed and swallowed, shoveling spoonfuls of egg-meat into his cheeks.
"Oh! Opik. I got this thing you might be interested in." Sam chewed and swallowed
"Hmm?"
"Yeah, its like a gala or something, lots of rich people - anyway, I know one of the guys hosting it, and he can get us in. Couple of hot-shot publisher's will be there, I thought you could talk to them. Maybe set up a job." Blood quickened in Opik's veins, he stopped chewing.
"Can't. Sorry." He lied.
"Why not?"
"Got some work." He lied.
"So skip it. Opportunity is knocking man, open the door" he said and grinned.
"Can't skip it. I'd lose my job." He could feel the lies bloom on his cheeks, red and irritating.
"So lose the damn thing. Who gives a shit?" He tore off a piece of toast-meat with his jaws.
"Can't pay tuition without a job" he murmured.
"Take the risk, Jesus." said Sam and dropped a forkful of egg into his tongue. "Besides, you know I'd pay-" Sam looked up to see hole-digging eyes drilling through his skull. He slowed his chewing, then shrugged. "Well, I'm just trying to help." Opik looked down at his feet.
"I know. Some other time maybe." he lied. Opik stood up. "I have to go." he lied. He gazed at her. "Thanks for breakfast" he said. She gave a nod.
"Yeah. Well, I can always take Beth." He turned to her and touched her hand. "You wanna go?"
"When is it?"
"Six." She looked up in thought.
"Ok." she said. Ok. Was that this? Was that all? His cheeks flared again and he rushed to his room, biting his tongue. He wanted to scream.
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Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 313783 times)