Reset

by Sarina Dahlan

  “Why is it so quiet?” she asks.

  “It’s a day off.”

  “Are you usually here on your day off?”

  “More than I want to admit, I’m afraid.”

  They go up a flight of stairs that leads to more dark corridors. She wonders where he is taking her and is about to ask, when he stops in front of a pair of steel doors. He turns around to give her a wide smile before opening it.

  Behind it is a white room. It does not look any more special than a storage closet, albeit a large one. On one side is a wall of cabinets, and on the other is a large panel with buttons whose functions she can only guess at. It’s a utility room.

  “We’re here?” she asks.

  “Almost,” he says.

  Metis takes her hand and pulls her forward. His palm is hot. She can almost feel his pulse from it.

  They go through a set of heavy dark-gray velvet curtains into a space that is almost pitch black but for the sliver of light bleeding in from the utility room.

  “Hold on. Stay here,” Metis says and vanishes back through the curtains, taking the bit of light with him.

  Looking out into complete darkness with opened eyes makes her feel uneasy—it’s how she imagines the world would look if she were to lose her sight. She closes them. The sound of her breathing echoes in her ears. Even in darkness she can tell that she is standing in a cavernous room.

  A light scent of carpet shampoo and paint touches her nose. There is a breeze coming from somewhere, making the space feel colder than the rest of the building. She crosses her arms over her chest to keep warm.

  Suddenly the room lights up like the inside of the sun. She opens her eyes and blinks from the brightness. Once they adjust, she finds herself standing on a stage. Before her is the opulent concert hall with cream paneled walls and rows of blood-red velvet chairs. Outlining the walls of the oval room are multiple tiers of balconies. The highest one in the back has seats that climb almost to the ceiling. She looks up and sees two circles of lights around an elaborate carved and gilded design. The magnificent image is almost unbearable for the senses.

  “How do you like seeing it from this view?” Metis’s voice asks from beside her. She does not know when he got there.

  “It’s incredible,” she whispers, “And terrifying.” She turns to him, “How do you do it?”

  He laughs. “I don’t usually look out there when I perform. I just focus on the keys in front of me or let the music carry me somewhere else.”

  She notices a shiny black piano a few feet away from where they stand. Metis walks to it and sits on the bench. He taps on the spot next to him.

  “There’s room here. Or if you’d prefer, you can take one of the seats below.”

  She walks toward him and the piano.

  “I’ll take my chances here,” she says with a smile.

  Aris sits next to Metis. Heat emanates from him. It is as if he generates his own weather system.

  He draws in a deep, long breath and places his fingers on the keys. His back straightens as if pulled up by an invisible string. She remembers the powerful music from his concert that sent her up into the sky like fireworks and grabs onto the bench to brace herself.

  The first notes strike, and the music is . . . different. Gentle and dreamy. Like wading in a lake bathed in moonlight. Her heartbeat slows.

  “Schumann, ‘In the Evening,’” he says. “I usually play this after dinner. When the house is quiet and still.”

  He sounds sad. Aris glances at him. His eyes are closed. From the side, his cheekbones look more prominent, as if carved from marble by an artist’s hand. She wonders what he is thinking.

  Feeling as if she has invaded his privacy, she turns away and closes her eyes too. Without her sight, her mind opens. She sees an image of them sitting in a room lit by candles. Thin wisps of smoke rise. Shadows dance on the walls of an old house that creaks as it settles in before slumber.

  The music transitions. Another song. Soft and contemplative this time. Like a lone walk in the park during a light sprinkle.

  “Whose is it?” she asks.

  “Brahms. One of his intermezzi.”

  As the song reveals itself, it becomes surprising. The notes rise and fall, traveling down a path of varying emotions and colors. Sweet and gentle. Deep and introspective. Hopeful and warm.

  She feels as if she is reading a book where the author skillfully shares the story with a subtlety and complexity that keeps her wanting more. The song continues to explore the range of emotions until it slows down to melancholic notes toward the end. It leaves her feeling a sense of longing. For what, she does not know.

  The song changes, taking a happy, exuberant turn. This one makes her imagine trees uprooting and dancing in the park. She feels the lightness of spring enveloping her. Leaf buds emerging to bathe in the warmth of the sun. Grass waking up from its long rest underground, pushing its way upward to greet the world. Bees buzz about, flitting from flower to flower. The scent of hope rises in the air. Or is it roasted chestnuts? Spring is still months away.

  “Play me one of your favorites,” she says.

  The rhythm slows to a solemn pace. The notes are laced with despair.

  “I normally play this alone,” he says, “Especially when I want to wallow in self-pity.”

  She wonders what he feels sad about. She wants to ask, but a part of her is afraid to know.

  He continues, “Tchaikovsky wrote a set of twelve songs, each piece representing the months and seasons. This one is called ‘October,’ describing autumn in Russia.”

  In her mind, Aris sees yellow leaves dropping and flying in the wind. They rise into the sky and drift with the clouds to a distant place. They fall on a landscape of snow and ice. She watches as snow falls, burying the leaves under the white flakes. Blustery wind blows against her cheeks, biting them. Emptiness sits heavy in the pit of her stomach. She aches for the sun and the warmth of her lover’s embrace.

  She feels lips on hers, hot and soft, waking her from the trance. She opens her eyes and sees Metis. Her heart flutters like the wings of a bumblebee. She is the leaf in her imagination, being carried up the sky by the wind. She closes her eyes again and lets the feeling take her to a place far away.

  Aris’s watch beeps.

  “Ignore it,” Metis whispers between kissing her.

  She does. But the insistent sound continues. It is unusual. Reaches that are not connected get translated to a databank for later retrieval.

  “I think I need to take this,” she says, “I’m sorry.”

  She walks through the gray curtains to the backstage room. As soon as she puts the reach through, the image of a man in a brown fedora appears.

  “Hello. I’m Officer Scylla of Station Eighteen. I’m reaching you on behalf of Benja. You’re his emergency contact.”

  Aris feels coldness running through her veins.

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yes, he’s at the station.”

  “What happened?” asks Aris.

  “He was found in a state of undress inside someone’s house. He had broken into it by force.”

  The man in the white hat. What was he thinking?

  “Is everyone okay?” she asks.

  “Yes, everyone’s fine. Nobody pressed any charges. The people who live there said they don’t know him and that it must be a misunderstanding. Benja was inebriated at the time.”

  “What can I do to help?” she asks.

  “I’m keeping him here for the night. You can come pick him up at the station in the morning. Let me warn you that he may be embarrassed when you see him. We advise that you show him some empathy and understanding. He will need to be with people who care about him,” he says.

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  Aris feels like screaming.

  Stupid man! W
hat were you thinking?

  He was not thinking, she decides. He is beyond reason. His senses have been taken over by his irrational quest to bring back the man he believes is his old lover. If only he had not gone to the Dreamers’ meeting and taken the drug. The drug is to blame. That and the dangerous characters Benja is keeping company with.

  Metis comes through the curtains. “Is everything all right?”

  She looks at him. There are so many feelings surging through her she does not know how to handle it. If she stays there any longer, she is afraid she will do something she would regret. Like crying.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

  “Aris, please tell me what’s wrong.”

  “My friend’s in trouble. I have to go pick him up in the morning at the police station.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, that’s okay. You better not. I’m sorry,” she says and rushes off.

  Chapter Twelve

  The police station is quiet like the dead Animals of the Americas section at the Natural History Museum. Aris is the only one in the waiting room. She took the day off work to be here. The glaring light above irritates her. The fluttering cold blue glow makes her feel agitated and jittery.

  She hears the sound of footsteps and looks up. A man is walking through the door. Aris remembers him as Officer Scylla. He was the one who contacted her.

  “Hello, Aris. Thank you for coming. Benja just woke up. He’s resting in a holding room.”

  “May I see him?” she asks.

  “Of course. Please follow me.”

  He leads her through a long corridor and stops in front of a door to a room. There is a glass window she can see through. On the other side is Benja. He is reclining on a white bed, facing the opposite direction. One of his legs rests on the knee of another. It moves to a rhythm of music Aris cannot hear.

  “When will he be released?” she asks.

  The officer looks at his watch. “In a few minutes. His sentence is almost done.”

  The justice system is a mystery to her. No one she knows has ever committed a crime before.

  “What’s his sentence?”

  “One night in a holding room. It’s mostly to keep him from inflicting harm on others by accident.”

  “Do things like this happen a lot?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you the only police officer?” She has not seen anyone else here.

  “There are many of us in different stations across the Four Cities. But I’m usually by myself here. I don’t need help, really. Benja is my second arrest this month.”

  “What was your last case?” Aris asks.

  “Another public disturbance.”

  The angry man.

  “Was it the man causing trouble by the Natural History Museum?” she asks.

  Officer Scylla’s eyes widen. “Why, yes. How do you know?”

  “I was there. I saw you take him away.”

  “Ah.”

  “Did you hold him here too?”

  “His case was different. Since he was being treated by the Interpreter Center, I had to turn him over to their care. They said he’s fine after treatment. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Do you often send people there?” she asks.

  “Only if I have to. I can’t say I agree with their treatment. Our minds already go through enough trauma every four years. While the Interpreter Center insists there are no side effects to their treatment, I just don’t like the idea of tampering with the brain unless absolutely necessary.”

  Officer Scylla’s watch beeps.

  “It’s time,” he says and unlocks the door.

  Benja turns his head in their direction.

  “Hey, Aris,” he says casually.

  Aris wants to yell at him, but she is reminded by the officer’s eyes to be sympathetic.

  “Uh. Hey, Benja. Are you ready to go home?” she asks in as even a tone as she can muster.

  “Yeah. It’s boring here. No offense.”

  “None taken,” the officer says. “Being boring is kind of the point to this place.”

  Benja raises his right hand to the air. That is when Aris realizes he is wearing more than one watch. The officer walks to him and swipes a finger across the surface of the silver bangle. It unbuckles and falls into his waiting hand. Benja closes his eyes and massages his temples.

  “The grogginess will last for the next few hours. It’s just the side effect of the device,” Officer Scylla says.

  Aris asks, “What is it?”

  The officer holds up the silver bangle. “A calming device.”

  “So I wouldn’t resist arrest,” says Benja. “It kept me docile.”

  The officer chuckles. “You didn’t really need it. You were completely unconscious. It’s just a precaution.”

  Officer Scylla helps Benja up from his bed. “Off you go.”

  “Your bed is hard,” Benja says as he massages his lower back. “It needs more cushion.”

  “Well, we don’t want to attract those looking to replace their beds, do we?” He turns to Aris. “Hasn’t been a problem. We’re all pretty well taken care of in the Four Cities.”

  Once they are outside Station 18, Benja turns to Aris.

  “Thanks for picking me up. You didn’t really need to. The officer was being too cautious. Probably thinks I’m still drunk.”

  “He told me not to say this, but that was a really stupid thing you did, breaking into that house. What possessed you?”

  He sighs. “You wouldn’t understand. You’ve never been in love.”

  “Yeah, and I don’t want to. It’s like a disease that ate your brain. At least your sentence was only confinement.”

  He looks at her with wide eyes and doubles over in laughter.

  “What’s funny?” she asks.

  He wipes tears from his eyes. “When are you going to see that we’re all in permanent confinement? The entire Four Cities is our prison.”

  “We’re free to leave whenever we want.”

  “And go where?” he asks. “We’re not capable of going anywhere, Aris. I don’t even know how to grow a head of lettuce. Do you? Everything we have—all our food, our shelter, the clothes we wear—is provided to us, packaged and perfect. We are kept locked in chains, with a permanent shackle around our wrists.”

  He crosses his wrists together and raises them above his head in a theatric pose. Without another word, he turns and walks off.

  “Where are you going?” she yells at his back.

  He looks over his shoulder. “With you, silly. We’re stuck together in this perpetual semireality. Can’t you see?”

  Benja is in a rare contemplative mood. Aris takes his silence for remorse, an atonement for breaking into his old lover’s house. She wonders what the couple thought when they saw an Adonis of a man draped across their bed like a water nymph, as naked as the day he was born.

  She can no longer stand the silence. “What are you thinking?”

  “I didn’t even get to see his face up close. I passed out and came to at the station.”

  “You’re kidding. Didn’t you learn anything from being arrested?”

  Benja ignores her question. “It felt so unreal, walking through his house, seeing evidence of his other life with someone else. Last thing I remember seeing was his clothes. They smell just like him in my dreams. I wanted to put them on, to feel him against my skin again.”

  She feels a rush of sympathy for him. Her friend is more desperate than she had thought. Incurable.

  Benja runs his hand through his hair and blows out air in frustration.

  “I feel so hopeless. Have you ever felt this way? Like a big part of you is missing?”

  Aris shakes he
r head.

  “It’s a horrible affliction. I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m anxious all the time. And look”—he lifts his shirt—“I have this rash that won’t go away. Am I going crazy?”

  “Yeah. You’re in love,” she says. Seeing Benja this way makes her even more convinced that nothing good comes out of romantic attachment.

  He sighs and walks to her window. Outside the sky is gray with a thick covering of clouds. Snow is coming in the late afternoon.

  “I need more Absinthe,” he says.

  “More drugs? Hasn’t it done enough damage?”

  “I don’t want to forget my life with him.”

  “Can you even hear yourself talk? The drug is dangerous, Benja. It’s turning you into this wraith of a man. When was the last time you ate?”

  He laughs. “A wraith. You’re poetic when you’re mad. It’s cute.”

  “I’m serious. Don’t you know that the Interpreter Center has this procedure that can erase dreams?”

  “I know. The Crone told us about it at the meeting.”

  “Aren’t you even a bit afraid they would do that to you?”

  “I wouldn’t let them. I’d never go in and have my dreams erased. You know that, right?”

  “What if it’s not up to you?”

  “I won’t get caught. I’ll be more careful.”

  “Careful at what? At stalking? At breaking and entering? What are you going to do next? Steal his clothes? Burn him in them?”

  “I’ll be careful,” he says, “Besides, I have you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re paranoid enough for the both of us. There’s no way you’d let anyone take my dreams.”

  “I don’t know about that. Your dreams are becoming a pain in my ass.”

  He looks at her earnestly. “Promise me you won’t let them take my dreams.”

  “How am I going to do that?”

  “Just promise me.”

  “Benja was arrested by the police,” says Thane. “He broke into someone’s house when he was drunk. The police let him go.”