I Am the Messenger

by Markus Zusak

  Audrey answers the door, and I can smell perfume.

  "You smell good," I say.

  "Well, thank you, kind sir," and she allows me to kiss her hand. She wears a black skirt, nice tall shoes, and a sandy-colored blouse. It all matches well, and her hair is tied back into a plait with a few strands falling down the side.

  We walk the street, and she has her arm linked to mine.

  When we look at ourselves, we laugh. We can't help it.

  "But you smell so good," I tell her again, "and you look great."

  "So do you," she replies, and thinks a moment. "Even in that atrocious shirt."

  I look down.

  "I know, it's a shocker, isn't it?"

  But Audrey doesn't mind. She almost skips or dances as she walks, and she says, "So what movie are we seeing?"

  I try to hide my look of self-congratulation because I know it's a favorite of hers. "Cool Hand Luke."

  She stops, and her expression reaches such a point of beauty that I nearly cry. "You've outdone yourself, Ed." The last time I heard that phrase was Marv speaking to Margaret, the waitress. This time it isn't sarcastic.

  "Thank you," I reply, and we keep walking. We turn onto Bell Street, and Audrey's arm is still linked with mine. I wish the cinema was further away.

  "Here they are!" says Bernie Price when we arrive. He's excited. I'm actually surprised he's not asleep.

  "Bernie," I say politely. "This is Audrey O'Neill."

  "The pleasure's mine, Audrey." Bernie grins. When she goes to the bathroom, he pulls me aside excitedly and whispers, "Well, she's a bit of all right, isn't she, Ed?"

  "She is," I agree. "She certainly is."

  I buy the stale popcorn, or at least try (because Bernie, in his words, won't have it), and we go through and sit down near where I watched from yesterday.

  He's given us a ticket each.

  Coool Hand Luke: 7:30 p.m.

  "Has your cool got three o's?" Audrey inquires.

  I look down at it, amused. It has and it seems perfect for this night.

  We sit and wait, and soon there's a knocking from above, at the projection window. We hear a muffled voice. "You two ready?"

  "Ready!" we both call back, and turn again toward the screen.

  The movie begins.

  I hope as we watch that Bernie's up there, happy, remembering what it was like when he came here himself at my age.

  I hope he still believes that Audrey really is my girl as he looks at the two figures sitting in front of the big screen--just two silhouettes.

  This message is at the back of me.

  It's delivered, but I don't see the look on Bernie's face. I try to catch it in the people on the screen.

  Yes, I hope Bernie's happy.

  I hope he remembers well.

  Audrey lightly hums with the music on-screen, and at this moment she's my girl. I can make myself believe it.

  Tonight's for Bernie, but I also take a small piece of it for myself.

  We've both seen this movie a few times. It's a definite favorite. We can almost speak the words with the characters in some places, but we never do. We only sit there and enjoy it. We enjoy the empty theater, and I enjoy Audrey. I love the fact that it's only her and me in here alone.

  Just you and your girl, I hear Bernie say from yesterday, and I realize that Bernie really deserves more than sitting up in the projection room tonight. I whisper to Audrey.

  "Would you mind if I ask Bernie to come down and sit with us?"

  She answers as I expect. "Not at all."

  I climb over her legs and walk out up to the projection room. Bernie's asleep up there, but I wake him gently with my hand.

  "Bernie?" I ask.

  "Oh--yes, Ed?" He pulls himself from his tiredness.

  "Audrey and I...," I say, "we were wondering if you'd like to come down and watch the movie with us."

  He protests, sitting forward. "Oh no, Ed, I could never do that. Never! I've got a lot to do here, and you young folks should be alone down there. You know," he says, "to get up to some mischief."

  "Come on, Bernie," I say. "We'd love to have you."

  "No, no, no." He's adamant. "I can't."

  After another minute or so of arguing, I give up and head back down to the cinema. When I sit next to Audrey again she asks where he is.

  "He didn't want to interrupt us," I tell her, but as I make myself comfortable in my seat, the back door opens and Bernie stands there in the light. He walks slowly down toward us and sits on the other side of Audrey.

  "Glad you could make it," she whispers.

  Bernie looks across at both of us. "Thank you." His exhausted eyes blink with gratitude, and he faces the screen, alive.

  Maybe fifteen minutes later, Audrey finds my hand on the armrest. She slips her fingers onto mine and takes them. When she softly squeezes me I look across and discover that she holds Bernie's hand as well. Sometimes Audrey's friendship is enough. Sometimes she knows exactly what to do.

  Her timing can be perfect.

  Everything's going fine until the reel needs to be changed.

  Bernie's asleep again. We wake him.

  "Bernie," says Audrey quietly. She shakes him a little.

  When he wakes up, he jumps from his chair and shouts, "The reel!" He moves quickly toward the aisle, and when I turn to look up at the projection room, I notice.

  There's already someone in there.

  "Hey, Audrey," I say. "Look," and we both stand and fix our eyes on the window. "There's someone up in the room." It feels like the air holds its breath around us until I finally get moving. I push past and head for the aisle.

  At first Audrey doesn't know what to do, but soon I hear her feet behind me. I run up the aisle with my eyes gripped to the shadow in the projection room. It sees us, and its movements quicken accordingly. It exits the room almost frantically when we're halfway to the cinema door.

  Out in the foyer, I can smell tension among the stale popcorn and carpet. The smell of someone been and gone. I head for the Staff Only door. Audrey's right behind me.

  When we get to the room, the first thing I see is Bernie's shaking hands.

  Shock flows down his face.

  Across his lips to his throat.

  "Bernie?" I ask. "Bernie?"

  "He gave me an awful surprise," he says. "Nearly knocked me over as he was running out." He sits down. "I'm fine, Ed." Soon he points over at a pile of reels.

  "What?" says Audrey. "What is it?"

  "The one on top," Bernie answers. "That isn't one of mine."

  He goes over and picks it up. He studies it. There's a small label on it with scuffed lettering. It says one word: Ed.

  "Should we put it on?"

  I remain still for a while but answer yes.

  "You better get down to the theater," Bernie suggests. "You'll see it much better from there."

  Before I go, I ask a question I have a feeling Bernie can answer.

  "Why, Bernie?" I ask. "Why do they keep doing this to me?"

  But Bernie only laughs.

  He says, "You still don't understand, Ed, do you?"

  "Understand what?"

  He looks up at me and takes his time. "They do it because they can." The voice is tired but true. Determined. "It's all been worked out long ago. At least a year."

  "Did they tell you that?"

  "Yes."

  "In those words?"

  "Yes."

  We stand there a good few minutes, thinking, till Bernie dismisses us. "Come on," he says, "you kids get back down there. I'll have this reel up and running in a minute."

  Back in the foyer, I lean against the door, and Audrey speaks.

  "Is it always like this?"

  "Pretty much," I answer, and she can only shake her head and stay silent. "We better go," I tell her, and after a few attempts, I convince her to go back into the cinema. "It's nearly over," I say, and for some reason I assume Audrey thinks I'm talking about the movie.

  But me
?

  I don't think about movies anymore.

  I don't think about anything.

  Except cards.

  Except aces.

  The screen is still blank as we walk down the aisle.

  When it comes alive, the scene is dark and I see the feet of some young men. They're walking.

  Ahead, they approach a lone figure on the street.

  It's a street of this town.

  The figure is also of this town.

  I stop walking.

  Immediately.

  Audrey goes a little further until she turns and sees me with my eyes transfixed on the screen.

  I only point at first.

  Then I say, "That's me there, Audrey."

  On the screen, we watch the footage of the Rose boys and their friends leaping onto me and mauling me on the street.

  Standing in the aisle, I feel the scars on my face.

  My fingers turn and burn on my healing skin.

  "That's me," I say again. It's a whisper this time, and next to me, Audrey's eyes collapse and cry in the dark, dark theater.

  The next scene shows me walking out of the library, carrying all those books. After that it's the lights on Glory Road. It's just a shot of them alone at night--the power and the glory. There's darkness, until they flick on and glow through the theater. Next is the scene of the front-porch cyclone, silent. I see my mother delivering her painful words, almost gouging my face with them, until slowly I walk away, nearly right into the camera. We watch me walking toward the Bell Street Cinema.

  The last thing we see are some words written directly on the reel. They say: Trying times for Ed Kennedy. Well done, Ed. Time to move on.

  And it's black again.

  All black.

  I still can't move my feet. Audrey attempts to pull me along, but there's almost no point. I stand motionless, staring at the screen.

  "Let's get to our seats," she says, and I can hear the worry in her voice. "I think you'd better sit down, Ed."

  Slowly, I lift one foot.

  Then the other.

  "Can I play the movie again?" Bernie calls down.

  Audrey looks at me with asking eyes.

  I lift my head slightly and bring it down to agree.

  "Yes, Bernie!" To me, she says, "Good idea. It'll take your mind off it."

  For a few seconds, I consider running back out and searching the whole place for whoever's been here. I want to ask Bernie if it was Daryl and Keith again. I want to know why Bernie's been told what he has and why they keep me in the dark.

  Yet I know it's futile.

  They do it because they can.

  Those words lap me a few times, and I know that this is exactly where I'm supposed to be. For spades, this is the final trial I need to dig myself out of. We have to stay.

  When the screen blinks on, I'm awaiting the famous scene in Cool Hand Luke when Luke finally breaks and everyone deserts him. "Where are you now?" I wait for him to scream very soon from his bunk.

  As we walk back to our seats, Luke begins dragging himself across the screen with complete, desolate desperation. He turns and falls near his bunk. "Where are you now?" he says quietly.

  Where are you now? I ask, and I turn, expecting to see a figure standing somewhere in the theater. I anticipate some footsteps scattering across the floor behind us. I jerk my head around to look. There are people everywhere, but nowhere. In each black space I find, I think I locate someone, but each time, the darkness thickens and that's all there is. Darkness.

  "What is it, Ed?" Audrey asks.

  "They're here," I answer, although I can't be sure of anything. This whole experience has taught me that. "They have to be," but as my eyes scour the whole theater I see nothing. If they're here, I can't see them.

  Soon, I realize.

  I realize when we get back to our seats that they're not here at all now--but they've been.

  They've been here all right because sitting on my seat, in my place, is the Ace of Hearts.

  "Where are you now?" screams Luke on the screen, and it's my heartbeat that answers. It shakes the inside of me like the giant clanging of a bell. It swells and ignites as I swallow.

  I pick the card up and hold it in my hand.

  "Hearts," I whisper.

  That's where I am.

  I'm tempted to read what's on the card, but I manage to watch the rest of the movie just holding it.

  I watch the movie.

  I watch Audrey and enjoy the moment, or at least what's left of it.

  In my hand, I can almost feel the pulse of the heart card as it sits there and waits.

  part four: The Music of Hearts

  There's music in my head, and it's the color of red and black.

  It's the morning after.

  The morning after the Ace of Hearts.

  I feel it like a hangover.

  After making sure Bernie was okay (we left him asleep in the projection room), we walked back up onto Bell Street and into the night. It was warm and humid, and the only person around was a young man facing the other way. He was sitting on an old, scabby bench.

  At first, I was lost in the thoughts of all that had happened, and when I turned around to see him again, he was gone.

  He'd vanished.

  Audrey's voice asked a question, but I didn't hear it. It was on the periphery of the wide blast of noise inside my ears. At first I wondered what it was, but then, without question, I was sure. It was red hearts and black words. Beating.

  The sound of hearts.

  Without question, I knew that the young man back there was the one sent to the theater.

  Maybe he could have led me to the person sending the cards.

  Maybe many things.

  As we walked on, the giant noise inside my ears subsided. Footsteps and Audrey's voice became clear again.

  Now it's morning and I hear that sound again.

  The card is on the floor.

  The Doorman lies next to it.

  I shut my eyes, but everything's red and black.

  This is the last card, I tell myself, but I roll over into sleep again, despite the music of hearts beating in my bed.

  I dream of running.

  In a car.

  With the Doorman in the front seat.

  That probably comes from smelling him next to my bed.

  It's a beautiful dream, like the end of an American movie, where the protagonist and his girl drive off into the rest of the world.

  Except I drive alone.

  No girl.

  Just me and the Doorman.

  The tragedy is that as I sleep, I believe it. Waking up is a rude shock because I'm no longer on the open road. Instead, the Doorman's snoring and his back leg is stretched across the card on the floor. I couldn't get my hands on it now even if I wanted to. I don't like moving the Doorman when he's asleep.

  In my drawer, the other cards wait now for the last one.

  Each is complete in its own right.

  Just one more, I think, and I get to my knees on the bed, burying my head deep in the pillow.

  I don't pray, but I come close.

  When I get up, I shift the Doorman and read the card again. The black lettering is the same as all the other words I've been given. This time they say the following titles:

  The Suitcase

  Cat Ballou

  Roman Holiday

  I'm quite confident that they're all movie titles, though I haven't seen any of them. I recall that The Suitcase was a fairly recent one. It wouldn't have been on at the Bell Street Cinema, but I'm sure it got a run at one of those obscure yet popular theaters in the city. I remember seeing some poster ads. It was a Spanish remake, I think--a comedy-gangster movie, full of hit men, bullets, and a suitcase full of stolen Swiss francs. The other two films are unknown to me, but I'm sure I know the man who can help.

  I'm ready to begin, but in the few days leading up to Christmas I allow work to get in the way. It's always busy around this time, so I take
on some extra shifts and drive a lot of nights. I keep the Ace of Hearts in my shirt pocket. It travels with me wherever I go, and I won't let go of it until this is finished.

  But will it end with this? I ask myself. Will it let go of me? Already, I know that all of this will stay with me forever. It'll haunt me, but I also fear it will make me feel grateful. I say fear because at times I really don't want this to be a fond memory until it's over. I also fear that nothing really ends at the end. Things just keep going as long as memory can wield its ax, always finding a soft part in your mind to cut through and enter.

  For the first time in years, I give out Christmas cards.

  The only difference is that I don't give out cards with little Santas or Christmas trees on them. I find a few old packs of playing cards and pull out all the aces. I write a short note on the card for each place I've visited, stick it in a small envelope, and write Merry Christmas from Ed. Even for the Rose boys.

  It's before a night shift that I drive around and deliver them, and at most places I escape unnoticed. It's at Sophie's that I'm seen, and I must confess, I kind of wanted her to find me.

  For some reason, there's something special in me for Sophie. Maybe a part of me loves her because she's the eternal also-ran, a lot like me. But I also know it's more than that.

  She's beautiful.

  In the way she is.

  When I put the envelope in her letter box, I turn and walk purposefully away, just like everywhere else, but her voice finds me from up above, at her window.

  "Ed?" she calls down.

  When I turn back around, she calls again for me to wait, and she's soon out the front door. She wears a white T-shirt and a pair of small blue running shorts. Her hair's tied back, but her fringe floats to her face.

  "Just brought you a card," I say, "for Christmas." A sudden stupidity overcomes me, and I feel awkward standing there on her driveway.

  She opens the envelope and reads the card.

  On hers, I wrote something extra below the diamond.

  You've got beauty, I wrote, and I see her eyes melt a little as she reads it. It's what I said to her on the day of the bare feet and the blood at the athletic field.

  "Thank you, Ed," she says, and she looks intently at the card. "I've never been given a card like this before."

  "They were all out of Santas and Christmas trees," I answer.

  It feels strange delivering the cards to these people. They'll never really know what it means and in some cases will have no idea who in the hell this Ed person is. In the end, I decide it doesn't matter, and Sophie and I say our goodbyes.