by Thea Archer
They all were in different genres of painting — there were still-life paintings, portraits, landscapes, and animal paintings, but there was one thing I was sure of: they all were done by the same person.
They were beautiful; they seemed somehow sincere, pure, and private, though; considering how much time I had spent staring at the solid white, I was more than entranced.
"It's amazing," I whispered, but Judith was nowhere in sight; I turned and spotted Ian behind me, instantaneously overwhelmed by an irrational anxious longing.
He was looking at the drawings, too; there was sincere adoration in his expression. I stepped towards him; he looked at me and smiled.
"Are you all right?" He asked.
I looked at him, puzzled.
"I think I'm supposed to ask you that," I said.
"You..." He stammered, paused for a second. "You didn't go out all that time. And I didn't want to bother you. I know you wanted to be alone, but..."
The guilt made my shoulders slump.
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"It's fine. It's easier for me when someone is around. I mean, there's a lot of people here, and everyone's so kind to me. More than I deserve." He smiled ruefully and continued. "Just... The more people around, the lonelier I feel," he said weakly, a trace of pain touched his face.
I wanted to comfort him, but I didn't know what to do.
"I'm sorry. Look, Ian—"
"These are Annika's drawings," he interrupted me, his smile widened, but his eyes were hard as if he already knew what I was about to say.
"They are amazing," I said.
Ian gently touched one of the drawings with his fingertips.
"This is her house; she lived there with her mother."
My gaze lingered on the classic half-timbered house on the picture.
"I guess she was living on the second floor," I said.
Ian looked at me questioningly.
"The flowers in a windowsill," I explained. "She drew every plant so detailed."
"You're right," Ian smiled.
"It's so realistic. I feel like I'm looking at the photographs," I said.
"I know, right? Look at this," Ian pointed at the other drawing. "This is her mother."
Now I was looking at the delicate features of a woman — her eyes seemed bright, a faint smile was playing around the edges of her delicate lips — there was something pure and kind about her face. Annika had managed to portray her resemblance to her mother, unerringly.
"Incredible," I said, amazed, yet again. "She was so talented."
"She was," Ian agreed with a short nod. He gestured to the other drawing on the wall — it was a sketch of the full moon visible through the gauzy clouds above the deep gloomy dim forest. "This one is my favorite," he said.
Though it was undeniable beautiful, I couldn't say I liked it. I felt helplessly sad looking at those impenetrable shadows of the trees, sad and somehow lonely. I gazed at Ian again and unexpectedly felt the same way looking at him.
"Which one do you like the most?" Ian asked suddenly.
I answered without hesitating. "This one," I pointed at the picture in the topmost row, with two silhouettes swaying in a dance sketched on it.
"Why?"
I smiled and shrugged.
"It reminds me of my parents. They... They're very fond of each other even after thirty-five years of marriage. They have always inspired me. I just... I remembered them dancing last Christmas; they looked into each other's eyes and smiled as if there was nothing else in the world but them. I've always wanted to be like them, to fall in love the same way — unconditionally, strongly — but I hadn't had a chance while I was alive."
Ian just looked at me; his eyes were full of some emotion I couldn't read.
"This is what I would give my life for," he whispered.
"What?"
"That devotion in your voice."
I struggled to understand his response.
"And your look,' he continued. "I would die one hundred times over to see you looking this way at me."
My chest pierced with emptiness.
"This look..." he said softly and paused. "This look costs a million of lives. Just one mine isn't enough, right?"
"Your life costs a lot more."
Ian smiled, and that smile hurt me more than his dusky glance.
"You're doing it again. You keep saying things that make me want to hug you."
I knew he was waiting for my reaction, but I couldn't talk.
We drove in silence. Ian turned his gaze toward the drawings again, but I kept staring at him, marveled at how sincere he was.
"Ian," I choked out.
He glanced at me for a fleeting second, but I didn't want to wait for a response. I just couldn't.
"This is... This is a bad idea. And you know that. You and me, it's... Impossible."
I was overwhelmed by sudden despair in the instant our eyes met.
"Is it because... You will never love me?"
I let my gaze flicker back to the pictures, avoiding his eyes.
"It's because I can't help falling in love with you," I realized I was whispering. I felt his eyes watching me, but I couldn't look at his face.
There was a pause. When Ian finally spoke, he sounded utterly hopeless. "Amery… If you fall for me, then the only thing in my entire life that ever mattered was my own death," Ian said, the words seemed coming out in a low rush.
I tried to speak in an even voice. "I can't even imagine how awfully painful it would be, if—"
"People die," he interrupted me but stammered as if desperate to find the right words.
He reached out and took my hand firmly, forcing me to look straight in his face.
"When we breathe... When we breathe, when our hearts are beating, when we are alive, or when we believe that we are alive, we don't avoid falling in love just because the one we love or ourselves can die at any time. A car accident, a fire, a disease... People fall in love just because they know how fragile and fleeting life is to be happy that little time they have."
I freed my hand of his grasp, willing myself into composure.
"Ian, you know that there is something much worse than death. And here... it's impossible to stop the pain by killing ourselves."
He struggled for another moment and then exhaled. "You're such a coward."
"I'm sorry."
I knew I couldn't cry in this body; I couldn't do anything but stare, unable fighting with an ache deep in my chest.
15. TURBULENCE
"And it looks like the winner of the Darwin Awards is... "Ian paused, glancing at the paper in his hand. "Max Holger!"
The audience burst out laughing, and I also couldn't help grinning a huge smile.
"Max, come here... yeah... Here is the man who fell out of the window while trying to protect himself from falling out of the window! Congratulations to Max and his window bars!"
I thrust my hands in my pockets instead of clapping along with the rest of the transfers, eyeing Ian furtively. He was smiling, his eyes bright with humor.
I was distracted by his movements — so lithe and graceful; admiring Ian was the most perverted form of decadence for me. I was amazed how, in one instant, the heat of my defiance faded into awed fascination.
He had been barely spoken to me lately; I wanted very much to talk to him, and I'd tried, but he seemed to avoid me as much as possible. And here I was, standing still, wasting that little bit of time I had, unwilling to take my eyes off him. I didn't know that this affection grew stronger, irretrievably solid. Or rather, I didn't want to admit it.
I knew I was selfish, but I was scared. I wanted Ian, I wanted his smile, touches, and attention, I wanted to make him mine, but I was scared of losing him, which was inevitable — we both knew it. But I wanted to be near him — that was something I couldn't fight with — and I determined to be his friend until our final destinations announced, though that option obviously wasn't acceptable for Ian.
"Don't
bother" were the last words I'd heard from him before he started ignoring me.
I looked around the terminal at transfer's faces; they seemed happy as if forgot why they were here — warm smiles, eyes sparkling with joy, careless laughter. Ian had managed to color up the endlessly unhued pale routine of this place; he had taught people to laugh at their own death, accept it, and to love every moment after it.
"So, do you like him?" Mrs. Angerer asked behind me, and I flinched; I hadn't heard her approach.
"Who?" I snapped as she stepped up to the check-in counter. I averted my eyes hastily.
"The one you were staring at."
"Well, it's not..."
"Oh, I know that look. My husband used to look at me the same way. Like I'm the priceless treasure. Even when I was hairless, pale, and barely alive due to the chemo."
I looked at her uneasily, and she nodded as if she knew what I wanted to ask.
"I spent twenty-five years beside that dumbass. But you know what the worst thing about my death? I hadn't a chance to say how much I loved him. That would've been enough for me to rest in peace — or whatever. All I wanted was one tiny minute to say these miserable three words I had been stingy with for twenty-five years."
"Do you think..." I began, hesitant. "Do you think one minute would've been enough?"
"Sure, dear. It hadn't taken me more than one minute to fall in love with him. Hadn't taken me more to agree to marry him. And how much time do you need just to say 'you are the best thing that has happened to me'?"
I smiled, dropping my eyes.
"He doesn't look too happy, does he?" Mrs. Angerer said quietly.
I spun around to see Ian ending his improvised spectacular with quite filthy jokes; Mrs. Angerer was right — he smiled playfully, but his eyes seemed troubled.
"Maybe I should..." The two delicate chimes echoed through the Terminal, interrupting me, and every pair of eyes turned to stare at the display board.
"I'll do it," said the North Gate transfer and strode toward his check-in counter.
"Oh, South Gate, too," commented Marie, who'd been standing a few steps away from us, engrossed in Ian's performance, and added, "I'll get it."
"One second," Mrs. Angerer turned to the computer to print the dossier.
I leaned my elbows on the counter and ruffled my hair desperately.
"How long do you think it's been since I got here?" I asked her.
She shrugged, but her face was serious now, thoughtful.
"How long do you think it's been?" She asked, emphasizing the word you and turned to Marie, handing her a barely thick stack of papers. "Here you are, dear."
Marie took the dossier and willingly headed for the jet bridge.
"I don't know," I said. "It feels like a few months. Four, maybe."
"Well, most of the deaths currently dated September. But, you know, the are many arrivals from twenty eighteen and sooner, so it cannot be precisely defined."
"Yeah..." I muttered and looked at Ian again, who finished his awards ceremony and now was walking away toward the Archive, his head bent forward, and shoulders slumped.
"I know, it's tough," Mrs. Angerer said, smiling slightly. "Everyone wants to get out of here; that's why we always excited to hear the queue signal's sound, hoping to see our names at the display."
I nodded, though the whole reason I kept flinching at that sound was my fear to see my name at the display. Or Ian's name. And to my shame, I wasn't tired, and I didn't feel the same as others because my few months would've felt like ages without Ian. Of course, I couldn't honestly say out loud that I wanted to stay here as long as possible.
"Please, no, he's a good person, please!"
We both startled at the tone of hysterical panic from the North Gate.
The silence stretched, but the second later, it was ripped apart by another desperate screaming of the woman trying to escape the rough grip of the transfer, who was dragging her toward the Paradise door.
"Please, not him!" She cried.
"Please, calm down..."
"Anja!"
Every transfer in the hall shot their glances at the South Gate synchronously, where the man's voice came from.
"Anja, just go! I'll be fine, I promise, I'll be fine..." The man said; he wasn't going to fight with Marie — he was just standing there, looking at the woman across the terminal, with a soothing smile on his lips.
I glare at the display board and felt my stomach twisted uneasily.
ANJA DEHNE MLMMV00261374 NORTH GATE. DEPARTURE: PARADISE.
JOCHEN DEHNE MMCMLIII00729915 SOUTH GATE. DEPARTURE: HELL.
"They're married," someone whispered in the silence.
"No, Jochen, please, no!" The woman yelled, still trying to free herself.
"Please don't hurt her," the man said, looking at his wife pained.
"No! Just... please, just a minute, one last minute!"
"One minute," I repeated under my breath.
"Let them say goodbye," Judith shouted. "Tim, let her go!"
"And how much time do you need just to say 'you are the best thing that has happened to me'?"
"One minute," I muttered again, enabled to make a move, stunned.
I watched them, still staggered, as she freed herself and ran across the Terminal until her husband grasped her in his arms. They were whispering something to each other, passionately, desperately, sincerely, and I suddenly realized that I was wasting time being a complete idiot.
Such a shame, Ian, I thought, you fell in love with an absolute moron.
***
My body has always been indifferent to everything.
In my teens, I realized that I was not like the others — I reacted to the object of my affection differently than other people. And that's why I'd always been alone.
My eyes, my ears, my skin had always sensed independently of my libido. I could never get aroused seeing another person's naked body; for me, the body was an art. Likewise, the sound of ardent whisper could never awake desire in me, but that was the soothing, healing sound for me. The touches, the sweet, warm embraces were not about lust, but about comfort, protection, and safety. Such an intimacy had never affected my body the way most people experienced it, but it had always been like an absorbing atomic explosion in my mind.
I didn't really know how to be sexually attracted to someone, but I did know how to love someone, and that connection — emotional, sensual, aesthetic, physical — was unbearable; it was like a mania. Inevitably I had craved for warmth, and this thirst was limitless — a torturous emotional attachment, along with paranoia as a replacement for sexual tension.
And now, when I thought of Ian... I wanted to monopolize him. Contrary to all stereotypes, I could have felt this hunger just remembering his silhouette.
His body seemed the most brilliant piece of art I've ever seen. His splendid face, his adorable smile, his enchanting laugh, his alluring voice, his bright expressions were like the brush strokes of the most gifted artist of this universe.
"Hey," I said as I approach the information desk, where Judith was at her post behind the counter with Jaroslaw Beutler, a newcomer from the East Gate, who seemed unable to take his fascinated eyes off her. "Where's Ian?"
"I dunno. Oh, he must be in the Archive," Judith said casually, she seemed elated by that guy's attention.
"I've searched there," I mumbled.
"Like, the whole Archive?" Judith glared at me, her expression stiff with skepticism.
I blinked, confused.
"Look, the last time he got to the forties," she said.
"The forties?" I echoed incredulously.
"Yeah, he found Hans Scholl's dossier."
"Wait, that very Hans Scholl?"
"Right, he is in Paradise. Ian was complaining that almost all the great German people died in England or States, like Albert Einstein or Karl Marx, you know... So he was trying to find something interesting. And he said he wanted to find Bismarck's dossier."
"Bismarck
's?" I almost shouted. "It's eighteen-nineties, that'll take like a century to get to those racks!"
"Well, his next goal is Goethe."
I shot a panicky glance at the Archive's door.
"Oh, c'mon," I said, an edge of hysteria in my voice.
Judith glared at me through narrowed eyes.
"Did something happen?" she asked.
"Yes, I mean... no, but... I want to see him. I need to talk to him."
She pursed her lips, seemed trying not to laugh at my helpless tone.
"Well, if you have something to say to him, you can do it right now," Moritz's voice came from behind.
I turned around to see his broad smile; he winked conspicuously at Judith.
"What?" I muttered sourly.
He handed a microphone to me, and I gasped.
"Right! The loudspeaker!" I said and grabbed the microphone.
"Just do it right," he said.
I squeezed the microphone in my fingers and pressed it to my lips.
"Go ahead!" Judith hissed in my ear.
I took a deep breath and exhaled. "Ian Hassler, report to the South Gate."
Judith's hand flashed out to smack the back of my head. "What the hell are you doing?" She yelled.
"What?"
"He won't come just because you told him to!"
"So, what am I supposed to do?" I barked.
"Tell him the truth!"
"Just be yourself," said Moritz on my left.
"No!" Judith snapped. "Be anyone, but yourself!"
"Screw both of you," I said and turned on the microphone again.
"Er... Ian..." I muttered; my uncertain tone seized more attention than my previous formal announcement — dozens of pairs of eyes flickered at me, as my voice echoed through the Terminal. Suddenly I felt dizzy.
"Ian..." I said and squeezed my eyes shut to continue. "Ian, I don't want to waste the time we have, so come out. I kind of... I love you. I want to see you. Please."
I turned off the microphone and forced my eyes open.
Now literally everyone was looking at me — someone smiled at me, someone was too amazed to react, and someone was visibly disgusted.
"Aww..."
"Is this a joke?"