Antidote to a Curse

by James Cristina

  I hated looking for signs, because I knew that if you look hard enough you were bound to find something. Ignoring the problem left me vulnerable to anxiety attacks. The panic bird rooted its claw in my lung and, even now, I could feel the tension building, the rounded swing of every second as I dug my thumbnails into the palms of my hands.

  I decided to wait outside.

  Just as I was about to get up I noticed an ambulance through the single plate-glass window. It backed up towards me so that the squat back of its two egg-white doors got bigger and bigger as the window got smaller and smaller, then just as it was about to burst through the thin shell of glass it lurched, changed direction and sped away.

  Adahy considered the survey sheet glued to the inside of the file before asking, ‘What’s up?’

  The blotter was filled with notes. He didn’t seem to realise that I was early for my scheduled appointment. I looked away. There was something about the methodical assortment of spare objects that seemed to calm me. The mirror, unframed, circular, oddly situated above the examining bed, didn’t seem strategically angled to reflect anything at all, Cyclops’s blind eye reflecting a patch of wall. The room made me feel used up. We sat facing each other. I eyed his profile as he turned to scan the survey sheet, running the pen over the curled edge.

  ‘What brings you here?’ he asked a second time.

  This was fouled with implications of legitimacy; maybe I was wrong about Adahy after all. The nosebleed wouldn’t cut it. ‘I’ve been thinking of killing myself,’ I said out loud.

  His eyes settled on me like two dead flies.

  ‘I feel like I’m losing control,’ said a voice that was leaden and alien.

  He flicked through the file rapidly, a dextrous move. ‘You’re not HIV positive, and the chances that you will be are minimal. Probably zero.’

  ‘Zero,’ I repeated in the same tone. ‘Can I have the test?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘The chances are …’

  ‘Small.’

  ‘I feel like I’m playing a game.’

  ‘Are you?’ His voice rose a whole notch.

  ‘No, this is real.’

  ‘Then why did you say it?’ His eyes scrutinised me intensely.

  ‘The dynamics are the same.’

  ‘Try to keep that in mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case you begin to blur things. You’ll be tested in a couple of weeks.’

  I drove to a 7-Eleven, filled the car up with petrol and browsed the shelves for Toblerone chocolate. Long triangular packs: single bars and packets of six wound together in a hexagon, wrapped in ribbon. A single would be plenty. The chocolates were close to the counter. I eyed the boy in the red 7-Eleven T-shirt and baseball cap and saw that he was busy flicking through a folder of travel cards. A customer held a $20 note, rolled up like an ice-cream cone, against the counter. I searched for the video camera and spotted it just above the assistant’s head. It was aimed at the man with the $20 note. All I needed to do was slip the pack into my coat pocket, but each time I tried, my hand froze. What if I get caught? After all, the pack would not fit entirely. The singles were $3.49. For some reason I felt it was important not to buy it. This would be my gain. I grabbed the block and burrowed the pack. It fits perfectly! I thought to myself. I fingered it against the lining and my hand felt snug. I knew I had done the right thing.

  That night I went to The Club. Like before, I felt I had to retrace my steps, but in a different way. It was a Tuesday night, so chances were the club would be quiet, what most members referred to as ‘dead’. Eight o’clock was opening time.

  I arrived at two minutes to eight. The man behind the grate seemed surprised to see me.

  I flashed my ID. ‘Concession.’

  After he took my money and flicked his long black hair over his shoulder he said, ‘Hey, mate – there’s nobody here.’

  I took the safe pack just the same. The door closed behind me with a sepulchral thud. Then the bolt slid into its shaft, fast as a guillotine. I fingered the blade that I had carefully stashed in my pocket. It was folded into the cut-out of an old sling that I had kept from the time I broke my elbow. If I flicked the blade the right way I could make the metal sing. The metal was paper-thin and flexible, so I knew I had to be mindful. The floorboards echoed as I walked the empty corridor to the industrial concrete steps that would take me to the floor above. A few spotlights, wrapped with orange cellophane, lit the way.

  Upstairs, just above the landing, was an advertisement. Monday Night: For ten bucks what have you got to lose? I laughed out loud and the walls, chipboard, reverberated. The man in the poster, wearing a pair of unzipped Calvin Klein’s, looked back blankly. He was propped against one elbow, his head anchored far from the camera’s focal point; the sole of his exposed foot in the foreground looked huge.

  The club resonated with my presence. I turned the corner and walked down another corridor. The doors to the private rooms were all open, and so were the doors to the cubicles.

  I walked the distance. The place I had to get to was in complete darkness, or at least it seemed so at first. It took a minute or two for my pupils to dilate and for my eyes to grow accustomed to the surroundings. First, I was hit with a big black wave, then as I was about to turn back I began to make out the outlines of things: a wall, a floor and a corridor as well. Even so, I put my hands out, and felt the slightest sensation of air tickling my skin. When the light failed me completely I realised how redundant my eyes were and how a blind man could steer himself through darkness. It could be done. Again, I walked back into the same wave though this time I didn’t mind. My palms were like eyes. My footsteps were loud, so was my breathing, and the second my eyes failed, my hearing seemed to increase dramatically. There was a contradiction of smells. The panelling, recently restored, was new, woody, but the air was stale. There wasn’t a single window in the building. I was closed in, and it being a former warehouse, I suspected that ventilation wasn’t a priority.

  I pushed through a few more steps and I felt the same tickle against my lip that I had felt earlier in the day. A feather brushed my eye, but instead of floating downwards, like a discarded leaf, it seemed to disappear. The sound of my footsteps got lighter, still. I could feel a breeze, a current. I was moving towards an opening, though it didn’t allow the faintest light. I felt the blood running in my hands, magnetised towards the surface… the brush of my clothing, the sense of touch, sound, smell, and still I couldn’t see a thing. The pain in my elbow returned – an intense pinpoint ache. I swept through a cobweb and allowed the broken strands to settle on my face; the scent of citrus and pine fell like a wave, and in wave after wave the smells and textures increased in potency. Underfoot, I heard the crisp sound of bark and the snap of a twig just above my ear. I raised my palms to protect my face and pushed through branch and leaf and through a hollow I saw a pear-shaped moon and measured the height of the forest around me.

  As Ludovico stood on the bank beside a willow’s curtain of leaves, offering shade and the fragmented whisper of a breeze, he noticed a decoy, a golden plover anchored with its still reflective eyes in the middle of the stream. A biblical temptation centrally anchored. He narrowed his eyes and before falling to a near squat, a real plover descended just by the far bank. Its music: impetuous. It tried to communicate its song to the bird in the creek. Ludovico looked to his surroundings nervously. Seconds passed, and since the bird didn’t dissolve into a puff of feathers, he assumed they were alone. The plover beckoned with ardent trill and melodic toil, but the decoy remained mute. Notes rang out from the branches around him, a timely babble. Ludovico reclined, but as soon as he did so the plover alighted with a magnetic spark to the heavens. He settled in the midst of that brilliant day and found himself, quite suddenly, alone. The truth is the birds kept him company. He didn’t care for people who thought it was their place to tell him that he was made to eat such creatures. He looked at his claws and felt the daggers in his jaws –
and his mind filled with dread. Minutes before, he had trapped a robin with his birdsong. He’d devoured it in four bites after snapping its neck. Ludovico could feel parts of it stuck between his teeth.

  Why did everything have to be reduced to its uses?

  Ornamentation. A recurrent theme of the leaves and branches around him, how they quivered in their threatening multitude, debauched variance glimmering on every twig.

  He heard rustling, a crunch of leaves: a footstep. He turned around. The person stepped back, veiled by a couple of branches. Ludovico scanned his surroundings: no-one. He was about to abandon his spot when a woman stepped into his private grove. He barely lifted an eye. ‘Jasna.’ He welcomed her with a raised hand but remained seated. She acknowledged his hand but dared not take it. Not wanting to seem cool, she pulled a chestnut from her pocket and pressed it into his palm before taking a seat next to him. They sat quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the few chestnuts Jasna had tucked into one of the sewn-in pockets of her dimije. After they were done and Ludovico had begun to tire of the quiet, he cleared his voice and said, ‘It isn’t worth waiting anymore.’

  ‘I’ve waited so long, I can wait a little longer,’ she said piously. There was no confusion in her mind about his meaning.

  ‘For what?’ he asked, spitting a shell fragment into the river. ‘A certified letter from some foreign press? Another knock at the door? It isn’t worth waiting anymore,’ he repeated, ‘What you’ve got, you’ve got here, here and now.’

  ‘I almost left it behind,’ she said, pointing to the wallet wrapped tightly to her waist. She unzipped it and pulled out a collection of small, random-looking papers that had been sewn together with a needle and thread.

  ‘You’ve made a small book.’ Ludovico leaned in, but Jasna held it firmly pinched between finger and thumb.

  ‘It’s a fascicle,’ she explained, briefly fanning through it.

  The booklet had been stitched using white thread. The pages were made up of cut envelopes, tissue-thin receipts with invoice numbers printed down the bottom, and scraps of lined paper.

  He could see, from the careful arrangement, that she was ready. Her poems had been organised and made into booklets.

  ‘It isn’t worth waiting anymore,’ he repeated.

  ‘I’m not unhappy.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t know any different.’

  Blushing, unable to meet his eye, she looked straight ahead; screening her face, she pulled her hair forward. ‘What are you suggesting?’ she asked, stroking her hair with her fingers. It was in fact a genuine question. She continued to hold her hair forward.

  ‘Why don’t you read one of your poems to me?’ Ludovico asked as he gently ran his clawed finger along the edge of her parted hair and pulled the frizzy mass back so that he could see her again. She turned, looked him briefly in the eye before dropping her gaze. She felt horribly vulnerable.

  She flicked through the booklet and settled on a page, but still refused to hand it over.

  ‘Read it,’ he encouraged.

  She scanned the sun-spotted canopy, the sun-dried leaves eddying among the percolating notes of the brook. ‘It’s a good idea,’ she agreed boldly, ‘but …’ and after a moment’s hesitation said, ‘I would need to prepare.’

  ‘I could go for a swim,’ he said, pointing downstream, ‘while you get ready?’ He leaned forward, ready to pull off his shirt.

  ‘No, no,’ she said resolutely. ‘That’s not what I meant, not exactly.’ She rose to her feet. He could tell that she found the idea of reading one of her poems while he drip-dried on the mulch stingingly offensive.

  Appreciating his faux pas, he scrambled to his feet. She looked towards him but failed to meet his eye. Feeling a little abashed, he offered, ‘We could go our separate ways. Meet later?’ He brushed a few of the dead leaves off his trousers, hoping to make himself a little more respectable. He noted her relief as she exhaled but again failed to meet his eye.

  Eager to redeem the exchange she said, ‘That’s a keen idea.’ ‘Yes?’ he asked, sure she had some other idea in mind.

  She took a step backwards, the golden leaves crunching underfoot. ‘Let’s call it a day, for today, and meet another time.’ ‘Another time?’ He looked up to her; she was already retreating into the fold of leaves from which she had emerged.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded, convinced.

  ‘When will we meet?’ he asked honourably.

  ‘Ah! That’s in God’s hands.’

  ‘Ah! Yes,’ Ludovico responded, knowing she had spoken the truth.

  ‘But we will meet, and the next time I will be prepared.’ She gave leave with the slightest of bows, which he returned.

  Two days later, while Jasna was pinching a melon at the market in Potoci’s town square and in the contemplative throes of deciding the colour of the grouting for the guest bathroom, she heard a voice, the sound of a woman singing. The voice lifted her momentarily from her concerns and without effort she found herself focusing on the flow of the melody. The melon seemed perfect and she didn’t want to lose it. She ruffled through her bag for some change, paid for it and let it anchor the bottom of her canvas bag. The voice was accompanied by a flute. In spite of the half-price cherries, the ripe tomatoes and the thick green-striped bananas, she found herself gravitating towards the song’s source.

  The singer was a soprano; a luscious aria di coloratura wrung her ear. The effect was somewhat like honey on the tongue. She was attracted to the woman who would sing a fragment and then, as if just to tease her, stop, modulate, and let her accompanist repeat the same phrase with the flute an octave or so removed, so that the two were in rapturous communion with one another. She took the path of the voice. The soprano trilled and Jasna stopped, just for a second. The path ascended further and became dense, darker. Birdcalls shrilled in abundance and she had to wonder, just for a minute, whether she was being lured by some elaborate decoy only to be killed, or maimed, by something savage lurking in the lush wood. As the corridor became tighter, leaves brushed her face. She wondered whether she would have to assume a snake’s pose. Indeed, the path did twist back on itself and out again; she thought of the meandering river. Had she stumbled onto some path forged on the Greek key?

  She pushed through and the maze gave way to a glassy space. The singing was loud and unashamedly rich; parakeets whistled lewdly, entranced by the song. She had to shield her eyes because of the blaring light. She saw a cleared circular field, depths of untouched shrubbery, and in the centre, a woman holding a flute. She was alone, both vocalist and flautist. She stood, somewhat precariously, on the jagged edge of a large rock. Her blond hair was crimped, thick, and pulled to one side. Her fringe fell across her forehead in kisses. She was older than Jasna had expected. She stood there with her flute inches away from her mouth, her elbows evenly spaced from her body, her eyes all questions, poised in acknowledgement of the onlooker.

  ‘Hello,’ Jasna chanced.

  ‘Hello,’ the woman responded, in an accent that was notably learned but hard to locate.

  ‘I …’ She didn’t know quite what to say. ‘I heard your music in the marketplace.’ She adjusted her bag, placing one arm through the strap and rotating the bag so that the melon was now resting against the small of her back. She rubbed her neck vigorously with her right hand. It was then that she noticed that one of her fingers was bleeding. It was no more than a bubble of blood that had surfaced at the base of a scratch. She sucked it briefly and held it aside, not wanting to appear rude.

  ‘Do you play?’

  ‘I sing and play the piano, but it’s been years,’ she said humbly, a little surprised.

  ‘You can always go back,’ the woman said with a smile.

  ‘Oh,’ and she lifted up her hands, unprepared to explain the family’s relocation, the piano chopped up for firewood, the abandoned municipality, yes, the persistent ravages of war. And as if there were any connection, she added, ‘I write.’

  ‘Ah!’ The wo
man’s face lit up. ‘What is it you write?’ ‘

  Poetry,’ she said plainly.

  ‘An admirable form!’

  Detecting her interest as genuine, Jasna added, ‘A form based somewhat on the antiphonal hymn.’

  ‘Oh!’ the woman exclaimed with a slight turn of her neck. ‘Sounds like something we could collaborate on some time.’

  ‘Ah!’ Though flattered, Jasna crimsoned. It seemed like a bold and wonderful idea.

  The woman allowed a couple of seconds, eyeing Jasna askance in the hope of a reply. Unable to commit, Jasna remained silent, though stood her ground, hoping the woman would continue to sing. The woman standing on the rock wore a translucent floral dress, held up with yellow ribbons tied into bows. They fluttered like a pair of butterflies that had alighted on each shoulder. Her cream high-heeled shoes were a type of sandal, and she used them to anchor her sheet music on the grass below. Jasna cast a glance at the handwritten score. To her surprise the notation was spare, a few ascending and descending pecks of a lead pencil.

  The woman crouched, swivelled forward and stepped off the rock. She placed the sandals on the grass and riffled through the sheet music before settling on one page. Her eyes widened slightly as she eyed the melody. The notation indicated something seasoned about the music, but the flute itself was basic. After glancing at the page she placed the sheet music back under her sandals. Jasna looked at her despondently, fearing that this may be the end. ‘Some more, if you don’t mind?’ she encouraged politely.

  The woman acquiesced with a slight nod and an ‘Oh’ before climbing back onto the rock.

  ‘My name is Jasna, by the way.’

  The woman crouched, swivelled forward and stepped back off the rock. She walked straight up to Jasna and said, ‘I’m Abrah,’ and she delicately held out her hand. As Jasna held her hand in hers she felt her face flush. Still, she held eye contact and nodded ever so gently.

  It was cool. A breeze made Abrah shiver though the sun shone on her shoulderblades. She was a good twenty years older than Jasna. She wore green nail polish and her make-up was heavily applied, with a bold line of eyeliner that curved out and up. Her eyes on first glance seemed blue, but Jasna realised that it was a trick of her eye shadow and the frosty play of light. As her pupils narrowed Jasna saw that her eyes were a tea-milk brown, youthful and alert. Her expression came through her body, the elastic interplay between movement and poise. And after a repetitive trill of notes that signalled the end, she froze, removing the flute from her puckered mouth a good few seconds after she had finished. She slid the flute through loops camouflaged by a gather of her dress, then shifted her feet to a slightly different position, folding her hands before her as she began to sing. The leaves on the trees outside the cleared circle shimmered in the slight breeze. Jasna felt compelled to hum along to the tune, but the weight of the melon bothered her and she finally decided to pull the strap and release the bag with a satisfying thump.