Objects in the Mirror

by Nicolò Govoni

  They stare at each other. None of them looks away.

  “You want to sit on the couch?” says Ferang.

  Swallowing, Nil hesitates, then nods and feels Ferang’s arm girding his shoulders, leading him into the living room, his touch comforting like that of an older brother. Nil sits and his nerves feel like steel cables, and Ferang kneels down in front of him, looks into his eyes as he takes his arm in his hands, rolling up his sleeve, and his eyes are so understanding that Nil can’t leave them. Ferang ties the tourniquet around his biceps, the vein bulging in the crook of his elbow.

  “Why?” asks Nil, calmer now.

  A shadow darkens Ferang’s face, but it’s only a moment, and before Nil can process it, the emotion has faded.

  “I needed someone to kill.” Ferang lifts the syringe. “And you are the one who loves me the most.” He breathes in. “Ready?”

  Nil closes his eyes and nods and opens them in time to see the needle sinking in his arm and then it’s pain and heat and it fills him impetuously, tightening his heart. Without realizing it, his desperate hand

  FERANG

  finds Ferang’s, and clings to it.

  Nil changes. He relaxes, goes almost liquid, his glow dimming as soon as the substance thwacks his bloodstream, his gaze fixed on the TV. The TV is off.

  “What do you feel?” says Ferang after a moment.

  Nil’s lips part but no sound leaves his throat. Ferang studies every single visible change, Nil’s hand still clutching his.

  Nil says nothing at first. Then “It’s like the most powerful orgasm you’ll never have,” he goes, his words like leaves in the breeze. “Oh,” he says, “life is better... I wonder—I wonder how I could live so far knowing I could feel this way, but without doing so.”

  Ferang tries to see beyond his vacant eyes, to understand what he’s feeling, but his perception, he admits with regret, is clouded. Nil isn’t crying, but his cheeks are damp with the proof of his weakness.

  “It doesn’t matter that I’ve lost everything. Heroine puts everything back in place, makes everything better.” Nil shakes and smiles a faint smile. “Oh, apathy—this is like kissing the Creator himself.”

  Ferang frowns. Leans on Nil. Tries to steal away his experience.

  “The clock ticks, Ferang. Mel is still biting my hair.”

  Quite the fucking talkative fellow he turns out to be.

  “This is heaven, my brother, where joy has no end.” Nil licks his dry lips. “I assure you, this is the perfect ending to our story. Life is so beautiful.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I have found the peace I was looking for. I’m the man I always wanted to be, someone whose life is worth living. I’m God’s bastard son, and his lover.”

  “Nil, what do you see?”

  “And you?” whispers Nil. “What do you feel?”

  Ferang huffs in frustration. “Killing you will finally set me free.”

  “Cute.” Nil tries in vain to swallow. “And what else?”

  “I see your eyes lost in a vision. It’s like seeing something that is not there, or maybe it is, but you usually can’t see it. Your eyes are sated.” Ferang waits for Nil to say something, anything to prove him it’s working, before he speaks again. “I feel like I have two heads, and they rave to devour each other.” He gets up. Stops. “What do you see?”

  Again, Nil says nothing. Then his eyes lit up. “I see a bad imitation of you, an impostor who fools no one.” He trails off. “He lacks your character, your posture... he tries, but with poor results. I see his naked skin, without your thick and shiny fur, his hands empty, no trace of the knife that you so often dissect the world with.”

  “It’s not a knife—”

  “I see his mask, but unlike yours, it lacks charisma, and no one likes it.” He’s sinking into a state of drowsiness. “I see the impostor take off his mask, and he is—he is...”

  Ferang leaves him on the couch. In the dining room, he turns Nil’s Mac on. Copies the files he finds in the email inbox on a USB stick. It’s Jiya’s father’s company records. He copies Nil’s article, too.

  Feeling Nil’s eyes on him, Ferang smooths back his hair. “This is what you wanted.” He sighs. “You might just become the most notable whistleblower in the world.”

  “That’s you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is nothing but...” Nil trails off. “The deeper truth within the lie.”

  Without looking at Nil, Ferang moves towards the door.

  “I see beauty and destruction,” Nil says in a whisper. The door closes.

  Ferang asks Manuj to take him back to Old Ayodhya. He must force himself to keep calm in the car. The excitement ravages him. He moans with joy when he sees the dilapidated minarets emerging on the horizon. Fucking home.

  Adrenaline. It smells like sweat and rancid armpits. The intoxicating smell of the sewers. The sound of nighttime traffic reminds him of the bells on Christmas night. Only it’s better than Christmas. Better than sex. Better money. Better than anything else in the world. So much anticipation, so close to the target.

  Ferang opens the door. Empty. No one inside. The drunkard is out of the way and all smells like stillness, like withering flowers. Like depression, which smells like moldy lemons inside a broken refrigerator. And yet it’s the best smell in the universe. Salivating, Ferang steps in.

  He switches a bulb on. It’s dim and it takes time for it to heat up. Ferang stops, listening to his own breathing. The outside sounds soften. Something has changed. Anxiety, it tastes like bad perfume.

  He turns to the sheet covered mirror, the dirty cloth hanging motionless in the stagnant air. It feels surreal. He rises an arm. He drops it, relishing the moment. Then he grabs the sheet. Tears it away. Uncovering the mirror, Ferang winces. There’s no one there. The chipped tiles and the dirt shrouding almost everything, the peeling paint on the ceiling and blackened walls, one can see even the cobwebs in the corners of the room reflected in the mirror. Of him, however, there is no trace. Vertigo. Nausea. But also laughter. Impatience. He closes his eyes. Opens them again. Still nothing. Not the Bear nor his own reflection. Beyond the mirror, he has ceased to exist.

  And so they meet. The Bear, or what’s left of him, stands before him, with no costume on. The same clothes, the same posture, even the same breathing rhythm. Under the brown fur, the Bear looks like him, and he waits like him, he thinks just the same way—he is him for all intents.

  He’s the shadow made flesh: Ferang.

  Ferang starts toward him, and although nothing separates them anymore, it feels like he’s still walking into a mirror. Ferang sees Ferang replicating his exact movements, the same way of pacing at the same time. He seems to be still his own reflection, but Ferang prays he’s not, he prays for depth and volume, he prays for the warmth of a truly existing body. Ferang and Ferang stop a few inches from each other.

  Their lips meet. Ferang’s breath fills Ferang’s lungs. He feels the touch of his own lips, the same lips he bites and licks when in doubt. They are his, totally his, yet at the same time they are not. He investigates a novelty that he knows all too well, sucking on the thin skin. They fit his own lips perfectly. They kiss the same way his do. He finds the same protruding chin. Their hands touch with urgency. They invade the dimension of the other. A shared body, both separated and joint together.

  Their kiss explore something they knew all along but that was never truly understood.

  Their tongues twist together, physically looking for an answer that can’t be hidden but inside their souls. And maybe it can be found, if only you search deep enough. If you search thoroughly enough. And their hands slide on their sides, up on the back of their heads, and down again on their shoulders. They linger exploring the corners of the most familiar skin as if it were a new world. Soon Ferang has to hide his erection.

  It’s the body he always awaited, the only one he’s ever loved and can ever love—his own.

  The bl
ade sinks into his side. Ferang flinches inside Ferang’s ajar mouth, his lungs emptying inside the other’s. His blood spills on the floor and onto the dirty kitchen counter.

  Ferang steps back, staggering. The vegetable knife sliding out of his flesh. Ferang puts his hands to his abdomen to stop the bleeding, but when he feels dampness soiling his fingers, he lifts his hands away, as if it were boiling tar. He breathes and the pain floods his flesh, his hands trembling in the air in front of his wound. He can’t see anything but the knife. And the hands wielding it, certain, motionless, if not for the well-marked rhythm of a regular breath.

  Ferang looks up to meet his double.

  The flickering blade reflects the neon light. Before Ferang can hit again, Ferang smashes the only cup he owns on the left side of his head. Ferang staggers raising the hand with the knife to shield himself. Ferang grabs that hand with both his. He sinks his nails into the familiar skin. Both collapse to the ground. They writhe. Ferang keeps his eyes on the knife, the blade dirty with his own blood, and pushes it away from himself. He fears it more than anything else, and when he realizes it, his strength fails him. Ferang tries to escape from under him and plunges at him with the blade again. But Ferang grips his wrists. He growls. Both grunt their buried rage. They struggle, their feet hitting the wall. Ferang headbutts him in the face, and incredulous, Ferang stops thrashing. Ferang loosens his grip on the knife. Ferang could take it from him, but the blood on the blade terrifies him, so he grabs it and throws it away in a corner of the room. He puts his hands on Ferang’s face but doesn’t know what to do. It’s his own face, after all. Ferang shakes himself out of the shock and hits him on his sternum, near the collarbone. Ferang jerks back. He folds in pain. He feels his blood wetting his hip. Ferang rises to sit. Tears Ferang off himself. He takes him by the hair, bangs his head against the wall, but Ferang grabs his clothes, halving the force of the assault. Ferang punches him in his lower belly. Now it’s Ferang’s turn to bend. Ferang puts his hand back in his face, and now knows what to do. He sinks his fingers into his mouth, in the eyes, tries to probe his nostrils, even. Curls his phalanges. Cuts through the skin. Ferang screams, his voice more like a roar than a human cry. He bites down on his fingers, savoring the blood. Ferang screams. He pushes with more force into the opponent’s nose, feeling his finger slide beyond the lean defenses of the cavity. Ferang howls and retracts, a trickle of blood flowing from his nose, running into his mouth where it mixes with Ferang’s, who now is punching him in the face. A yell precedes every blow, almost as if sharing the same pain. Overwhelmed, Ferang jumps on Ferang with his whole weight, kicking him in the stomach, throwing Ferang to the ground, on his back. Ferang is blinded for a moment and he tries to escape, gets on all fours, but Ferang jumps on him again. He grabs him. Growls in his ears. Leans on him. Opens his mouth. Bites his face. Sinking his teeth in the soft cheek. A scream. The jaws sinking into the soft flesh. A bark. Ferang opens his mouth to avoid choking in the blood of his victim. Ferang rolls to the floor, holding his face in his hands. He shouts. Swears. Curses. Kicks. He smashes Ferang’s nose with a kick. Ferang bares his teeth, grunting, straightening his nose. He inhales the smell of his own sweat and that of his opponent. They are identical. Ferang, his hands covered in his own blood, jumps on him. Drags him, grabbing the sides of his face. Twisting it. Trying to break his neck. But Ferang find his balls with one hand. He grips them. He smashes them. Ferang thrashes his head back against the wall, his face a mask of pain. Ferang rises, grabs blindly. Despite the excruciating pain, Ferang tries to do the same, but finds himself paralyzed. Ferang climbs on him. Glances at him straight in the eyes. And then he wraps the sheet around his neck. He strikes again in the face before tightening. Ferang tries to get up, but the weight of Ferang nails him to the ground. Ferang, straddling the enemy, strangles him with the sheet so hard he fears the bones in his hands will shatter. But never, not even for a second, does he look away from those bulging, bloodshot eyes, reading the old question that flickers in their depths. Ferang kicks and thrashes his hands and legs like a madman, clawing his chest and neck. His face red as ripe fruit. Violet like the lilies. Blue like rotten things. And those eyes, those eyes remain conscious all the time, their light does not waver until the very last, when it’s too late to hope in the mercy of oblivion. Then they go out. Open. Wide open. Filled with questions left unanswered.

  Ferang continues to strangle him long after his death. He keeps on staring at his eyes. When he lets go of the sheet, it feels like he can’t do it. Almost like murder demanded his hands in exchange. Sore, he opens his fists. Gets up.

  The room is a mess. The blood on the ground isn’t plentiful, a lock of hair here and there, but the air is full of the smell of a fight, of confrontation. Anyone could smell it. He must get rid of everything. But first, he picks up the oranges fallen during the scuffle. Picks up the knife Suresh will use to slice tomatoes. Without taking his eyes off the body lying on the ground, he sinks the blade into a fruit. He cuts it. And cuts again. He pops a slice in his mouth. Munches on it, tasting its pungent taste. He lets the juice drip on his chin. He leans against the wall, eating a slice after another. Keeps looking at the lifeless body until someone knocks at the door.

  Ferang puts the knife on the kitchen counter and dries his chin with the back of his hand. He opens the door.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Mel looks at him without uttering a word.

  “I was doing crunches,” says Ferang.

  “Did you do it?”

  A pause.

  “You want to come in?” he asks.

  “No.”

  Ferang hesitates.

  “Did you do it?” She doesn’t even try to disguise her impatience.

  Ferang sticks his hand in his pocket, taking out the USB stick. He hands it to Mel. He tries to avoid touching her as much as possible. Mel drops it in her bag.

  “I also took the article from his laptop,” he says. “It’s called ‘The Colourless Gold’. Good stuff.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Ganguli already published an exposé,” she says. “It’s viral.”

  Ferang licks his lips.

  “Sorry it didn’t go your way,” she says. “After all, this is why you’re here, right? For greatness, as you call it. For the fans, I say.”

  “You never knew me.”

  “Maybe.” Mel gives him a vague smiles. She takes a step back.

  “What’s my name?” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name.”

  “Your name doesn’t define you,” she says.

  “I hate you.”

  “Not true.”

  “I do.”

  Mel turns and starts walking. Ferang grinds his teeth, but then she stops and turns again and covers the distance between them. She puts her hands on his neck and, on tiptoe, and she kisses him,

  MEL

  with immense gratitude.

  “Time’s up.” Off she goes, pacing through the dark alley into the emptiness of the Old City, the distant murmur of the protest the only voice left. She drives to the police station of Candil.

  In the waiting room, the duty officer shoots her a look and lowers his eyes pretending he didn’t see her. The police station lies empty, too, all the forces deployed to curtail the cries of the unheard.

  Mel heads to the office of the Commissioner, the door left half open on purpose, and opens the desk drawer where she places a sheaf of documents and the USB stick. Then she walks to the interrogation room. She doesn’t enter, she looks through a slot in the door.

  Ameen and the Commissioner are sitting at a table, chatting. Invisible to their eyes, Mel places her hand on the door handle without lowering it, enjoying the wait.

  “It’s crazy, Satish,” Ameen says, an elbow on the table, a hand resting on his bony hip. “Think about when we used to play Kancha together in the New Territories, saying that one day we’d own the city.”

  T
he Commissioner laughs. “And now we are the fucking owners of this fucking place.” Such a bad actor. He looks a little under the weather, too.

  “There is only one way to the top.”

  “A mobster...” one says.

  “And a policeman,” goes the other.

  They both laugh, an old joke.

  “Anyway, you still have to tell me what I’m doing in here,” says Ameen.

  “It’s just for precaution.” The Commissioner shrugs. “The situation is pretty hot out there.”

  Their voices sound relaxed, just like two friends with beers, ready to play poker and smoke about the times gone by.

  The Commissioner, facing the door, notices Mel looking through the slot and widens his eyes, almost squirming on the chair, then turns and smiles to Ameen.

  “So,” says the Commissioner. “At last.” Stretching the vowels.

  “Better believe,” Ameen says, a smile in his voice. “It’s not great for business, but he was becoming unstable, the Hijra. I would have taken him out during the first riots, if it were up to me, but you know the Boss. Anyway, it had to be done.”

  “We should expect an equally serious uprising, this time,” says the Commissioner. “If not worse.”

  “You’ll handle it perfectly, I’m sure. The Ring is safe. And the Pit, if they want to kill each other, then let them. Too many people in this country anyway.”

  “Chandra isn’t jumping with joy about losing the revenue of the Pit. Last time, after all, the government had to spend hundreds of thousands of rupees to clean up the city and get people to re-elect the party.”

  “Chandra has not been elected yet, but he already bosses around,” chuckles Ameen. When the Commissioner doesn’t join in the laughter, he goes serious again. “Don’t worry, my brother, he’s a lapdog, the Boss says so. After reclaiming the land from the Pit we’ll fund his election campaign for the next twenty years.”

  “And with the people,” goes the Commissioner, glancing at Mel, “what should we do to the slumdogs?”