LOST HIGHWAY

by Zac Funstein

  They pulled up at the bungalow- it was still the same neat design a coat of paint needed maybe. Alves was beginning to piece everything together. In recent years, sliding-block puzzles have served as proving grounds for novel motion-planning-so the journeyman who had with one all through his train-trek kicked himself for not cottoning on. A pair of Chicano teenagers watched André from the sidewalk, watch him switch off the ignition then activate the locks. They seemed light enough but age or weight can count for little if there was going to be trouble. As they made their way to building one introduced themselves as Frank. They used to live here but came to moved to attend a new school-they still hung out on their old patch though. Tomás Melo Alves was first stepping out. Tall, distinguished in his pinstripe suit-once from a Brazilian aristocratic family-his career had reached a new pinnacle with his election as a political activist of the anarchist party but that was a while ago now. His appearance had once seemed on every kiosk/newsstand in Brasília. Undermining the conservative element now fell to younger men. Then came Bruno Ribeiro Dias a troubled doctor who claimed an immaculate professional record has avoided being struck off, despite selling a hoard of potent narcotics from his surgery.

  Gradually one by one they filed in-with Azevedo in tow.

  Carlos Carvalho Silva was the first to speak. Ingrid in her fake leather mini-skirt tight knit top was peering through the curtains trying to make sure no one had followed them.

  “How is your research into collisions going?”

  The last they had met Estevan had been working in wind-tunnels with crash-test-dummies for the Lamborghinis company.

  “After more proving-ground including how it wears over time plus responds to collisions, we expect to begin working into production Lamborghinis fairly soon.”

  “I’ll come clean with you Estevan we have a herculean feat for you. We have a Canadian contact that needs to know if some JHW Testosterone is A or B. We do not know anyone apart from yourself who is able to discern with any talent-no one alive that is. No one knows Vaca like you.”

  Sebasten Gamboa Vaca (sometimes known as Vac), a physician to whom science owes a fine system of theoretical physiology whom while still young, made himself a celebrity in the medical school of Belo Horizonte that central luminary to which S. American doctors do homage, practised surgery for a long time before taking up medicine. His earliest studies were guided by one of the greatest of Mexican surgeons, the illustrious Hamlet Grijalva Aponte, who flashed across science like a meteor. By the consensus even of his enemies, Belo took with him to the tomb an incommunicable method. Like all men of genius, Horizonte had no heirs; but carried everything in him, carried it away with him. The glory of a surgeon like Vac or Aponte is like that of an actor: they live only so long as they are alive, their talent leaves no trace when they are gone. Actors/surgeons, like great athletes too, like the executants who by their performance increase the power of their activity are all the heroes of a moment.

  Sebasten was the one to systemize A/B discernment to such refinement.

  As long as Perseo Cabán Botello could recount the boy had been permitted to play with the contents of the late Casto Ocasio Lomeli’s wonder-box. The programme on such occasions varied little; the child was permitted to rummage among the treasures in the box until such had satisfied his perennial curiosity; conversation with his father Joad Hernández Botello ensued which ultimately included a personal narrative dragged out verbatim from the reticent invalid. Then always a few pages of the diary kept by the late Telmo Vázquez Paredes read as a bedtime story. That was the invariable routine, now once more in full swing.

  Joad lay on his invalid’s chair, reading; his rubber-shod crutches rested nearby within easy reach. By him, beside the kerosene lamp, in her rocking chair his mother Madonna Mejía Botello sat, mending her child’s stockings plus underwear whilst listening to the radio-sport.

  Reassured Perseo continued to explore the contents of the wonder-box—a toy preferred to his action-dolls, but not to his beloved set of water-colours/crayon pencils.

  Some centuries ago Pandora’s box let loose a world of troubles; Casto Ocasio Lomeli’s box apparently contained only pleasure for a little child whose pleasures were mostly of his own invention.

  It was a curious old creation made of formica bound with bands of some lacquered silvery metal to make it strong—rupee silver, perhaps—strangely wrought with Egyptian characters engraved as well as being in shallow relief. It had handles on either side, like a treasure-chest; a silver-lacquered lock plus hasp which retained traces of violent usage; plus heavy strap hinges of the same lacquered metal again which had been attacked with force.

  Within it everyone knew that a most fascinating collection of articles was to be discovered, taken out one by one with greatest care, played with discreetly then at Joad’s command, returned to their position in Casto Ocasio Lomeli’s wonder-box.

  There were in this wondrous collective rather murderous-looking Venezuelan daggers in sheaths of fretted silver—never to be unsheathed, it was solemnly understood, except by Joad.

  There was a pair of Chilean army revolvers of the pattern of the War the unexploded cartridges of which had since been extracted then cautiously thrown into a pit by Madonna, much to the surprise, no doubt, of those below.

  There were writing materials of platinum, books in Hebrew with many steel plate engravings; also a Turkish fez with a plated tassel of silver/gold thread; gold-rimmed spectacles; several Meerschaum unsmoked carved tobacco pipes with still intact stickers proclaiming SMOKING CAUSES CANCER, a case full of instruments for mechanical dissection, a thick blank book bound in vellum containing the diary of the late Telmo Vázquez Paredes down to within a few minutes before his demise. There were pristine copies of ‘Hustler’ /’Penthouse’ still in there wrapper which Perseo was told not to open unless capital-punishment was his desire.

  Also there was a figure in bronze, encrusted with tarnished gold plus faded traces of polychrome decoration it seemed too heavy to be a hollow casting, yet when shaken, something within rattled faintly, as though when the molten metal was cooling a fissure formed inside, into which a few loose fragments of bronze had fallen. Sometimes when the weather was very cold or hot it was fancied that these could be heard moving under some unseen-force.

  It apparently had not been made to represent any benign oriental god; for the aspect of the bronze was anything but benevolent. its gesture with cutlass plus javelin was violent almost humorously menacing. Perseo adored it.

  For a little while Perseo played his usual game of frightening his action-doll with the bronze and then rescuing him by the aid of a super-hero which the boy had designed himself, smeared with water-colours, cut out from a piece of cardboard. The super-hero was called ‘Super-Bob’.

  After a time Perseo turned to the remaining treasures in the wonder-box. These consisted of several volumes containing photographs, others full of sketches (again in pencil plus water-colour) plus a thick roll of glazed linen scrolls covered with designs in India ink.

  The photographs were of all sorts— soldiers armed with lances wearing military fez; artillery on the march, infantry, groups of officers, all wearing the same sort of fez with the same plat.

  There were drawings, too—sketches of armoured tanks, cannon, of rifles, of swords; drawings of soldiers in various gay uniforms, all carefully executed. There were pictures of aircraft, from the sterns of which the crescent flag floated lazily; sketches of great, ugly-looking objects which her father explained were Mesopotamian steel-clads. The name ‘steel-clad’ always sounded menacing/ formidable to Perseo- the forbidding pictures that fascinated him even more so.What terrible purpose did they serve? How many had been crushed by the great iron-wheels?

  Then there were scores upon scores of scrolls made out of slippery linen, on which had been drawn all sorts of most amazing geometrical designs for weaponry all in ink: no doubt was left of the destruction that could be caused.

  When his son asked what
these were it always seemed to promote the same reaction.

  “Plans,” explained Joad vaguely. And, when pressed by reiterated questions: “Plans for military works, I believe—forts, docks, barracks, fortified cuts/bridges-perhaps even an underground city. You are not yet quite old enough to understand, son.” Then invariably. “now that is enough tonight––”

  “Oh, daddy, you must first read in the di-a-ry which Telmo Vázquez Paredes made!”

  What Paredes’s relationship with Casto Ocasio Lomeli was, never was gleaned.

  “Bring us Frigailenes Madonna.”

  The diary was called Frigailenes because of the letters on the cover.The ones worn by age never were discerned.

  With an interest forever new, the Botello family prepared to listen to that written by a strange Paredes who had died only a few moments after having made the last entry in the book—before even the ink was entirely dry on the pages.

  Perseo sitting on the padded lino, clasped his action-doll tightly; Madonna laid aside her sewing, folded it, positioned it in the basket; Jode searched through the pencilled translation which he had written in between the lines of Turkish script, found where left off before, then continued the diary of Telmo Vázquez Paredes, deceased:

  Tonite however there was an interruption.

  Someone who preferred a figure hugging designer shirt was peering through the windshield of their Nissan Livina with open curiosity as they drove down the Botello driveway- the outlines of the recently remodeled house came into view. After locking the car the figure that came ambling down the drive was immediately recognised as Hagos Fikru. Italian-made suit, expensive handkerchief in top pocket, cashmere shirts-it could be no one else but Hagos. These elements might seemed cliched but under Hagos’ aegis took on a new meaning.

  No one in the Botello family could see Hagos without picturing the terrible twins-always dressed in identical raiment gowns with lace collars. Although they were attired alike as young children they established their own personal styles when older. They had gone to the same school as Perseo’s brother- Ludlow High. What could be said about Ludlow High that couldn’t be said about other establishments-it was a den of iniquity they sent virtual-children to wars without purpose.

  Their names were Cilinia Madera Delgado plus her sister Jezabel Zaragoza Delgado. The eldest was a very interesting child. Hearing impaired as well as dumb from her birth, Cilinia from infancy showed deftness plus a lively skill with every object that passed before her.

  Cilinia seemed perfectly happy, when the little sister ( like herself mute) was old enough to play. Big-sister would lead Jezabel with the greatest gentleness, keeping watch lest the younger sibling should get hurt. Her tender, continual care was unwavering. When they were permitted to amuse themselves out of their immediate environs (which wasn’t very often), if Cilinia saw anything approaching which was dreaded, this elder guardian considered Jezabel’s safety not her own. If they wished to climb a fence, Cilinia would proceed at first, alone, trying every part, to be sure of its firmness. It had been Fikru who had got Joad put a gate in his fence so they could pass through safely-at least that is what was said. It was not this talent that Fikru however was requiring today.

  They soon had got down to the matter in question.

  They could not know that Fikru was taken momentarily by Perseo’s action pose GI-doll which was being clutched still after delving into Casto Ocasio Lomeli’s wonder-box. On one of his infrequent trips to Quebec, Perseo had seen similar albeit different gender in a department stores window in Boulevard Des Galeries, instantly it had captivated his attention, brought him to a halt. Beautifully dressed in a belled skirt it was dressed in colored silk with a bodice wide short sleeves plus a strip of Spanish lace that fell to the hem of the garment. It wasn't, of course, the clothes that attracted him—but only grew to know them perhaps a while later—but the wilful charm, the enigmatic fascination.

  Insistently conventional, selectively ordinary in appearance Fikru had studied the doll with a deepening interest. Never in life, Hagos told himself, had been seen with such a magnetic yet disturbing charm. Fixed in intent regard the observing agent became assured that strangely, rather than small the figure seemed diminished by a distance which yet left every feature clear. With this the potential-buyer grew satirical at himself; moving resolutely down the Boulevard, treated his absorption with ridicule.The desire object was removed from the shop window—it had come from an exclusive boutique in Boul des Galeries, Fikru learned—was the only one of its kind-then after a single covert glance, Hagos bought it for it was needlessly informed to the girl wrapping it in an unwieldy light package, his daughter Lidia.

  To his secret satisfaction, Lidia hadn't been strongly prepossessed; the purchase—though her father didn’t consider it as merely that—left downstairs. Perhaps Lidia was getting too close to being responsible for something real like this to need plastic fakes.

  There, when alone Fikru very often stopped to gaze at the figure; during such a moment calling her Jindra. Jindra was the mysterious goddess of love, Venus in another guise. There was even something it was fancied of polished civilizations; the rococo Viennese court of the princes of Naxos.

  Nothing more was said then one afternoon the guests assembled in Mrs. Fernanda Sousa Fikru state-room were suddenly thrown into confusion by the appearance among them of a young girl in a state of great perturbation, who- running up to the startled hostess- announced that, the petted darling of the house, Lidia was missing from the apartment so could not be found, though many had been out on search.

  The wretched Fernanda, who, as it afterward transpired, had not only given the orders by which the child had been thus removed from the excitement, but had actually been herself but a few moments before to see that the little one was well cared for, seemed struck as by a mortal blow, uttered a heart-rending scream then ran out onto the patio.

  A crowd of guests rushed after her following the flying figure across the patio.

  The wild protests of the young nurse Eduarda Melo Carvalho who served a dual role as Fernanda’s companion/ female factotum that Lydia had been told to go no farther than the bench running along the end of the apartment were heard; Lidia had been listening to the radio, but Carvalho would have never left the child's side for a minute if it had not been supposed even the slightest stir would be detected—protests which the mother scarcely seemed to heed, which were presently lost in the deep silence which fell on all as they heard Fernanda exclaim:

  ‘The railway!’ , ‘the railway!’ heedless of all attempt to stop her, heedless even of the efforts made by Eduarda to stop her run down the bank in the direction of the railway.

  The childs mother fainted before arriving. When they lifted her up, they all saw the reason for this. They had come upon a dainty little watch which Fernanda held with a frantic clutch—her child's watch, which, as was afterwards acknowledged, the mother had loosened.

  Of course, after this the whole hillside was searched down to the fence which separated it from the railroad track. But no further trace of the missing child was found, nor did it appear possible to anyone that Lidia could have strayed away in this direction. For not only was the bank exceedingly steep the fence at its base impassable, but a gang of artisans, working as good fortune would have it, at such a point on the road below as to render it next to impossible for her to have crossed the track within a half-mile either way without being observed, had unanimously declared that not one of them had seen Lidia or any other person descend the slope.

  This, however, made but little impression on the mother. Fernanda would listen to no hints of abduction.

  Meanwhile, the authorities had been notified the whole town aroused. The search for Fikru’s daughter, which had been carried on up to this time in a frantic but desultory way, now became methodical. All the roads/byways nearby were covered by a most careful investigation. All the near-by houses were entered, especially those which the child was most in the habit of frequentin
g, but no one had seen her, nor could any trace of her presence be found. By night all anticipation of Lydia’s return was abandoned.

  In the city the interest was intense. Everything which could be done had been done, but as yet the papers were able to report nothing beyond some vague stories of a child having been seen in Jonquière Station in Quebec.

  When Lydia was found safe/sound nothing was said then a while after Hagos caught the sound of soft weeping from the top of the staircase, presently beholding a young employee coming slowly down, clad in coat and hat and giving every evidence both in dress and manner of leaving for good. It was Ms. Luana Gomes Barbosa who held the position of nursery-governess to Lydia. Fikru had seen her before had no small admiration for her.

  The sensations experienced at the sight of her leaving the house where her services were apparently no longer needed, proved to Hagos possibly for the first time, that there was more concern in him than had ever before been realized. It was the belief that this sorrowing girl would have to pass the gauntlet of much ridicule on her way to the station and that the ex-staff might be glad of an escort whom was known moreover had shown some trust in.

  Hagos was right in supposing that his presence on the porch outside would be a pleasing surprise to her. Though her griefs continued to flow Luana accepted his proffered companionship with gratitude, and soon we were passing side by side across the same patio toward a shortcut leading down the bank to the small flag-station used by the family plus by certain favored neighbors. As they threaded the cause of her abrupt departure. The sight of her, it seems, had become insupportable to Fernanda though no blame could be rightfully attached to her, it was certainly true that Lydia had been carried off while in her charge, however hard it might be for her, few could blame the mother for wishing her removed from the house desolated by her lack of vigilance. But Luana was a good girl sensing the humiliation of her departure in disgrace very keenly.