‘Eet is,’ she says. ‘What else have you been?’
‘At the beach,’ I say, not correcting her pronoun error, ‘then the bookstore. Besides those, I’ve just been sleeping in my apartment. Haven’t seen much else.’
‘So lazy,’ she shakes her head.
See what I mean? Who says that to someone they’ve just met?
But then she adds, ‘I see,’ and nods. ‘The shore and then the bookstore.’
I grin and she asks me if her English was incorrect. ‘You rhymed, that’s all.’
‘Rhymed?’
‘You know – rhyme.’
Bela stares blankly.
‘See you later, alligator? After a while, crocodile?’
‘Ah! Yes. Rima.’
At eight o’clock she checks her watch and says she must go. She needs to be at work in an hour.
‘Where do you work?’
‘The bookstore. That is why I saw you before, and again today. The first time you would not let me transaction your book. My father. He has a bad back, no? You made him get off his seat and do it. You should be more considerate.’ Scold. Scold.
‘I was trying to be considerate,’ I say. ‘The guidebook said you people have a hierarchy.’
‘And you were screaming at him to buy your book. Very rude.’
‘I was enunciating.’
‘And then you even screamed when you left.’
‘I was telling him to have a good day!’
Then Bela, she furrows her lips, like she’s considering what I’ve said. Like it’s dawning on her that, from my point of view, I wasn’t being a dick. And as she looks like she’s about to apologise for snapping at me, she says, ‘I-er-archy. I do not know that word.’ She shrugs, ‘But it is always good to be considerate in a country that is no yours, no?’
Groan.
Moving on, she says, ‘We put out new table displays at night. Yes, I must go to work. We all can’t be American tourists.’ But this time she lets out a good-natured laugh that almost sounds fake, but the crinkles around her eyes tell me it’s genuine.
And as I watch the crinkles go flat again, I suddenly feel a little, well, something. I don’t want her to leave. I mean, what if my figments come back?
‘Now, Jerry,’ she says accentuating the -ry, ‘I will see you tomorrow, no? We will continue our walk then?’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘Good,’ she says and quickly kisses me on both cheeks. Her kisses, they feel like little, moist doughnut holes. ‘Ciao. Oh, and don’t tell my father about the flowers. They were for the shop,’ she laughs like a child who’s gotten caught doing something naughty but knows they won’t be punished. As she begins her old-lady’s walk, she turns back briefly. ‘See you later, ally-gator,’ she smiles. ‘Rhyme, no?’
The way she says it makes me laugh. She waves goodbye and I turn to walk in the other direction. Then I remember she hasn’t told me where we’ll meet, but when I look back, she’s disappeared.
And look, if you were in my position, you’d worry too.
But … these flowers. She’s got to be real, no?
I run back to the apartment. Like if I keep moving my figments won’t have a chance to catch up with me. When I get back Paulo is still seated outside, glass of wine in hand, puffing on a cigar. I suddenly feel stupid carrying a bunch of sunflowers and dump them into a trashcan before Paulo can see. The night breeze blows his white strands of hair. It’s good to see the face of someone who I know exists.
‘American or Canadian?’ he asks.
‘American,’ I say. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘My friend Diana joined me for dinner tonight. She said a man had called her asking if the flat was still available. When she said it was taken he asked if an American had rented the room. Her brother rents a room in the city centre, too. Earlier today he received the same call.’
A chill runs through my body. Epiphany does have Abdul looking for me. ‘What did she say?’
‘Told him “no”. Can’t be too safe, can you?’
‘No, you can’t,’ I smile, hoping my look comes across as one of mild amusement. I wish Paulo a good night and unlock the door leading to the stairs.
‘Bela is a pretty one, isn’t she?’ Paulo says.
‘You’ve seen her?’ The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them.
Paulo gives me an odd look. ‘Watched her grow up across the street where I used to live.’
A thin layer of anxiety sheds from my skin. ‘How’d you know I was out with Bela?’
‘Those were her flowers you threw away, right? She loves sunflowers.’ I feel bad, like I should have a really good explanation for ditching the flowers, but then Paulo says, ‘We’re men. We’re not supposed to like flowers.’ Then he gives me a wink and says, ‘After you left today she asked if you came here much. She was so excited to hear a native English speaker. I hope you don’t mind that I told her you were renting the room?’
I tell him no, of course not, and wish him a good night, then make my way up the dark stairwell leading to my apartment.
And when I open the door Epiphany’s in the living room. She waits, wraith-like, in the dark to remind me what a silly boy I’ve been. How I’ve been a child out playing in the world of adults today, like I have any say over my life.
But she’s wrong. I did have a say. I could have ended all this today, but instead I walked around town with an odd girl who gives flowers to strangers.
‘My voices require a sacrifice, Jerry,’ Epiphany says, holding a little sickle in her hand. It’s not one of those long, Grim Reaper sickles. It’s more like the sickle in the Soviet flag. The kind she had in my dream. ‘Your throat, Jerry. They require your throat.’
‘Epiphany, look–’ But I’m frozen as she glides towards me. Then I’m on my knees. I’m crying.
She holds the sickle above her head, ready to swing.
‘Please,’ I say.
‘Sins of the father, Jerry.’
‘Please stop this,’ I tremble.
‘Then say it.’
I gaze into her face. She’s so calm. The sickle is held motionless, its orders to strike on temporary hold.
‘No,’ I shudder.
She sighs. ‘I gave you your chance…’
‘Please…’ I beg.
‘…and you didn’t take it.’
And as she swings the sickle at my throat I scream all the things you believe are false but you secretly fear anyway. ‘My father! My father! He did do all those things you said he did! He’s a rapist and a liar and a devil!’
And like that, Epiphany is gone. And me, I’m left kneeling on the floor, sobbing.
It’s who knows how long before I can pick myself up. The heaviness has returned to my body. I make my way to the cracked window where I threw the book at Ana Lucia. Outside, Paulo’s seat is empty. The café’s lights are off for the night. I walk through the apartment and check the back window. Moonlight splits the cobblestone alley as cats scamper from shadow to shadow. My face is clammy with cold sweat and looks yellow in the reflection of the glass.
‘People like heroes better if they die for something,’ I told Emma once. But I’m not a hero and I’m going to die anyway. It’s only a matter of time. Epiphany is out there, somewhere, hunting me. This has got to end. And I open the guidebook to the dog-eared page with the answer about how to stop all of this. The only sane way, anyway.
I read:
The American Embassy in Porto. Address: R. Barão de Forrester, 4400 Vila Nova de Gaia, Portugal. Hours: Monday through Friday 8:30 – 17:00. Closed weekends.
I read:
Services: Visa renewal. Lost passport replacement. Legal advice (US Citizens only).
I read:
Safety: If you are a US citizen and have been the victim of a crime, or have any information about a crime, the American Embassy is fully staffed with legal counsel, government advocates, and officers of the International Criminal Police Organization (INTERPOL).
; 33
Scrabble
M-E-D-S. Seven points.
It’s half past three in the afternoon when I wake up. I saw Epiphany two more times last night – once at the kitchen table playing Scrabble with Emma. She was helping her spell ‘mifepristone’. Even with all the money in my pocket, I don’t have a chance at a normal life without my meds.
And I wonder, do they give you medicine in jail?
I get out of bed. I don’t even shower. If I do anything but go to the embassy, this will become something I’ll always do the day after tomorrow. I leave everything in the apartment – my clothes, my backpack, even the guidebook – I just rip the dog-earned page from it. The page with the address that starts the next chapter of the rest of my life.
I’m glad Paulo isn’t sitting outside. I’d use talking to him as an excuse to let this go another day. And in another day Epiphany could really be waiting for me in my apartment. I start up the hilly street, my mind as unstable as my ankles on the bellies of black cobblestones. I reach the bookstore and see Bela through the window. She looks frustrated with this old lady of a customer who has a big loaf of bread for hair. She’s arguing with Bela. Bela probably snapped at her like she tends to. Bela’s jabbing her finger into her palm in an attempt to convey some point to the old lady. I smile at the scene of it all. Part of me feels like I should go in and say hello, but I continue on. The embassy closes in an hour.
And maybe I’m not totally fucked. I’m turning myself in and that has to count for something. INTERPOL, they’ll question me and then they’ll bring me back to Chicago, where I’ll be handed over to the detectives. I’ll stand trial for a murder I didn’t commit, but at least I’ll be safe from Epiphany. And anyway, don’t they have to prove I killed Roland beyond a reasonable doubt?
I can still tell the cops what happened – the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I can tell them about Epiphany and her abduction. I can tell them about how Matthew Mann rapes little girls. And the footage – there’s always the television footage from outside the museum. The footage that I saw Epiphany in real life on. I can have my lawyer play the footage in court and say, ‘That’s her. That’s the girl who really killed Roland.’ And won’t that be enough?
D-E-L-U-S-I-O-N-A-L. Eleven points plus fifty-point bonus for words of seven letters or longer. Sixty-one points.
I make my way up another steep hill towards a bell tower. The bell tower is at the opening of a large plaza. I scan the buildings. The embassy should be right here.
‘You’re going the wrong way, Jerry,’ Rachel says. She’s wearing this killer tank top that’s so thin you can see her perky nipples right through it. ‘You’re turned around. The embassy is back the other way.’
‘Shut up,’ I mumble. ‘You’re just trying to confuse me.’
‘Why would I confuse you? We’re one, remember?’
‘You don’t want me to go.’
‘That would mean you don’t want you to go,’ she smiles. ‘Turn around, you should have gone right at the bookstore.’
‘Of course I don’t want to go,’ I snap. ‘I didn’t want any of this. But this is the only way. I can’t be a fugitive any longer and I can’t wait around for Epiphany to find me or for Abdul to show up with his favourite rocket launcher. And even if neither of these things happen, I’ll still go crazy without my medicine. Case in point.’
‘No offence,’ I add.
‘Whatever,’ she says and starts her damn la la laa-ing again.
A group of college kids walk in my direction. Rachel’s singing is so loud I have to shout to hear myself when I ask if they know where the American Embassy’s at. They point me in the direction I came; the direction Rachel was telling me to go. They tell me I should have made a right at the bookstore. On the bell tower’s clock it’s almost four-thirty.
I run back the way I’ve come, down a hilly street, and almost trip over a black cobblestone. I pause to catch my breath, but hear Rachel’s incessant singing, so I run again.
And maybe you think I’m a coward, but turning myself in is the bravest thing I’ve ever done. People in real life, when something bad happens, they don’t turn into action heroes or detectives, like they do in the movies. In real life you take the path of least resistance. You do the easiest thing that ensures your survival. It’s always about necessity. It’s why the starving steal food. Why the desperate resort to violence. And why the cowardly take money from the man they just killed.
‘Jerry?’ a voice calls. ‘Ola, Jerry. You exercise, no?’ I’ve reached the bookstore again. Bela is wearing glasses that give her a studious look.
Panting, I say, ‘What? No, I was just–’ And once again Rachel has vanished like she was never there. ‘I – I need to go to the embassy,’ I say. ‘Passport issue.’
‘OK,’ Bela says in her round way. Her head bobs a little. Either she didn’t understand what I’ve said or it doesn’t interest her in the least. ‘I am off my shift now, you see?’ And she waits for my acknowledgement.
‘Uh – I see.’
‘I am to meet my friend Kate. You will like to come, no?’
I’m not sure if that’s a question or an order.
‘I would,’ I say, ‘but I need to get to the embassy.’
And here she gets the word. ‘Ah! Embassy. Surely they are not open today, no?’
The thing about travelling is that days and dates blend into the background until you no longer notice them. I look at the torn guidebook page in my hand. Hours: Monday through Friday 8:30 – 17:00. Closed weekends.
‘What day is it?’
‘Sabado. Saturday.’
I’m a D-U-M-B-A-S-S. Twelve points plus fifty-point bonus. Sixty-two points.
‘So, you will come?’ Bela’s face is expectant.
‘I–’
‘It is because,’ she interrupts, letting out a little laugh like she’s confiding a dirty secret, ‘I do not like her, you see? She drink a lot and say stupid things. She speaks like she know everything all the time. But I promise Kate I go. And if you come, we can make excuse to leave if she get too stupid, no?’
And in the silence between us she waits for my answer. And well, that’s the thing: there is silence between us again. There is no more Rachel or humming or singing.
Look, we all use people, right? You may say you don’t, you might even believe it, but deep down you know you do. I’ve got to put jail off until Monday now and that means, provided Epiphany lets me live through the weekend, I’m going to have to deal with all these damn figments until I can get arrested and get my 486s back in the States. But until that happens – well this Bela girl – she’s like my own personal 486.
So I smile. ‘Sure. Where to?’
‘Irish people love to travel. We love it. That’s why you’ll find an Irish pub in any country you go to. In Ireland I…’
Don’t shut the fuck up? I think. This Kate girl has been rambling on for hours, telling one ‘me’ story after the next. She and her friends are in Portugal on a round-the-world trip paid for by Mommy and Daddy. In just an hour she’s managed to tell us her entire life story – an amazing feat considering she’s had seven beers.
‘Ay!’ Kate shouts to a group of people who’ve just come up the stairs. All four are Irish and for the next hour they all yap as much as she does. And I feel bad, for Bela. I can tell when she’s only pretending to follow one of their stories because they’re speaking too quickly for her. She laughs a little too loud at the jokes they tell and does so a moment after everyone else laughs. The Irish are hard enough for me to understand, but for her they must be near impossible.
One of the Irishmen, a particularly short one with a bad comb-over, asks Bela if she’s ever been to Dublin. But Bela laughs, faking understanding, like the question is the punch line to a joke. There’s silence at the table as the Irish cast blatant smirks at one another. Then Bela’s face goes beet red. The Irish’s smirks turn into laughter. The comb-over leprechaun raises his eyebrows, ‘Speak English mu
ch?’
S-H-E-S-P-O-R-T-U-G-U-E-S-E. Seventy points.
‘Who needs a refill?’ I say, silencing them. Everyone at the table blurts out their orders and begins taking money from their pockets. ‘No, it’s on me,’ I say. I’m not being nice. These guys are all dicks. I just have more than nine thousand euros to burn through before I turn myself in Monday morning. ‘Except for you,’ and I pluck the five-euro note from the comb-over’s hand. I turn to Bela. ‘Want to help me?’ She slides out of the booth, her hair subtly draped in front of her face to hide her embarrassment.
‘Hey, Bela!’ Kate shouts after us, ‘Grab a game while you’re down there! Bela – a game. G-A-M-E!’
I groan and Bela blushes and gives a weak smile. ‘I do,’ she says.
Downstairs the bartender sets the drinks on a tray. He says something in Portuguese. ‘Twenty-nine euro,’ Bela translates.
‘Glad you’re here,’ I say, giving her a little smile. ‘Or else I would have been here all night trying to guess what he was saying.’ She bobs her head up and down, afraid to answer. I give the bartender thirty euros and ask Bela if she’ll collect the change. ‘I’m going to pick out that game. Something that will distract them from talking so much,’ I wink.
Bela returns a self-conscious smile and nods. I’m not sure if she totally understood me. ‘OK. I bring these drinks up.’
‘Won’t be too heavy? I can help –’
‘I OK. I have,’ she says softly.
I walk across the bar to a table that has several board games: Monopoly. Guess Who? Trivial Pursuit. Jenga. Checkers. Ah, perfect–
I hurry to catch up with Bela, who’s near the top of the stairs, balancing the tray in her hands. ‘Look what I’ve got,’ I smile.
But then Bela, she snaps at me. Me, the one who did her a favour by coming here. Me, the only one who has been nice to her the whole night. ‘I do not want to play that game!’ she says.
I only grabbed it because I thought it would be the one that would require the most concentration from the leprechauns – so they’d all have to shut up and speak slower – so Bela could have a chance at understanding them.
Epiphany Jones Page 22