Chameleon (Days)

by Dean Serravalle

  The Messenger is hungry and the smell of smoke with the spice of burning meat from a mysterious source in the distance only intensifies the growling in his stomach.

  (I try my best to avoid the introduction of any type of food myself, but the thought of it no longer turns my stomach. If anything, I begin to fantasize about food when I realize that The Messenger, like the author creating him, needs to eat. He shared a drink with the murderer in Kaa. Now he craves a taste of the land.)

  He looks at the gauge and realizes he has been driving on empty for quite some time. He doesn’t care about running out of gas. He enjoys his patience with death. In the past, he could argue he rushed the majority of his suicide attempts. Now he finds sacred the epiphany to simplify his needs. The option of ­letting death come to him, instead, secures. He had chased it so violently after his son’s death. Perhaps he tried too hard to die afterwards, scaring the fate part of it away. With the assurance of The Man lending him faith it would happen without a doubt this time, he prepares himself for a poetic end. This time around, he respects the pacing of death creeping up to him slowly, like the disease that skipped over him to attack his first born after depleting the life out of his wife—literally.

  When he reaches the bottom of the valley, he can feel in the pedal that he won’t have enough gas to make it up another hill and over the peak of another mountain. So he rides the car along the gravel shoulder only to have a tire pop as it halts to a stop.

  He abandons the car and decides to follow the scent of invisible smoke. After he takes a step towards it, he hears the loading of a weapon. It isn’t the sound of a war rifle, but one of a hunter. He can’t see the man about to shoot him until he notices a young boy cocking the rifle to his head.

  “Sssh,” the boy says.

  The Messenger remains still and then the gun goes off. Whatever is dead behind him purrs, its stomach gurgling, sickening with the ingestion of its own blood. And to The Messenger’s surprise, it isn’t an animal he expects to see in one of these remote valleys before the mountainous Bsharri region. By this point the boy has dropped the gun. He is tanned with black hair and black eyes. He kneels beside the dying tiger and makes the sign of the cross.

  DAY 7

  The Messenger doesn’t know where he is. Without a map, he drove the murdered victim’s car in a north east direction. Towards the white caps. Or, milk peaks as they were once labelled by a visiting artist in my research notes. Now he watches a young village boy pray over a dying tiger.

  He considers the surreal nature of this scene. He walks over to the child, whose eyes remain closed and tight. His gunpowder-stained fingers are interlocked. His dry skinned elbows are parallel to the weedy ground. The tiger is breathing still. Friendly as it dies. Humble to be taken down by a mere child with expert aim. Its eyes are sapphire green. Its fur rust orange with black stripes. The Messenger wonders if its family is lurking in the bush, creating a circle of fire. Although he appreciates the act of dying, he never imagined himself torn apart by a vicious predator in any of his death dreams. The young boy reveals no panic in his prayerful kneeling posture. He is staunch erect and not resting his backside on his ankles. When the prayer ends to awaken him, he pets the tiger’s fur. The tiger appreciates the softness of this child’s hand. The child’s hand disappears at times under the majesty of the striped fur before reappearing to straighten out any ruffles.

  The tiger purrs. The tiger purrs. The tiger licks the stale fur around its mouth and then the tiger purrs again.

  The Messenger steps closer. The boy is not afraid of The Messenger, this stranger recently stranded on the side of the road. He continues to pet the predator as if rewarding it for being housebroken by a bullet.

  There is no need to ask questions while the tiger struggles to breathe against the red spot on his chest, expanding its wetness. A clean, centered shot seems to have partially clipped its heart. Just enough accuracy to soften the suffering.

  But the tiger is not suffering. He, or she, is peaceful, relaxed, in a Yoga sequence. The boy refuses to pay The Messenger any attention. His focus remains with the tiger. His petting matches the consistency of the tiger’s purring. Both follow the grain of the stripes.

  As the tiger lies comfortably on the silty soil, I can’t help but stop and think about my research regarding tiger poaching. The Messenger is unaware of this research and I feel like I don’t need to inform him of it, especially since this process of dying has already entranced him. But it isn’t uncommon to hunt tigers, although there is a hidden reason why the boy shoots it. For years, the tiger has been hunted as a status symbol, its fur often preserved for decorative items such as wall and floor coverings, its blood used in traditional Asian medicines. Not to mention sport and poaching, often extended into illegal trading of tiger parts, such as tiger teeth. In my research, I came across a story where a hunted tiger was traded for a child, like payment for an adoption.

  Unlike these scenarios, the boy does not act like a procurer of any of these tradeable options. His hand moves towards the tiger’s mouth. Blood has outlined the white fur around it now, matting it down like a gelled beard.

  The Messenger finally finds some words in the boy’s ­language.

  “Is he yours?”

  “He is from the zoo. They left him here after they moved the animals.”

  “Why?”

  “To spite those people who wouldn’t pay to see it.”

  The tiger purrs and The Messenger admires the peace in its rhythmic breaths. The boy shushes the tiger. Its lungs pump its skin into hyperventilation. The boy shushes the tiger some more until it stops breathing with its eyes open. The Messenger shivers. His own dream is to die with his eyes open.

  The boy stands and makes the sign of the cross again. He then turns to The Messenger.

  “Can you help me carry her?”

  “Let us make a stretcher,” The Messenger recommends. He points to some loose timber fallen and brittle on the ground. Very quietly, they collect a number of branches. The boy strips some thinner stems that bend and ties the branches at the ends. The Messenger is impressed by the boy’s scout skills. He looks no older than seven years.

  Once the stretcher is tied, The Messenger and the boy roll the bloodied tiger onto its plank.

  “Where are we taking her?”

  “Down the hill.”

  The boy points to a descent of trees. In the distance a line of silver smoke rises like a sharpened blade.

  “She doesn’t deserve to rot into this lonely soil,” the boy explains.

  The Messenger grabs one end but worries it is too heavy on the other side when the angle shifts to climb down the hill. So he recommends bearing the bottom side. The boy doesn’t refuse the request. He tucks his gun aside the tiger’s back and The Messenger follows his nose to the smoke.

  The scent of the brush is fresh cedar and vitamin—planting soil. He can feel its blackened, quicksand softness beneath his feet, its dark density in his imagination. These trees thrive on this slope until they transform into apple trees. A tiger and a plot of apple trees. The Messenger questions the possibility of hallucinations inspired by his hunger and thirst. The boy is too friendly a hunter. The tiger is too friendly a predator. The apple trees are too biblical to find a place amongst the history of old cedars. Is he asleep in his consciousness? Is he alive or already in the transition towards death? He had read a short story in a Swedish magazine about a man halfway to death in the midst of a great success in his life. He could feel his breath leaving him as he accepts an award. He fights his legs giving out on him when he glances at the beautiful woman who has promised him her love. And then, just as he is about to fall asleep and accept the good in his life, his arm tightens and his heart stops. The irony of dying in the midst of truly living. Perhaps he is dying, The Messenger considers, before his body’s sensory functions detect the catalyst creating it?

  “
Please slow down, I am losing grip,” the boy asks.

  The Messenger realizes the steeper slope of the hill is increasing his foot speed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want her to fall.”

  The boy is very respectful of the corpse. This isn’t a trophy killing, The Messenger concludes. The boy seems regretful of his kill, like a hunter written in a Hemingway story. He displays no pride in taking down Goliath with his sawed off slingshot of a gun. This is a duty or a promise against his will fulfilled.

  When The Messenger reaches level ground, the boy walks horizontal to him and together they walk in a line towards a tiny little rock cabin. The fire outside is healthy and a woman kneads dough on a rock. She rolls it over and over onto itself. She wears a scarf to hold in the colour of her hair. She is younger than The Messenger first judges. This mother, this boy who is her son, the absence of a man, a dead tiger on a makeshift funeral pyre.

  She notices him before a formal introduction. She is not threatened by his strangeness. When she sees the tiger in between them, she leaves her work. Her hands are powdered white to her forearms, where the darkened, olive skin begins again.

  She pets the fur like her son. Affectionately.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Her question is directed to The Messenger.

  He nods.

  “We will not eat her.”

  Without the need for a cue, the boy opens a trap door to an underground cellar or holding place. Perhaps the crawlspace below the cabin. As if in twos from the ark, animals obediently walk up stairs. Chickens, goats, pigs, sheep, mountain cats. They scatter the immediate grounds with no intent to escape. A few dogs smell the tiger’s blood. They test it with a lick before sniffing other areas. The boy shoos them away.

  “We will eat in peace, now,” the lady says.

  The Messenger is thirsty but he is not prepared to ask for anything. The woman returns to the bread she kneads and places it in a stone oven, fire burning on the inside edges. On a spit, a tiny pig is charring black. The boy turns it and The Messenger helps him from the other side.

  The Messenger enjoys their silence. The way they both communicate with their bodies, using words only when necessary. Before long, the bread is baked to a hardened crust and the boy carves bubbling meat beneath the crispy skin surface of the burning pig.

  They eat outside in silence. In a silence so serene even the farm animals respect it without noise.

  The woman is a dainty eater. She picks at the meat and prefers the green dandelion stems salted in a bowl. She eats this delicacy with the warm bread. Famished, the Messenger and the boy share the meat. They share water from a wooden bucket.

  “Where am I?” The Messenger asks.

  “The wood.” The woman smiles. She is being sarcastic.

  “You go to Bsharri?” The boy guesses.

  “Yes.”

  “The Poet’s home?”

  “Yes.”

  “He made paintings here.”

  The Messenger is familiar with the Gibran drawings. Biblical, nudes, organic.

  “Why did you shoot the tiger?”

  The boy looks to his mother to ask permission to explain. The mother nods.

  “She terrorized our home. She ate our animals because she was hungry. She growled in the night to remind us she could kill. She tried to make deals with us. Her stomach would never fill.”

  “We know her stomach would never fill,” the mother agrees.

  “What zoo gave her freedom?”

  “The one that went bankrupt in Bsharri. A rich man’s zoo with a trick,” the mother explains. “When he ran out of money, he left the killers behind.”

  “Why?”

  “To disrupt our peace, why else?” the boy makes the connection. He seems annoyed by The Messenger’s questions now.

  “What will you do with it?”

  “Bury it in our garden. It doesn’t deserve to be eaten.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not her fault she is hungry.”

  The Messenger finally understands. After he eats, the boy calls him on to follow. They walk by the tiger. Green flies violently bounce from its head. They dig a hole in the softer soil by the apple orchard. They then drag the tiger’s body to the hole. It doesn’t seem right to cover such beautiful fur with black soil but The Messenger doesn’t have any more questions. Afterwards, the boy climbs some trees to pick some cleaner apples. In his arms, he delivers them to the stone stove. He places them inside and they soften the air with a sweeter scent.

  They eat the baked apples and The Messenger is happy again. Everything is so simple here, he thinks. You don’t even have to say anything. It is life and death. It is love and apples. It is a breathing poem with a heartbeat and a silent philosophy.

  At dusk, The Messenger leaves when he feels the desire to kiss the woman.

  DAY 8

  On my way to London, The Man from my preface argues with me over the last chapter. I am going to pick up my son, as I always do every two weeks. He is my first born from my first marriage. I met my former wife while I did my M.A. in Windsor. She is a poet and of Lebanese descent. She currently lives in Leamington and although we share custody, she maintains residence. So the distance between us is London now, the cut off at Dorchester, exit number 199—the truck stop. For ten years I have been making this trip. The Man doesn’t care to disrupt the journey. His sole concern is the story.

  “You missed some important details and opportunities in the last chapter,” he says.

  I ignore him at first. I miss my son and the drive is longer now that it gets darker earlier. Once again, I intimate how the story is mine to design. The Man does make a few good points.

  “You forgot to mention that The Messenger was still wearing the border man’s uniform. This is important, no? The boy respects him because of this uniform, and the lady trusts him after seeing him with her son and the dead tiger.”

  “You’re right,” I admit, but more to pacify him. He goes on.

  “Plus, you should have done something a little more dramatic at the end of the chapter. You should have had the boy cut off a paw, or something.”

  “What would The Messenger do with a real tiger’s paw.”

  “It could have been symbolic down the road in the story. Who knows what it could mean.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” I explain to The Man. “Sometimes, you have to let the story come to you. I can always address it in a rewrite, so there is no cause for concern or emergency. But I didn’t want such a bloody symbol to dominate the scene. I wanted to show how The Messenger is melting from his grief. He lost his wife and soul mate, he lost his son, so he has turned off everything except his desire to die. In doing so, he has made himself frozen to human interaction, or a step further, he refuses to engage. Seeing the beautiful mother with her head scarf in the role of taking care of her son, all alone, appeals to The Messenger. And he leaves, rather stealthily, when he begins to feel a physical attraction to her. It makes him feel guilty, like he is not honouring his wife’s memory, or his son’s for that matter. So he leaves. He removes himself and escapes before he can confront the faint desire to live again.”

  The Man is quiet after I explain this motivation. He had lost focus of The Messenger’s character in place of the visual. I suppose The Man is a visual learner, like some of my lower level readers at school, except he is much more manipulative and old school clever. After I explain to him my thought process, I wonder if he is taking notes on me, observing my tactics, so as to learn where this story is heading, even before it comes to me.

  So I stop. And I resolve within myself to stay the course of unpredictability and suspense, now that I have a secret spy watchdog on my ass.

  When I reach the truck stop my son is waiting inside with his mother and her parents. They help raise him and
sometimes my son spends more time under their care than hers. I can tell right away that my former wife needs to tell me something.

  She rarely speaks “to” me and our conversations often stay within the envelope of our mutual interest in our son. This time around, there is something disturbing her beyond the caution line.

  “I got a call from his teacher.”

  I look to my eleven-year-old son. He turns away and rolls his eyes before burying his hands in his pockets. He needs a haircut desperately and his belly has grown to protrude over his waistline.

  “What did he say?”

  I ask this question with a feigned angry frown for my son. He is still looking away.

  “He is disruptive in class. Like a class clown, and disrespectful sometimes. He’s like that a home too. His marks have dropped. At hockey he skips drills.”

  “Is this all true?”

  My son nods. He is always embarrassed when we speak about him in front of him.

  “He’s a mean teacher. I didn’t do anything. He asked about “clubs” and I said the “Caboto Club” and everyone laughed but he didn’t laugh. He meant like, drama club, or the chess club, and not a social club.”

  “I know that isn’t everything,” I say. My son is clever and he has already exploited the spaces in his parents’ dysfunctional relationship to secure him the privileges of lying.

  “I have no confidence, Daddy,” he says.

  My former wife raises her eyebrows. I try my best not to cry in front of my son. What eleven-year-old says he has no confidence? He is a bright kid who has performed admirably in school. He is an avid reader. Over the summer he finished The Harry Potter series in one month to win a bet with me, and now he has no confidence, just a few months later.