Look Down, This is Where It Must Have Happened

by Hal Niedzviecki

  Please, the Colorist’s wife murmurs. The Colorist is pale, waning in the lamplight. She collects the bids, hurries into the kitchen, returns mere moments later, speaks the name of the winner.

  The bidders are ushered quickly on their way.

  The Colorist falls into a fever.

  Outside, the raw cruelty, the jealous intensity of vermilion.

  Outside, the cool, contemplative compassion of teal.

  The Colorist soaks his pyjamas.

  A band is formed. A parade struck. Bleeding pinks and soothing greens march up and down the boulevards, pause in front of the squat apartment building. It is as if such things had never been, so bright is their combined and complex intensity. All the residents gather on their balconies. Like movie stars, they wave to the crowd.

  The Colorist groans as his wife turns him on his side, strips him of his wet garments. She sits beside the sickbed. The shades are drawn. Her husband sweats again, shivers. His hands curl into fists, then go abruptly slack, like the final transition from rigor to rest.

  Night falls. The Colorist’s wife sits beside the dark lamp.

  Weeks.

  Then months.

  Summer rusts into fall, traditional season of epic pronouncements, celebration of startling hues, a time of expectations harvested. Lime streamers and crimson pom-poms lie in gutters, stained water leaching into the sewers.

  Still the Colorist is bedridden. His wife dribbles broth into his mouth, her vigil measured in the progress of shadows and the accumulation of gloom. He thrashes, cries out. She draws on his forehead with cooling fingers.

  He calms.

  Weeks pass.

  It is winter. As cold and drab and unrelenting as any. There are murmurs, muffled accusations, private confabs that encompass the highest ranks and the wildest of speculations.

  Swaddled in fur gloves and long black coats lined with silk, the Representative of the Representatives and the Parliamentary Adjunct from the Department of Heritage and Legacy sweat in the hallway. Their minion knocks insistently on the door. February. Snow falls again. The days are short as desperate couplings. There is hunger and lack. There is war overseas. Rising prices. Nothing much on TV. It has been eight long months since the apartment door last opened.

  Knock again, intones the Adjunct.

  Louder, snaps the Representative.

  They fiddle with the leather bands of their gloves. They stomp their feet, shaking off the dripping slime of snow.

  Finally, the door does open.

  The Colorist’s wife, in a faded nightdress covered with a gray cardigan. The apartment behind her, a tomb exhumed.

  May we? the Adjunct says, the Representative already brushing past into the darkened living room.

  The minion follows, feeling along the wall for the light switch.

  They blink. Their footsteps marked in dust.

  The Colorist’s wife, her eyes like an old wounded owl’s.

  Well? she says.

  The Colorist groans from the bedroom.

  Is he? — the Representative says.

  He’s resting.

  Mr. Sands will look in on him, says the Adjunct, indicating the minion.

  Sands steps smartly toward the hall.

  No, the Colorist’s wife snaps.

  Sands stops.

  The Adjunct and the Representative glance at each other.

  The Adjunct nods. Sands continues down the dark corridor.

  The Colorist’s wife sinks into a chesterfield. Dust in tear gas cones. A smell: rot, time passing.

  It’s not done, the Colorist’s wife says.

  We must, soothes the Representative, take into account the times.

  Adaptation, murmurs the Adjunct, is the key to survival.

  He won’t permit it, the Colorist’s wife insists.

  As if on cue, the Colorist moans.

  His wife makes to get up, but the Adjunct stays her with a gloved hand to her thin shoulder.

  It’s been almost a year, the Representative says.

  Eight months, the Colorist’s wife snaps.

  A longish period, the Adjunct points out.

  But not unprecedented. The Colorist’s wife is pale to ethereal, the chesterfield’s brown fabric engulfing her.

  The times, the Adjunct says.

  The Representative nods fervently. People have expectations, he adds. The pace of modern life.

  She glares up at the men. What do I know of modern life?

  Sands reappears, clears his throat. He is nursing a wrist, rubbing it.

  Well? the Adjunct demands.

  He, Sands says, raising the injured arm up to display a bite mark, has refused treatment.

  And? the Representative says.

  Sands glances anxiously at the Colorist’s wife.

  Go on, the Adjunct demands.

  He is dying.

  In the lamplight winter darkness, in the Colorist’s apartment of sixty-some years, the men’s smooth flat faces twitch imperceptibly.

  He cannot die, the Colorist’s wife says. That is impossible.

  Traditions are . . . shifting, the Representative says.

  Nonsense.

  There is another, the Adjunct says.

  The Colorist opens his blind eyes.

  Theirs is a small city in a vast country. It is a city known for only one trade, one singular industry that affects the doings of the entire sprawling nation. The cityscape is dominated by the great color corporations, their massive downtown headquarters an assemblage of lusciously painted towers penetrating the ashen swirling sky. Within are the captains of commerce, the shapers of color consensus and their teams: salespeople, marketers, public relations experts, accountants and factotums. From their vantage points on the tenth or thirtieth floors, they can see the vast warehouses that surround the outskirts of the city. Here the colors are made, churned, dabbed, bottled, boxed. And between the great warehouses as wide as city blocks and the skyscrapers as high as the clouds, thousand of small enterprises — middlemen, hustlers, deal markers, tone brokers, shade speculators, liars, buyers, fools and their false prophets. They, too, find their place in this small outpost city with a hold on a great empire.

  And yet, who will know him when he steps among them?

  He is just a blind man with a stick. He picks his way through the crowds, walks with difficulty on slush-slicked sidewalks lined with icy embankments.

  Above him, the giant skyscrapers setting the sky on fire with their corporate colors.

  Taptaptap. He pauses at the foot of one such headquarters. He sighs, leans forward to take the weight off his swelling feet.

  A security guard, uniform adorned with an armband of green and pink, takes him firmly by the arm.

  Move along now, old man. You can’t stay here.

  The Colorist allows himself to be propelled back into the streets.

  He makes his way through the workers in their business suits sporting lapel pins of delicate chartreuse and magenta. They swirl around him, each one trapped in his worries — business is slowing, layoffs coming, confusion at the top, no one knows a damn thing, and the government — ha! — the government.

  And on into the nearby entertainment district, past the restaurants and bars overflowing with anxious employees seeking brief solace in happy hour — all shades welcome. The Colorist taps and shuffles his way into the old city. Here is where it all began, in the legendary souk, marketplace of myths. Still today tourists lose themselves in the abundance of bright craven hues and collectors searching out the rarest exotica, ancient formulas for pigments long thought lost that might be reintroduced at a tidy profit.

  Such discoveries are few.

  The market has been plundered and plundered over again. Only a handful of dignified old traders still ply their wares here amongst the hucksters and con men, tricksters employing scams almost as old as the color trade itself.

  Into the area known as the Tapestry, a cobblestone maze of narrow corridors and winding alleys leading to the
cubbyhole homes of ancient couples wizened by time, anxious to talk of the old days, magenta and plum, sunflower yellow and ruddy ocher, uncorrupted colors capable of breathing vitality into an entire nation.

  The colors today . . . they croak, gathered in tiny café caves, sipping bitter coffees, hot water stained a gloomy hazel.

  The Colorist could be one of them. He shuffles forward, his bulbous knees preceding each step. His head dangles from his leathery neck. He breathes heavily through lips curled up.

  He is old and tired. He does not deny it. Let them know, too, that every hue cannot pump up the economy, revitalize nationality, inject purpose into a faded collective consciousness. Let them know, too, the beauty of colors that dim as soon as they are imagined, the transitory redemption of permeable inky moments, gone gone gone.

  Then forgotten.

  The Colorist emerges into one of the many squares, dust-swept plazas enclosed by stunted buildings leaning into tight empty spaces. Their bricks slowly crumbling. Their balconies crammed with dead plants and rusting chairs. And above them, the yawning skyscrapers, their luminescent facades endlessly replenished by teams of painters clinging to the ramparts.

  In the center of the square, a young man in a black suit, his hair long and rakish, his tie a vivid ripple of watermelon and carnation. His eyes lost under tinted sunglasses.

  The Colorist stops where he is. Where is he? He shivers. It is cold. The air, wet on him.

  The man addresses a modest crowd of pensioners, hustlers, and scoffing teens. The assembled stand in the wet square, shuffling their feet, looking down at the slick cobblestones.

  If we are not the leaders, the young man boldly proclaims, we will be the followers. Others will take our place. Others will produce the great colors of the world. Where is the Colorist? Where are the proclamations? How long can we go on tied to one man’s vision — admirable though it once was — but a vision that no longer comes, that restricts us just as surely as if we were dragging behind us a great weight. We want colors. We need colors. Can there be others? Must there be a single successor? — not yet named, I point out, even as the Colorist — god rest his soul — lies on his very deathbed! Let those who have the vision step forward. Let us compete, like all good workers, on the open market.

  A man, neatly attired in the style of a representative, takes attentive notes.

  The Colorist slumps, head on his chest, at the back of the crowd. The whiskers his wife shaves gently each morning have sprouted, yellowing needles of grass pushing up.

  I, too, have the vision, the young man exclaims, pacing now. I, too, have seen the shades in my head, from behind these sightless eyes that have never known tones other than in endlessly receding landscapes of white. I will not lie to you, my good countrymen, my fellows. I have not been named the successor. How could I? I have never met the Colorist, who lies ill for months on end.

  And yet . . . here the young man lowers his voice to a whisper as the gathered folk lean in to catch his final worlds. . . . I. Have. The. Colors. The time is now. Let us embark on a new era of prosperity. I have the colors. Let them come.

  From the blank stare of the heavens falls a desultory snow. The crowd breaks up like disinvited guests.

  The Colorist follows ringing footsteps. His stick marks out the narrow dimensions of alleys and corridors. He hears not just the steps of the man he follows, but also the hum of televised news, the flushing of toilets, the complaints of old bones cramped into shared beds. Briefly, irresistibly, he contemplates a pallor to accompany this crowded moment, this march backward toward an inevitable future. Some beige, bumpy concoction, hints of gray and purple, smears of flesh.

  The footfalls stop. The Colorist falters, swings his stick in front of him. Nothing. Empty space.

  Abruptly, he feels himself grabbed by the stiff starched collars of his shirt. His back hits the brick wall and air winds out of him in a hiss.

  Why are you following me?

  I —

  The grip on his collar tightens.

  What do you want?

  A . . . a . . . color, gasps the Colorist.

  His throat freed.

  The young man laughs.

  A color!

  One color. Please. . . .

  And what makes you think that I can give you a color?

  Your speech . . . in the square. . . .

  Did you like it?

  Tell me, are you blind?

  As you are.

  And do you really . . . see . . ?

  The Colorist feels something cold and sharp at his neck.

  Go home, old man. Or else.

  Just one color. If what you say is true. One color. And I’ll leave you.

  Who sent you?

  Who would send an old blind man?

  Who better? You’ll steal my color! Sell it on Blue Street to the shade scalpers. What’ll you get for it? A few hundred. Do you know what they pay our dear Colorist for his efforts? Millions.

  The young man spits on the cobblestones. A venomous sound, whirring past the Colorist’s furry ear.

  Color has no value to me, the Colorist says. Not in that way.

  In what way then?

  To see the colors . . . it is a duty. A fleeting moment. Cruel compensation for the indignities of sightless life. It is a bridge. This world . . . and the next.

  Very good, old man. A very heartfelt speech. What would you know about it?

  A color. . . .

  And what will you give me in return?

  The same.

  The blade retracting.

  The young man’s loft on the top story of a four-level walk up. A white leather couch faces a sleek stereo awaiting remote control instruction. The walls of exposed brick suggest the old town factory this once was, before the last of the small-scale operators sold out to the real estate speculators anxious to cash in on the sudden cachet of urban living. The Colorist stands uncertainly. Bass and synthetic drum. He pants for breath, waits for his host to return with a glass of water.

  He feels dizzy. The music around him.

  Abruptly, a cool glass is fit into his hand.

  The Colorist drinks. Sputters.

  Ha-ha. The younger man laughs. Vodka. Something to warm your old bones.

  The Colorist gasps as the liquor spreads.

  Well, chin chin.

  He feels the tremor as the young man’s glass meets his.

  The music booms, shaking the floorboards.

  You’re not drinking?

  The Colorist holds out an arm for balance. Please, he says. That . . . music.

  Too loud?

  I must . . . sit down.

  He feels his elbow pulled, lets himself be directed. Slumps heavily. A chair, soft under him. The music continues, sound track to the conundrum of infinite light.

  Please, he says.

  He feels a glass at his lips. Water this time.

  All right, old man. Have it your way.

  The soft underbelly of sound recedes.

  The Colorist closes his eyes.

  He wakes up. How much time has passed?

  What does it matter?

  The Colorist smiles to himself.

  What’s so funny, old man?

  It’s been years. Since I tasted the bottle.

  You should get out more.

  There was a time. . . .

  Ah, the good old days.

  Let us drink again.

  What about the colors?

  The bottle, boy. The bottle.

  This time, the Colorist is prepared for the harsh heat of cheap vodka.

  Again, he demands, swaying, waving his glass in the air.

  Old man . . .

  Again!

  They drink.

  The sound of settling, of downstairs and upstairs, of night falling in drifts.

  The Colorist struggles out of his overcoat, feels truly warm for the first time since catching fever.

  Another? says his host.

  Another.

  Did
you follow me home to get drunk?

  Tell me, have you always been blind? Your steps are so certain. And the way you fill the glass.

  We learn differently now. We are taught independence. We are taught that there is nothing we cannot do. As a child, I was instructed to see without seeing.

  And how is that accomplished?

  It’s too late, old man. Your time has passed.

  The Colorist slumps into himself. Drifts away.

  He is awakened. His host’s voice, above and around him: You promised me a color.

  The Colorist paws the empty space around him for his stick.

  Stay where you are, the young man says.

  Where am I?

  Don’t you remember? We had an agreement. A color for a color. A trade.

  Such things, the Colorist says slowly, settling back into the armchair, are not ours to exchange.

  Why not? Why should the Colorist sell while we go hungry?

  What is your name, my friend?

  What does it matter?

  Not all things are as they seem.

  Aren’t they?

  Consider it. A blind man who sees colors.

  So what? Is it such a miracle? Don’t you also claim to have the gift?

  I claim nothing.

  Well get out then, old man. The Colorist feels his coat slap his face. Get out.

  But we have an . . . agreement.

  Get. Out.

  A color for a color.

  But not a trade?

  A sharing.

  Sharing. The young man extrudes the word. He paces the floor, his boots cracking off the boards.

  Okay, old man. Why not. What do I have to lose?

  A gurgled swish followed by a swallow and a gasp.

  Ah. A little lubricant to get the ink flowing. If you know what I mean.

  The Colorist suddenly feels the urge to vomit. A heat in his chest. His head shimmers. He begins to sweat.

  The young man drives oxygen into his lungs, exhales loudly. Speaking hurriedly, his voice lilting to a shout, he begins:

  Charcoal stygian night a mind’s imagining no moon wild dogs breathing mist rocks under a deep still sea the remains of the house after the fire singed skeleton the men who sin all our lives night sky in winter insouciant haze of confusion stairs leading nowhere tar poured and dried in the sun factory chimney stained the smoke of a billion colors the remains of all of our lives. The remains!