by Greg Smith
The old Romanian just couldn’t shake his deep-seated habits. Whether or not he received responses, he interrogated the stranger anew at every opportunity. Ever vigilant for the misstep. Always rummaging for the single clue that would disclose the truth about the stranger’s background. When the tall man made his mistake, Griggor would be there to latch onto it. The old man was tenacious.
“He woke up the same this morning,” Nadia conveyed when Griggor arrived that evening. “A blank slate. He still remembers nothing.
She’d thought she’d gotten used to the idea of Ewan waking up each morning with no indication he remembered anything from the previous day. She found it especially difficult, however, to accept that the tall man couldn’t recall their interaction from the day before. He’d seemed so alert. Had even communicated with improvised sign language!
“He watches the news all day. I had several appointments. More than usual. So I was busy today. But I checked on him in between readings. Sometimes he was sleeping. Mostly, he was just sitting and staring at the television. As he usually does.”
Nadia was growing impatient with Ewan’s lack of progress. It had been nearly two weeks since her gift had arrived. Though she still believed he was a messenger of some sort, she was confused by the lack of any readings, wondered how long it would be until her gift’s purpose made itself known.
Griggor, on the other hand, knew the healing process often took more time than most wanted to allow. Head injuries, in general, and amnesia, in particular, could be especially unpredictable. The more he researched, the more he understood how little the medical profession knew about amnesia. Or, how to treat it.
Medical satchel in hand, he trudged up the brownstone’s creaky staircase to the second floor. He found his patient in his customary position. Sitting in his chair in front of the television. Hands on his thighs. Staring vacantly at the television.
The profile a bald eagle’s head, superimposed over a close-up of an American flag, filled the screen. The eagle’s white plumage was meticulously groomed. Its keen yellow eye stared defiantly. Its hooked beak threatened retribution. Its shriek sounded the warning. Terrorists beware!
The stranger’s eyelids began to flutter. His eyes rolled back. Showing only the whites. Slowly, his eyelids closed.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
A wavy swirl of black and red churned across the canvas of his mind. The image slowly took shape. A black, two-headed eagle emerged from the chaos. Tongues out, the heads faced in opposite directions. The eagle’s wings were spread. Its talons extended. Its tail resembled an arrowhead. The eagle split in two, the heads moving in opposite directions. Each new eagle was identical to the original. Each with two heads.
The swirly background disappeared. The images became sharper. Each two-headed eagle was now painted on a flesh-toned surface, surrounded by fine, dark hairs. The inside of a human forearm. The images were positioned between the wrist and the bend of the elbow. Nearer the wrist. With the double-heads toward the hand, the arrowhead tail pointing to the crease of the elbow.
One arm was his. He was holding it overhead. Next to the other arm. He turned, saw his image in a mirror. Only there was no mirror. It wasn’t a mirror image at all. It was a duplicate him. An identical him. With an identical two-headed eagle painted on his raised arm.
He crossed arms with his duplicate so that their eagles touched.
“Twin eagles!” he shouted, together with his duplicate.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
The majestic televised bird shrieked again, took flight, the screech bringing the stranger out of his trance. The tall man looked from the television to his sleeved arms. He held both arms out, palms facing upward, glanced from one to the other.
Not paint, he thought. Ink. Tattoos.
An old man was standing nearby. Watching him. He wondered if the old guy was the tattooist. He absently unbuttoned one shirt sleeve, slowly rolled the sleeve up to expose the tattoo of the two-headed eagle to the old man’s curious eyes.
Later, of course, he would have no memory of showing the image to the old Romanian.
Griggor recognized the tattoo immediately.
“Black pajura (eagle) with two caps. That is ‘head’ to you, hey?”
The stranger remained silent, ran his fingertips gently over the black image.
“Two-cap pajura, it is Albanez, hey? On red background, this is Albanez flag.”
He placed a hand on the tall man’s shoulder.
“So. You are Albanez, then, hey? Or you have Albanez connection. English translation: you are Albanian. That means something to you, Ewan?”
The stranger shook his head no.
“You think you are maybe Albanez mafia, hey?”
The old man was intentionally trying to get a reaction from the stranger. Some sign that he could be affiliated with a group that might have sinister connections. The stranger’s face conveyed no emotion. He stared at the tattoo. Continued caressing it gently.
“Albanez mafia, they are ruthless. Very violent, hey? You are maybe part of Rudaj Organizatie? Corporatie, da?”
Griggor was familiar with much of the Eastern European criminal element operating in New York City. Russians. Chechans. Ukrainians. Albanians. Romanians, naturally. He was personally acquainted with many gang members. The Albanian mafia was a merciless group. Cold-blooded. Murderous. Of course, he could tell the stranger was no criminal. The tall man was too soft. And he’d shown no signs of recognition when Griggor mentioned the Rudaj Organization. The Corporation. The old man thought it unlikely Ewan had ties to any gang.
“Nu, you are not mafia, my friend. If so, you most likely will have many, many tattoos, hey? Not just this one. Anyways, mafia, it does not fit you.”
He smiled amiably.
“This tattoo, it is maybe just ethnic pride, hey? Like Irish spiridus. Leprechaun.”
Still gently stroking the tattoo, the stranger closed his eyes momentarily. The image of a balding older man sitting at a kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, popped into his mind. The newspaper print was strange, foreign. The old man put the paper down, stuffed his cigarette out in an ashtray. He was dressed in a white tank top. Grey hair poured over the neckline. An obscure, blurry image attempted to conceal itself on one hairy upper arm.
Baba, he thought, opening his eyes.
His father.
“Anyways, I now have some starting place, hey?” Griggor told him. “There is maybe some Albanez-America group to which you belong. Some club, hey? Not gang-related. We can maybe find you by them. Tomorrow, I begin to see.”
Again he regarded the stranger, smiled at him.
“We are allies, Griggor and you…on, hey?”
He chuckled at his own cleverness. The pun on the American pronunciation of the name he’d given the tall stranger.
“Romanii. Albanezii. They have deep history. Goes back to Roman days. My ancestors. Dacians – wolf people. Your ancestors – Illyrians. We have treaty since one-nine and one-three (1913). So, we are friends, hey? Is maybe why I like you too much.”
He left the stranger in front of the television, moved into the kitchen to confront Nadia, who was busy pretending to be busy.
“Your ‘erou’ just shows me tattoo,” he said, keeping his anger in check, speaking softly so the stranger wouldn’t overhear. “This explains long sleeves, da?”
Nadia ignored him, busied herself with work that didn’t need to be done. Drying dishes a third time. Unstacking and re-stacking plates.
“Why do you not tell me about this?” Griggor whispered harshly. “It is important. Could be vital clue, hey?”
Nadia continued to ignore him, took out the broom to sweep the floor a second time.
“He could be Albanez mafia, Nadia. Very dangerous.”
“You said he’s not mafia,” the woman said casually.
She continued sweeping as though nothing Griggor had said bore any significance.
“So, you listen, hey? You eavesdrop on G
riggor?”
He was less annoyed at the invasion of privacy than the withholding of information. Nadia could remain passive no longer.
“This is my house, Griggor!” she hissed at him. “I go where I want. I listen when I want. I heard you say his tattoo is probably just a sign of his ethnic pride. Like an Irish leprechaun.”
“Yes. I tell him that, hey? I want to keep him off his guard.”
While the old man didn’t believe the stranger was involved with the Albanian mafia, he wasn’t willing to shut that door completely. Not all mafia were hardened street thugs. He could be a courier. A money-counter. A chemist. Any number of things. Griggor had hoped the possibility of an Albanian mafia connection would be enough to convince Nadia of the stranger’s potential danger to her.
“This man, he does not appear from nowheres, hey? He has his past. His life. Whatever it is. This tattoo. Two-cap Albanez pajura. It is clue. May tell us something. May tell us nothing. Who is to know, hey?”
Nadia remained silent, sullen.
“He is somebodies, Nadia. He has life before this,” Griggor swept his arm to take in the room. “I find him, hey? One way or other, Griggor finds who this stranger is.”
Nadia knew Griggor would do everything he could to discover the stranger’s identity. Knew he’d been on the trail since the day the stranger first appeared. That was just Griggor being Griggor. He couldn’t help himself. Any more than she could help wanting to keep the wanderer for herself.
She’d known from the beginning it was likely either the tattoo or the key would eventually lead to the stranger’s identity. She’d told herself she would care for him as long as was necessary. If his memory returned and he left, or if someone came for him, so be it. If not, so be that as well.
Watching her, Griggor rubbed his bearded chin, narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“Nadia, you have told me everything, da? You do not keep anything else from me?”
“No Griggor. Nothing,” Nadia lied, thinking about the key. Hoping the old man wouldn’t detect her dishonesty.
“Cea Legatura, it tells you nothing, hey?”
Griggor knew about the Tchaikova women’s gift, of course. To some degree he accepted the validity of Madam Magda’s readings. Though he’d always believed it was rahat, for the most part. Bullshit. Any success the women had, he credited to their keenly honed powers of observation. Not extrasensory perception. He was certain Nadia had attempted a reading, scolded himself for not having thought to ask her days ago.
“I’ve tried, of course,” Nadia admitted. “Several times. I haven’t gotten anything. Not even a faint tickle.”
She frowned.
“Like I told you this morning, Griggor. He’s a blank slate. There’s nothing to read.”
Griggor had a different explanation for why Nadia couldn’t get a reading.
He has no language of the body, the old man determined.
Based on that reasoning, he was inclined to accept Nadia’s claim that she’d received no reading. While he had to admit that withholding information was not, technically, an untruth, he felt not telling him about the tattoo was akin to lying. His relentless nature forced him to push.
“You are certain? You would tell me, da?”
Nadia glared at the old man with annoyance.
“Of course I would, Griggor. What would I hide?”
“A tattoo. As example, hey?”
Having made his point, Griggor pursued another contention.
“Albanezii I know, they are not so nice,” he said, the remark intended as a subtle jab. “Better than Chechans, Ukrainians. Dracu Roosh (Fucking Russians)! Scuza-mi franceza. Still, not so nice, hey?”
He stood to leave.
“Anyways, tomorrow, I have much to do.”
He grabbed his coat, mumbled a good-bye, kissed Nadia on the forehead, was gone.
Nadia felt some remorse over not telling Griggor about the key. But she refused to accept that the stranger was involved in anything illicit. Anything conspiratorial. She still believed the tall man was a messenger of some kind. A connection to the spirit world sent to her for a reason. An angel, perhaps. For certain, he was a gift, she reasoned, confident her connection to him would become evident soon enough.
Neither Nadia or Griggor would know that the stranger would have a genuine memory of his twin brother that evening. Only to forget it by morning.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
“Tattoos,” Step confirmed. “You want us to get tattoos.”
Aleks tried to constrain his excitement as he answered.
“The two-headed Albanian eagle, Binyak. Also known as the twin eagle. It couldn’t be more perfect!”
He unfolded a piece of paper with a print-out of the image.
“Yours goes here. Mine here.”
He pointed to the area on Step’s right arm just above his wrist, then to the same area on his own left arm.
Step was cautious.
“How big?”
“Bigger than a postage stamp.”
“Smaller than…?”
• • • • •
CHAPTER 23
“Take a dollar bill,” Aleks explained, patiently taking a dollar bill out of his wallet. “Fold it in half, then fold it in half again.”
He held the folded bill aloft, slapped it down on Step’s right wrist.
“About that size. No bigger. Just the eagle. All black.”
They were hanging out in Prospect Park. Drinking, as they sometimes did, in the Ravine. Aleks had proposed the tattoos as presents to themselves for their eighteenth birthday. They’d been over their exact size and placement nearly a dozen times.
“C’mon, Binyak. We’re turning eighteen. We’re twin brothers. We’re Albanian. This couldn’t be more perfect. It’s the Albanian version of yin and yang.”
Aleks downed his beer, crushed the can underfoot, as if to punctuate his argument.
“Y’know, you had me for just a moment there, Binyak,” Step responded. “Then you threw in that crap about the Albanian yin and yang. And…ya lost me. I mean, what does that mean? The Albanian yin and yang?”
He scoffed, sipped his beer.
“You take a centuries-old Chinese philosophy and make it Albanian. Really?”
Aleks opened another beer, tapped it against Step’s, took a long gulp.
“Okay, like thunder and lightning then. Or ivory and ebony.”
“Those are opposites, Binyak, not complementary. Twins are harmonious.”
“Exactly!” Aleks exclaimed. “Like the twin eagles. You make my argument for me, Binyak.”
He raised his beer in one hand, pointed a finger at Step with the other. Step finished his beer. Aleks tossed him another.
“I’m not getting a tattoo, Aleks. I don’t care how much you plead and cajole. It’s just not gonna happen.”
Step drank from the can Aleks had forced into his hand.
“And getting me drunk isn’t even a plan. It isn’t going to change anything.”
“Quit being so difficult, Step. You know you’re gonna do it.”
As far as Aleks was concerned, getting the tattoos was a done deal.
“The twin eagle. Here,” Step confirmed. For the umpteenth time.
He pointed to the area just above his wrist on the inner forearm of his right arm.
“And mine goes on my left arm,” Aleks reiterated. For the umpteenth time. “Because I’m a southpaw.”
He guzzled his beer, belched.
“I don’t know, Al. How big did you say?”
Aleks was getting exasperated with Step’s reluctance.
“C’mon, Binyak, let’s just do this.”
“Tattooing is illegal in New York City,” Step pointed out. “You’re aware of that, right?”
“So’s underage drinking,” Aleks countered.
He held his can up, wiggled it before gulping down the remaining contents.
“Anyway, the parlor is i
n Jersey City.”
Step scoffed.
“Not gonna happen, Al”
He knew he’d concede. He just had to make Aleks work for it a little. Just so things didn’t always come so easy for his older twin.
They’d taken the ferry across the Hudson River to a licensed tattoo parlor in Jersey City, had worn long sleeves for days to hide the tattoos from their parents.
Nikki thought the tats were awesome.
“Maybe I should get one,” she told the boys.
“But…you’re not Albanian,” Step pointed out.
“Not the eagle, silly. Maybe the Midwood Hornet. It’s kinda cool. On my ankle.”
She held Step’s arm for balance, lifted her leg, touched a spot on her ankle.
“Right here.”
“That’s a guy thing,” Aleks commented. “Maybe you should get a heart…on your bicep…with ‘Aleks’ in the middle. So we know who you really love most.”
He grabbed Nikki around the waist, pulled her close.
“Talk about a guy thing!” Nikki laughed, pulled away.
Step chuckled with her. Nikki attempted to flex her bicep.
“Maybe ‘Binyak’ in a heart on my bicep,” she teased. “You two can fight over which one of you it is!”
“Me, obviously,” the brothers said in unison.
Even after four years of friendship, Nikki could still be surprised by the way her twin friends thought so much alike.
“Better yet,” she said. “A heart on each arm. One with ‘Bags.’ The other with ‘Badger.’”
She put an arm around both brothers, hugged them close.
“You know I love you both.”
She smiled admiringly at the two brothers who had been her closest companions during those teen years that can be so troublesome. The boys who had made that ride so carefree and adventurous.
“My Bagsman,” she said, kissing Aleks on the cheek.
“My Badgerguy.”
Step received a kiss, as well.
“I’ll always love you both.”
When Armend and Mirlinda eventually discovered the black, double-headed eagles their sons displayed on their forearms, they weren’t upset at all. Less than three inches in length, half as wide, the images weren’t the least bit overbearing.