by Greg Smith
“Tastefully done,” Nene said approvingly.
“Ah, it is nice to see you embrace your heritage,” Baba added. “That you are proud to be Albanian.”
He then pointed to the blurry image on the upper portion of his own right arm. Just above his bicep. The boys had probably seen that image a thousand times without realizing it was the two-headed eagle. Time, age, weight gain – and a poor tattoo job – had distorted and obscured Baba’s tattoo.
Years later, it would be an easy decision to adopt the twin eagle image as their corporate insignia.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 24
Tuesday, September 25: Day 14 post-9/11
Two weeks to the day after the tragedy of 9/11, the work at Ground Zero continued around the clock. 279 bodies had been found. 209 had been identified. The official count listed 6,398 people missing from the World Trade Center.
It had been ten days since the stranger woke up in a bewildered, amnesiatic state. The tall man now lingered in a disoriented condition. He continued to wake each morning with no memory of his past or anything that had taken place the day before. He was more alert some days, seemed to regress on others. He had yet to voice a complete sentence beyond the three words he’d uttered the night he’d asked Nadia if Alex was safe. The memory still gave her goosebumps. She assumed Alex was the stranger’s wife, a son, or, perhaps, a daughter. She wondered why Ewan would be so concerned about Alex’s safety.
The stranger spent nearly all of his waking time in front of the television, immersed in coverage of the 9/11 disaster. He communicated by nodding his head yes or no. Or didn’t communicate at all. Though he didn’t recognize changes in his condition from one day to the next, they were there. His thoughts were slowly becoming more lucid each day.
Nadia continued to check on him, care for him regularly between stints as Madam Magda. She sometimes remained in her clairvoyant garb while attending to him, often wondering what the stranger thought of her appearance.
The morning of September 25th began as a repeat of each previous morning. The stranger awoke to unfamiliar surroundings. He didn’t know who he was, where he was, where he’d come from or what day it was. He had no memory of the day before. He was baffled that he could remember nothing about his identity or his past. However, he was aware that he’d suffered a head injury. Realized the injury had caused some sort of amnesia.
As she did every morning, Nadia knocked on his door, entered the bedroom, asked how he was. She’d expected to receive only the usual silent stare, maybe a shrug. This time, however, Ewan spoke. He struggled at first, opening and closing his mouth a few times without making a sound. Before finding his voice. Which was harsh, quiet. Only a whisper.
“Whuh…uh… Whuh...uh… Where…am I? Huh-Who…are you?”
Nadia stared in momentary disbelief. It had been ten days since Ewan had asked if Alex was safe. Ten days during which the Romanian woman had hoped to hear his voice again. She’d believed all along her guest would eventually speak. Hearing his voice after so many days of silence still took her by surprise.
“I’m…I’m Nadia,” she answered.
The stranger surveyed the room, could see he was in a bedroom. He was sitting on the bed. The woman was watching him attentively.
Is this our bedroom? Is this woman…?
“Are…are you my…my wife?”
Nadia smiled demurely at the idea that she could be the stranger’s wife.
“Nu. Uh, no. I’m not your wife,” she told him, almost reluctantly admitting the truth. “I found you wandering in the street. You had some kind of accident. You were bleeding. I took you in. Griggor stitched you up. You had no ID. We don’t know who you are. We’ve never met before.”
The stranger blinked several times. A look of confusion on his face.
“Is huh-he your husband?”
“Griggor? No. No, Griggor isn’t my husband. He’s…more like an uncle.”
Nadia thought the stranger seemed overly concerned about the possible presence of another man in the house. She thought it plausible Ewan would be worried that another man might pose a threat to him. Or, perhaps, vice versa. That another man might view a stranger in his house as a threat. She quickly sought to appease any potential distress.
“Griggor’s a doctor. He stitched your head. He’s taking good care of you. We’re taking good care of you.”
Her concern was unwarranted. The stranger had already forgotten any mention of a husband. An uncle. A Griggor. He touched his fingers tenderly to his head wound. The sutures had been removed two days earlier. The hair growing in was bristly.
“Whuh…uh…What happened to me? I-I can’t remember anything. I…uh…I can’t even remember my…my name. I don’t know huh-who I am. Where I am.”
He looked at the dark-haired women with questioning eyes. Nadia felt tremendous compassion for the tall man.
“We only know what I’ve already told you,” she explained patiently. “That you were injured. We don’t know what happened to you. I think you may have been mugged. You had no wallet. No ID.”
Injured, he repeated to himself.
“Is…is this a hospital?”
It didn’t seem like a hospital. The room wasn’t sterile enough. Wasn’t bright enough. The woman wasn’t dressed like a nurse.
Nadia didn’t want to alarm the already edgy stranger. She simply said, “No,” offered no further explanation. The stranger looked about the room again. Turned his wide, bewildered eyes to to the dark-haired woman sitting next to him.
“Whuh–Where am I?” he asked. “How did I…How did I get huh-here?”
Feeling a sinking sentiment of sympathy for the poor, lost man, Nadia responded in a soothing tone.
“You’re safe here, Ewan. You’re in good hands. Griggor and I are taking good care of you.”
What had she called him? Ewe-on?
“Ewe…uh…Ewe-on? Whuh-why did you call me that? Is that…uh…is that my name? Do you know me?”
Nadia could see the tall man was becoming agitated. Not understanding how muddled his mental state was, she nervously began explaining what had happened in greater detail, hoping to put ease his anxiety.
“My name is Nadia. I own a restaurant downstairs. Two weeks ago, I found you wandering in the street. I’d never seen you before. You were bleeding. From a head wound. I didn’t know what had happened to you. I thought you might have been mugged. I sat you down. I cleaned your wound. I could see you needed stitches. I called Griggor. My uncle. He’s a doctor. He runs a medical clinic. Griggor stitched you up. You–”
The stranger lowered his head, held a hand up to stop the dark-haired woman from continuing. He’d heard enough of her nervous chatter. Couldn’t make sense of all that information. It was much too much for him to grasp all at once. He’d tried to retain even the slightest bit of it. Tried to focus. But the words had slipped away. Like water running through his fingers.
He covered his face with both hands. Rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. Ran his hands upward, through his hair. Then down along his gaunt face. He was suddenly very surprised to find he had several days’ growth of beard. He didn’t know if the beard was new. Or if he’d always worn one.
“Huh-How long have I been here?” he asked with alarm.
Nadia watched him cautiously as she answered.
“I found you wandering in the street two weeks ago.”
Two weeks! Could that be right? How…?
The stranger stared off into space, blinked several times. He closed his eyes, searched for a memory of the past two weeks. He could conjure up nothing. He had no recollection of the past fourteen days. No recollection of the day before. Or of his life beyond that morning.
“Have I…was I…was I unconscious?” he stammered distantly. “Have I been…in a…was I in a…a coma?”
Nadia closed her eyes, sighed. She didn’t know how respond to the stranger, other than to tell him th
e truth.
“No, Ewan. You slept the first three days,” she related. “Now you wake up confused every day. You sit and watch TV. All day long. Until today, you didn’t even speak. With one exception. Ten days ago, you asked me if Alex was safe. Beyond muttering a few grunts, you haven’t spoken since then. Until today.”
She rambled nervously, unaware the stranger could process no more than a few words at a time. The stranger was confused by the dark-haired woman who kept dropping bombshells. His strange name. His two-week stay. This one about someone named Alex.
“Huh-Who’s…Alex?” he asked.
Even after two weeks, the stranger’s lack of mental continuity astonished Nadia.
“I was hoping you could tell us. I mean, me. That you could tell me.”
The stranger stared absently. He had no idea who Alex was. He stared at the floor, struggled to concentrate. His mind kept wandering, his thoughts still coming slowly. In small, disconnected fragments. He was upset that he’d lost such a large chunk of time. More concerned that he couldn’t remember anything about himself.
“I have nuh-no recollection at all of…of the past two weeks,” he muttered. “Nothing.”
Nadia wasn’t sure how to proceed. She’d believed all along that the stranger would recover. Knew she could provide nutrition, nurse his body back to good health. She was ill-equipped, however, to help heal his mind. Couldn’t spoon-feed him memories of his past.
She hit on an idea. If the stranger could find a beginning place, an anchor, she thought, maybe that would spark more memories.
“What’s the last thing you can remember, Ewan?”
The tall man closed his eyes, hoping for a recollection of something. Anything. Several images flashed through his mind in quick succession. The first were dark, blurry. He was struggling with someone. A large shadowman. He had his hands around the man’s throat. Suddenly, as though someone had thrown a switch, turned floodlights on, he saw that his hands were around a blond woman’s neck. The blond went limp, her stark blue eyes stared vacantly. Unseeing. Lifeless.
Did I…did I kill that woman? he wondered.
He hung his head, shook it slowly from side to side, hoped the dark-haired woman would accept that he couldn’t remember anything. He wanted her to go away. He wanted to be left alone.
Nadia could see the stranger was frustrated, fatigued. She assumed their conversation was too much of a mental strain for him.
“You need to rest, Ewan. You need to eat and you need to rest. Good food and plenty of rest will help you heal. I’ll go make you some breakfast.”
Even if he disagreed with the dark-haired woman, the stranger didn’t have the energy to argue. The effort of talking, trying to remember, had drained him. Though he’d woken up less than an hour earlier, he just wanted to close his eyes. Rest. He drifted into unconsciousness.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
He heard laughter. A woman’s laughter. Her face appeared. Close up. She was blond. Pretty. She had amazing blue eyes. He was on top of her. Inside of her. They were having sex. She was laughing at him. He felt no love for her. Felt intense revulsion instead. Extreme anger. He wanted out of her. But she gripped him. With her vagina. He couldn’t pull free. She wouldn’t stop laughing at him.
He detested her, wanted to destroy her.
The laughter stopped suddenly. He was out of her. Yet, still connected to her. He had both hands around her neck. Her body was limp. Her blue eyes were glassy. Dead.
Then he was strangling someone else. Someone larger. A man. He couldn’t make out the man’s face. Everything was dark. The man’s face was blurry.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
The stranger opened his eyes, looked about in a panic. He couldn’t determine if he’d just had a dream…or a memory. Everything had seemed so real. He wondered if he’d killed the blond woman. He’d wanted to. God, how he’d wanted to. But, why? Who was she? Who was the man? Had he killed him, as well?
He got out of bed, entered the bathroom, rinsed his face with cold water. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Already the dream-memory was slipping away. By the time he turned away, it was gone. When he returned to the bedroom, a dark-haired woman was standing in the doorway. Holding a tray of food.
“I brought your breakfast. Eggs, sausage, potatoes. You’d probably prefer to eat in the front room. So you can watch television.”
She tilted her head to indicate that he should follow her.
Who is she? he wondered, glad she wasn’t blond. Glad her eyes weren’t blue. That they weren’t staring lifelessly.
“Excuse me, but, uh, I’ve…uh…I’ve forgotten…who you are,” he said with some embarrassment as he trailed after her, not understanding why he wouldn’t know.
“My name is Nadia,” the woman replied.
She repeated the litany of how she had found him bleeding in the street, taken him in. He heard her out this time. Muttered that he was sorry when she was through.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Nadia responded pleasantly. “You’ve been injured. You’re having trouble remembering. I understand. It’s okay, Ewan. You’ll be better soon.”
They entered a small sitting room. The woman set the breakfast tray on a TV tray that had been set up in front of a recliner facing a television. The room was sparsely furnished, hosting only a sofa, a table and a lamp, in addition to the TV tray, recliner and television.
“You called me Ewan,” the tall man noted. “Is that my name? Ewan? It sounds strange. It’s…it’s not at all familiar.”
“It’s Romanian,” Nadia answered. “It’s Griggor’s way of saying John Doe. Ewan is Romanian for John. Griggor says we have to call you something.”
“Griggor?”
Nadia repeated the information she’d already relayed that morning.
“My uncle. He stitched you up.”
The stranger mumbled another sorry, lightly touched his sutured wound.
Nadia turned the television on. The stranger’s attention was instantly captured by the austere images of Ground Zero. He watched in rapt alarm, not trusting what he was seeing and hearing.
“…weeks ago. Rescue workers have now turned their efforts to clearing the debris from Ground Zero. Hundreds of volunteers, construction workers, militia, firemen and others have descended on the site. Bucket brigades like this one have been working around the clock to remove what debris they can, much of it containing the remains of the dead and missing. That number could reach as high as seven thousand, according to city authorities. This sixteen-block area is all that remains of the iconic Twin Towers…”
The tall man was awestricken.
The Twin Towers…gone? What happened?
There was no longer any doubt about whether or not he was actually watching. Nadia could see the shock and dismay on his gaunt face.
“You weren’t hurt in the Towers,” she told him. “The planes hit after you came to me.”
The stranger couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. He wanted to ask the woman what had happened, found it impossible to focus both on his questions and on the television. It was easier to lose himself in the broadcast.
The first of four readings Nadia had scheduled for the day was drawing close. She took the opportunity to slip away, returning after the appointment, and several times throughout the day, to check on the stranger. Bring him water, lunch, dinner.
While Nadia performed her readings, the stranger lapsed in and out of consciousness. When alert, he watched television. When unconscious, he dreamt. Of the blond. Of his struggle with the blurry man. Soon after regaining consciousness, however, all memory of his dreams would slowly slip away.
He asked Nadia the same questions over and over. Who was she? What had happened to him? Where is Dr. Griggor? Why do you call me Ewan? Nadia was beginning to think she preferred the silent stranger to this one who repeated the same questions again and again. As a rule, she was not a patient woman. But the stranger was her gift. She could tolerate his condition.
/> • • • • •
CHAPTER 25
Aleks would never have met the man who would become his best friend if not for Henry Schiff, a former New York Stock Exchange trader who presented as a guest lecturer in one of his classes during his sophomore year at NYU.
Schiff was an energetic individual who enthusiastically shared stories of his days on the NYSE floor. Describing the action. The lifestyle. The incredible earnings potential. After hearing Schiff’s accounts, Aleks became intrigued with floor trading. He learned everything he could about the stock market. Became obsessed with stock trading. Stock investments. Stock speculating. The more he learned, the more intent he became about pursuing a career as a floor trader. And the more impatient he grew with the traditional education process. He discussed his excitement with Step, explained how he believed they could circumvent the conventional process of getting degrees, obtaining MBAs, gaining “valuable” work experience, yadda, yadda.
“More than one road leads to Rome, Step. We could trim four years or more – not to mention a ton of student debt – off our journey and still arrive at the same destination. Quicker. Younger. Wealthier.”
“We’re not going to Rome, Al. And from what orifice did you pull that ‘more than one road leads to Rome’ crap? The saying is ‘All roads lead to Rome.’”
Aleks snorted mockingly.
“Well, genius, if all roads lead to Rome, it stands to reason that more than one road leads to Rome. But you digress. What I’m saying is, there are waters that need to be tested. Working the Big Board. Life in The Pit. The money is ridiculous. And there are plenty of success stories. Guys making millions.”
Step didn’t share his twin brother’s excitement about the NYSE. He believed they should keep to the path they were on. Follow the traditional, time-honored, route.
“For every one of those success stories, there are dozens of ‘unsuccess’ stories. We need to stay the course. You have to be patient. It’ll all pay off in the end.”