Bole: Chant 1

It was pouring down with rain, I heard the splattering of footsteps in puddles that formed on the uneven pavement, and from my apartment view, appearing like a charcoal sketch of an old Victorian town, I followed the sound with my eyes until they reached two figures walking along the pavement below.

One was a young child, though I was not able to accurately say how old, accompanied by, who I will presume from his hunched posture, his lean frame and the greying of his wet hair, to be the young child’s grandfather. But the child was cold and, as frequently happens with young children, his hunger had revived. I could soon identify the young child as a boy from his grandfather’s comforting words, which expressed his name repeatedly as though it would encourage a relaxing effect. The grandfather, after pulling up his hood, noticing they had now stopped and how discomforting the rain was, knelt at the boy whose hands were placed in his pockets. And the grandfather, taking out a pair of mittens (though he referred them gloves) from the bag he had been holding, placed one after the other on the young boys hands, who held them both out together, one warming by the mitten, one getting wet by the rain. And the grandfather wiped off his hand before placing the other on, then rose to his feet, and took out a small biscuit or cake, I could not clearly see, and handed to it to the young boy. And after also having one for himself, all he now heard was the rain at his feet, and taking the boy’s hand, they continued along the pavement, whether having far or short to go, receiving no comfort from the rainfall. I watched them continue to walk down the road, and my attention was turned, no longer on the two of them, but to the rain as it landed in puddles on the ground.

The sight of this had provoked a sensation which drew me towards my chest of draws where in the bottom draw I would keep an assortment of objects that found no suitable place either on the walls or on flat surfaces. And I reached in, having known what it was I was provoked to find, and removed a picture still encased in its frame. I turned the frame over, unpicking the hinges and clips, and removed the photograph, placing the frame on top of the chest of draws. The photograph was an old image of my father, and it seemed fitting that it was not a recent one, yet the memory was lost of how or when I had acquired it. But on seeing it before me, it roused feelings within me that felt discordant, as though for a moment I had been short of breath. And as I saw a light drift from one corner of the room to the other, it evoked the passing of time. And as the shadows fell on to my books and passed over the photograph, I could not help but think of an earlier time, when for my birthday, two years ago but not to the day, I had coffee at a table with my father, where I was to see him for the last time. I remember it vividly. The café was small and dressed in auburn colours, my father wore his clean suit, but not his cleanest as he did not like to project he had a job that allowed him time for those kind of errands. And as we pulled out our chairs to take our seats a waitress approached to take our orders.

—Hi, he says as the waitress greets us at our table. I’ll have a beer, he orders. And what do you want? A beer?

—I don’t drink, Dad, I say. I’ll have a coffee, please, I order from the waitress.

—That’s what you drink? he says with a look as if I’d just told him I was ill. Alright, he says. Two coffees.

The waitress leaves and my father wriggles in his chair and pushes back his shoulders so they crack.

—You look well, he says.

—I’m not doing bad, I reply

He nods and looks at me for a moment to think of another question.

—Your place is . . .it’s working out?

—It’s comfortable, I say. I like it.

—Good.

He brushes his chin with his hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble against his fingers.

—What about. . girls? He asks. You still got that pretty one I saw you with last time?

—Who? Oh, I say remembering the scene. No, you got the wrong idea, she’s just my neighbour.

—Ah, he says, a little offended that I had found him mistaken. He takes a sip of his coffee. So you got a girl?

—Not for a while, no.

—Well you better get another one, he says. I hate to break it to you, but they’re not all lined up waiting for you.

I saw he found his remark amusing without noticing that I were not amused also. But I ignored it so as not to encourage another.

—What about yourself, Dad. How’s the work going?

—Ah, I work too much, he says sitting back as though rather proud of being overworked. Life of an architect, he continues. You work hard on something and they reward you by working you harder.

—Like Emelyán, I say.

—What’s that? Is that from one of your books?

—Nevermind.

—You should cut a hole in one of those books. Then maybe you’d take a look at life once in a while.

I had received that comment from him once before.

—I’m thinking about going to Crete, he says trying to change the subject.

—Oh, really, I say with faint interest.

—Yes. You should get away too, Zy. But, he says with a wave of his hand, I know you hate to fly.

—Oh, the flying part I’m fine with, I say. It’s the death part that worries me.

He doesn’t laugh and instead places his elbows on the table before him and wraps one hand over the other, with an expression of pity, that I wouldn’t bring myself to do something, which on several occasions, he had tried to convince me would be perfectly fine.

He looked at the table and began to arrange his cutlery in size order, starting with the smallest to the largest, so they were spread out like a fan. But as he was about to say something, the waitress returned with our order and hands my father his coffee and then my own, offering me her smile, which I returned with my own.

—What took you so long? says my father. It take three of you to make it?

He looks at me as if his comment impressed me. And the waitress bites her smile and walks away.

—I tell you, he says to me, more work and less skirt, and this place would be going somewhere.

I fake a smile and reach for my coffee, which is too hot to drink and so only allow it to touch my lips to receive its taste and fragrance.

—So, what is it you’re actually doing here? he asks me bluntly.

—Working . . .thinking . . .occasionally living.

—Well, maybe if you occasionally thought, he says amused, you’d do more living.

Realizing I was not as amused as he was with his response, he asks.

—Do you have any plans for the future?

—I don’t know, I say. Or maybe I do, and it’s just been weathered away by the lack of knowing how to do it.

—Well, work is very important, he says. What else can you do, he asks me rhetorically.

—I’d thought about more schooling.

—Why? So you can delay more time of not getting a real job?

—I was just thinking about it, I say.

—I just don’t know what it is you’re going to do. Do you know what it is you’re going to do? I don’t see how you’re going to get yourself out of this.

—It’s not really much worse than your situation.

—I have a career, son. You have a job that doesn’t pay very much. Don’t you appreciate the things you can buy with a good job?

—What if I went to study architecture?

—An architect? A long way to go if you’re going to pull out. Four years of schooling, industry experience, two more years of schooling, and then at least another year before anyone’s even going to take you on. You think you can do that? No, I think a son should follow their own direction.

—I appreciate your confidence.

—I’m being realistic. Don’t aim too high or too low.

—So, you’re working pretty hard right now? I ask him changing the subject.

—Yes, he says. I’m very good at what I do, but I believe I’ve got myself in to something inescapable.

—I’m sure you’ll find your way out, I say

Since you’ve built yourself in to it, I wished I’d continued.

—Yes, they’ll lock you up until stress is your only company.

—What is it you’re working on?

—A grand design, he says becoming more enthusiastic. I tell you this construction I am working on is so high, that from the top you can see heaven.

—And what’s at the bottom? I ask.

—The city, he says.

—It sounds as though your career is doing alright at least.

—Yes, well it’s very competitive though, he says seriously. Another architect becomes your rival. And you would not believe the deceitfulness of people, Zylitol. Let me give you a lesson, he says leaning forward to speak to me seriously. Don’t give anyone a chance, he says. Not a mile, not an inch. There just aren’t enough people in this world you can trust.

—Hm, I say. Maybe then I’m not doing so bad.

He looks at me confused with what I had said.

—I didn’t say any of that was bad, he says. It’s business.

—Well, I’ll figure something out, I say.

—Well, just know, no matter what you do, or how hard you strive, I’m your father, and I won’t be too disheartened if or when you fail.

A dog ran in through the front entrance and up to our table. Their owner ran inside after it and apologized, taking their dog by the collar.

—They’re like children aren’t they? he said to my father

—Yes, he replied sternly. Except they have less reason to be ashamed.

The owner looked confused by what my father had said, but laughed it off as a remark which he had misunderstood its meaning.

My father watched the owner lead his dog out of the entrance by the collar and turn the corner out of sight, before returned his eyes to me.

—What is it I can do for you? he asks. Money? Do you want money?

—No, I don’t care about money, I say.

—You don’t care about money? he says astounded. I put money in your account each month. You don’t work for it. Maybe I should take I back, if you’re not going to even work up a respect for it.

—I just meant that I don’t need. . . I just meant that I . . that I’m alright, I say trying to think of a safe answer.

—Hm, he says settling himself. Well.

I saw the waitress looking over at our table, with a concerned expression, whether out of curiosity, whether out of concern for the business, or whether out of sympathy for myself, I wasn’t sure.

He lets out a deep sigh and appears to run over the things I had said.

—I thought I’d left you in good hands, he says. Didn’t Samara raise you right?

—This is nothing to do with my mother, I say quickly. Maybe if you weren’t absent so long.

—Well, I. . . he begins to say but cuts himself off in favour of a different approach. Of course, I’d love to come up to see you more often, he says. But you know very well, I have a practice to run, and there’s the house, and my. . . and those living in it, and all prices are rising. Everything has to be paid for. You’re not thinking realistically, you’re just thinking of what you want, and that you deserve to have it because you want it.

—Maybe if you cared more about me than about your work, I mumble.

He went livid.

—Do you not think for a moment that I care about my work because I care for you? Do you think if I dropped all of this it would make everything easier? breathing fire to his words. You want to stop reading books with happy endings, he says. Wake up!

—You just don’t seem to show it, I say as if having written it on a napkin and passed it to him across the table.

—You don’t think I care? I’d build a temple in your honour if you ever gave me a reason to.

I look down at my table, and reach for my cup of coffee, but no longer feeling a thirst for it, I simply hold on to the handle.

—Don’t you appreciate that I come up here? he says. That we get to sit here, and talk, that you get to see me? Because I do. But it bothers me that I feel I come up here for nothing.

—Maybe if you hadn’t left in the first place, I say glancing up at him.

—Look, he says in a calmer tone. Your mother and I had our obstacles. She didn’t have it in her, he says. She couldn’t tolerate my . . . well . . . my behaviour.

He would always try to soften the truth with a lie, as though I were too young and naive to see through it.

—I don’t like when you answer me like a child, I say.

—Then don’t ask childish questions, he pronounces.

I sigh and sit back in my chair with my arms folded and resting on my lap.

—Some fathers don’t do this at all, he continues. Some don’t get to see their fathers again. Would you prefer that? I’m doing you a favour, Zylitol. You should appreciate it.

I let my eyes glance about room while he talks and noticed couples of people eating at tables close by had ceased their conversations and were looking over having felt uncomfortable to pleasantly continue their meals. Whether my father had also noticed, or whether he was too focused and lost in his temper, I wasn’t sure.

—Don’t forget you have not once visited me, he says. And I hardly receive a phone call. So don’t fire all your arrows at me.

I remove my cup of coffee from its saucer and take a gulp, causing my cheeks to puff out, and swallow, feeling its warmth as it trickles down my throat.

—I know. . . .I know it bothers you. It bothers me too, he says.

I look at him with surprise.

—It bothers me that I have to come up here because it bothers you.

Not surprised.

—You’re growing up, Zylitol, he says. I shouldn’t have to come up here to wipe your tears.

He breathes for a moment, and looks at me, cracks his shoulders once more and speaks calmly.

—Why don’t you come down to visit me? he says

—I don’t think I’m . . . I don’t.

I wanted to tell him I was angry that he had asked me, that I felt it offensive that I would repeat the same answer time and time again, but he continued to look at me, waiting for an answer, as though this were the time I was to say something different.

—I don’t think so, I say.

—Well, I’ll keep asking.

—Thanks for asking, I say. But understand that it might upset me if you repeat your asking.

—Well, he says smiling. I’ll take my chances.

He lifted his cup to his mouth to drink the last drop of coffee, and made an dissatisfied face, as though his cheek muscles had twitched him.

—Worst drink I’ve ever had, he says and places the cup to its saucer.

Yeah, I think to myself. Me too, Dad.

—Damn drink when straight through me, he announces. I’m going to find the lavatory.

He stands up, putting both hands on the table to raise himself, buttons his suit jacket and looks first to the left, then to the right to locate a sign for the toilets.

—They’re over there, I say.

—I see them, he says without looking to me and walks to where I had shown him.

I sat for a minute, allowing my emotions to find their direction and settle where they found peace, but they were determined to continue moving and collide with one another. I stared at my empty coffee cup. How cold it was now, how pale it seemed to me and how I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stood up from the table, walked to the entrance, putting on my coat as I went and left him there. I wanted to walk out on him. As I walked through the front entrance on to the street I heard him calling my name from inside, without knowing which way to find me.

—Zylitol? Zylitol? I hear. Where are you?

I still held the photograph in my hand and after a sigh I could not hold its image before me, but had to remove it from my hands. But after sitting for a moment with my elbow on the desk, my forehead rested on the base of my palm, it felt to be a nuisance and rising from my seat I snatched it up and walked over to the draws and slung the photograph in the draw where I had rediscovered it.

No, I thought, it was wrong to remove it.

And with that, turning away from my desk for a moment, filled with a temper and displeasure at things which were not my own, I began to stamp around my apartment in circles, which must have made a racket on the ceiling to the floor below, pointing at this item and that which were all things inherited from my father and I no longer found myself wanting to keep. And in erratic gestures, I at once wished them all to be gone from my sight and return to whom they belonged. I pulled all the objects off the walls, and lifted all the objects that stood on table surfaces and shoved them all in to a bag, and without sensible care, though some were sharp and some were rusted. Yet by now, having realized the time, and understood that not only I did not find myself in the mood to continue in this strange manner, it was late and I decided tomorrow would come too quickly whether I slept or not.