Alexander and the Folding Screen
Alexander quickly flipped through the leather-bound anthology of Persian poetry searching for his favorite. Although committed to memory, the page was dog-eared, well worn with affection, and stained with the plum color of his modestly priced wine. Of course, his taste had once been more discerning but he currently lacked the financing to support expensive habits. In the end, Alexander reasoned, wine was wine, in which one might become lost, if only for a few fleeting moments. Cheap or not, if consumed in massive quantities, wine provided the same hollow refuge he’d once retrieved from sleep. Of course, it had been ages since he’d slept to dream, he reminded himself as he exhaled, inadvertently extinguishing the candle upon his desk. Alexander cursed himself for his drunkenness as he searched his desk drawers for matches.
Suddenly, his attention rested upon an elongated, white figure across the parlour, luminescent and silken. It seemed to possess a voice, whispering in his ear like a lover entreating nostalgia. His head swam with visions, half memories, half inventions, carried by the current of wine. A solitary thought beached itself upon the remnants of his mind and lay there, bloated, until he was forced to venture forth and prod it with a skeletal finger. The elongated figure obliged and revealed itself as a possession. How mundane. The seemingly ethereal turned out to be the obvious once again, and I am but a fool, Alexander thought as he smiled attempting to embody cynicism.
A folding screen he’d purchased some seven years before, while in Mexico City with Lauren. Had it been seven years? Alex leaned back in his chair and began to calculate. He sighed, ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and fumbled for a Gauloises in his breast pocket. He found the cigarette, but then remembered that he still had no matches. He spied the dying embers in the fireplace and briefly contemplated how desperately he yearned to feel nicotine rush through his bloodstream. Badly enough to make the sojourn? He cautiously rose, stumbling towards the fireplace with ponderous steps. He knelt before the fireplace and realized that his gaze had once again returned to the folding screen. The waning firelight cast sullen shadows upon it, which danced as fire-cast shadows often do. Nothing spectacular or abnormal per se, yet the emotion was undeniably present: sorrow.
Ironic, Alex mused as he pulled the Gauloises from his lip and held it towards the ember. His gaze shifted from the cigarette to the folding screen and back. If only Lauren could see him at this moment, completely enthralled with that damned folding screen! On how many occasions had a discussion pertaining to the origin of that screen become an argument? He wished either that she had not been so cruel whilst making her point, or that enough time would allow him to forget. Of course, the bitterness was fleeting. Her love of both history and being correct endeared her memory to him.
“Lauren,” he whispered, “I am still a stranger to myself. I lost myself in you and never found the desire or will to recreate myself once you left. Now, I am growing old alone, just as you often predicted I would.”
Alex held the charred wood from the fireplace to his cigarette and inhaled. He was lost in memory. That folding screen had usually acted as a prelude to fantastic sexual encounters with Lauren. Oftentimes, she would enter the parlour while Alex sat at his desk chronicling thousands of orchid hybrids for his book. She would saunter in, humming or singing softly; she’d been graced with the most seductively raspy voice. Lauren had known this and used it to her advantage. She’d claimed that with her voice alone, she could bewitch anyone or thing. She could beguile any creature to do her bidding, even if her intentions were murderous. Alex had never once thought to question those claims. He had, instead, clandestinely considered himself fortunate to be a victim to her cham.
On the night he was recalling, however, they hadn’t ended up passionately ravaging one another, as was their custom. The night had taken a turn for the disastrous instead. WIth the cigarette still dangling from his lower lip, he stood and rubbed his temples with both hands as he walked to the bay window and opened the shash. It was raining, which was typical for this time of year in London.
He leaned his entire torso from the window, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, extended his arms in a dramatic gesture and yelled into the wet, desolate night, “Oi, London! Are you sick of me yet?!”
A small, round man huddled under a shrub eating what must have been yesterday’s chips stuck his head out and shouted back, “You finally gonna jump or what?”
“No, of course not,” Alexander responded.
“Well piss off then. If I wanted to hear mad ranting, I’d stay home with the missus!”
Alex stepped away from the window, scratching his head. Unbelievable, he mused. Even that toad of a man had a missus. Someone loved and tolerated even him? Was the missus waiting for him at home, keeping his side of the bed warm?
Alex realized, as he tried to engender the toad man’s missus, that he was standing in front of the screen, absentmindedly caressing the fine, dark wood. He'd always wondered what type of wood it was, but had never found the courage to ask Lauren because she knew everything, so she would have gloated; made him feel inferior. Alexander understood why Lauren was that way: it stemmed from her insecurity about her illiteracy. All right, Alex admitted, she could read, but she wasted her time on Science Fiction. It was the most saccharine form of escapism; a byproduct of America’s Great Depression. Alexander detested the rubbish and thought he’d rather she be truly illiterate than to waste her mind on such drivel.
Lauren’s mother was Hungarian and her father Czechoslovakian. Lauren had been conversant in both languages. She’d also been fluent in Russian and Polish and was truly brilliant in most arenas: history, cultural studies, math and science. Yet, she had been entirely unfamiliar with classic literary works. She’d read neither Byron nor Shelley, Widle nor Poe. Although she’d possessed an aptitude for philosophical thought, Lauren would not consent to reading Satre or Nietzche, and this had been a constant source of frustration for Alex.
“Mark my words, dear, your A. E. van Vogt or John W. Campbell Jr. will one day, in the not too distant future, become leaders of bizarre religious cults wherein, for the right price, one can travel to distant planets to pay homage to their alien overlords,” he’d once chided.
Still, the screen itself was truly a work of art. The painting had all but vanished over the years, and the paper had two small tears in it. One was the result of careless movers who hadn’t heeded his admonitions regarding the screen when he’d been forced to take smaller quarters. The second was a result of the night in question, the night that had begun, like so many others, with promises of sexual escapades, yet had resulted in furious quarreling. Alex took a final lung-crushing pull from his cigarette and walked back over to the window to, he pretended, send the cigarette butt hurtling through the night like a shooting star. No: he secretly wanted to hit the toad man with the missus, and he was rewarded with a startled, “Bloody Hell!” as he shut the window.
“Good shot, old chap!” Alex praised himself as he turned on one heel. Petty vengeance was sometimes sweet; the joy obtained from it, alas, ephemeral.
Alexander found himself, again, at the folding screen wondering, of all memories, why this one? Why now? He sat down in front of the screen, legs crossed and surrendered to it.
“Fine,” he said to the screen, “Let’s remember that night, then.”
It had been a typical rainy autumn night spent in his study, working on his book, when Lauren had entered, singing softly in Hungarian. Alex had found, much to his dismay, that he couldn't always distinguish between Hungarian and Czech, or Polish and Russian. He’d never really had an aptitude or desire for learning languages. By his reasoning, English was the master language, which anyone worth speaking to would choose to learn. Foreign languages generally eluded, thus annoyed him. Lauren was a polyglot, and rather arrogant about it. Alex humored her because she was the love of his life and, sometimes more importantly, the sexiest creature he’d ever had the privilege of knowing intimately. Not to mention, hearing Lauren beg for more was intoxicating in any language.
On this night, Alex had noticed her silhouette from the corner of his eye as she undressed behind the folding screen. Alex, however, had been trying to locate the name of a particular orchid for nearly forty minutes, to no avail. He’d found himself growing agitated despite Lauren’s attempted seduction.
It occurred to him that she might know, so called, “You don’t remember the name of the orchid that takes on the appearance and odor of rotting flesh to lure the carrion fly do you?”
Her singing had halted abruptly, “Are you rather serious?
Alex had looked up at her face, the inquisitive raise of her brow and immediately recognized his folly. He’d reprimanded himself and quickly determined his next course of action. He’d apologized and excused his rudeness by summing up his predicament, which had softened Lauren slightly. Alex had known then that she would forgive him; he could repave the road. She had, after all, come to play the seductress; perhaps this would heighten the anticipation. With that mere autosuggestion, Alex had become fiercely aroused.
Lauren had emerged from behind the screen, clothes in a manner meant to perpetuate the facade of hastiness: buttons crooked, the top two undone altogether, skirt seams askew, and garters unfasted. Alex had known that it was contrived, yet couldn’t help likening her cunning to an orchid’s. Lauren too could assume an appearance irresistible to her prey. He had asked her what the song was about, after first complimenting her on her sultry voice.
“Why? Do you like it?”
“It’s breathtaking, really. You know I love it when you sing.”
She’d paused for dramatic effect, as was her tendency, then spoke, “It is a song about a Hungarian woman who, much to the dismay of her family, falls in love with a poor Englishman.”
Alex pondered this and decided to say nothing. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.
She’d smiled and leaned forward, her eyes glinting with a trace of satisfaction. She fed on his discomfort. She’d wanted to continue the ruse, “Can I have a cigarette?” She’d asked in a voice that made a person contemplate the wondrous things of which her mouth might be capable.
“Of course, darling, anything,” Alex had lit two cigarettes and passed one to Lauren, wondering why she was determined to start an argument.
Alex was suffering from an internal conflict, as the subject of his social standing had always always proven a source of agitation. He’d become irritated: What exactly was her problem? He provided financial security. He provided Lauren with everything she required, as well as a plethora of entirely frivolous things she simply fancied. The folding screen being an excellent example. Alex had paid 80 pounds for that, on a whim, simply because Lauren had adored it. The point had been, from her parent’s perspective, not so much that Alex wasn’t exceedingly wealthy, but that he was not of noble or courtly descent as was Lauren. As if there was anything he could do about his genealogy. Moreover, he’d wondered when Lauren’s parents had managed to taint her view of him? This had been her first mention of financial discontent.
Still, he hadn't wanted to argue and had tried to monitor his tone when he’d asked, “Does it bother you, then, that I’m not wealthier ?”
Lauren hadn't responded to his question. Instead, she’d taken a long drag from her cigarette, tilted her back and exhaled through her nostrils with a look of sheer ecstasy upon her face.
“Lauren, I’m asking you a serious question, “ Alex had said with escalating impatience.
“Hmm? What’s that?”
Alex dismissed her feigned ignorance and continued, “Lauren, I am a good person. I seldom raise my voice at you or lose my temper. Are there things you want for which I haven’t provided? Please, tell me.”
“Material possessions? No. I require very little. I am curious though, on what you base your concept of good? You’re not a man of faith. So, how does a man who rejects religion delineate good?”
Alex had known this was merely a pretense as they’d engaged in similar conversations under amicable terms in the past. Although Lauren’s upbringing had been Jewish, her family had always been tolerant of other people’s religious beliefs, or lack thereof.
“My concept of good is derived from common sense,” Alex began by rote.
Lauren retorted, “Common sense is a meaningless phrase.”
Well, Aelx thought, I did try. “Fine. My concept of good is not contingent upon, or even remotely correlated to, a fable penned by a scoundrel’s disciples, nor is it borne of an innate fear of Hell. A person’s concept of good shouldn’t be predicated on a punishment and reward system. People shouldn't have to be manipulated into doing what common sense dictates as decent.”
Lauren had descended on him, “You’re so bloody ignorant that you don’t even know the difference between a Jew and a Jesuit - do you?”
“I’m not attacking Judaism or even Christianity - specifically. In the interest of equal opportunity, permit me to say that I find the concept of reaching a state of enlightenment through fasting and meditating equally ludicrous - fear of Hell isn’t much different than fear of being reincarnated as a slug,” he concluded haughtily.
Lauren had glared at him, sucked her lower lip and spat, “Really? Was it common bloody sense that allowed you to squander the savings you did have gambling?
“Now that’s uncalled for. That was long before I met you, and I told you that in confidence. Incidentally, because I trusted you not to have thrown it in my face. I will not be made to feel guilty about my past - especially by the likes of you!”
“The likes of me? Ha!” Then, she genuinely laughed, “You should consider yourself incredibly fortunate that I ever gave you the honor. And you will never,” she paused to make sure he was paying attention, “Ever,” she punctuated coldly, “Entertain the pleasure again. I can promise you that.”
Unsure how to respond, Alexander retorted, “You’re mad. You need real help. Do you know that?”
For a moment, her countenance had been clouded by something sinister. In another fragment of the fractured multiverse, Lauren ended Alex then and there without compulsion. She went for tea at the women’s brothel after bludgeoning him, then worked up an appetite with a gorgeous, young Colombian.
In this fragment, she stood, incredulously silent, mouth agape. He wasn’t worth it. She turned and left without glancing back.
This pushed Alex over the edge as he loathed being ignored even more than he loathed being mocked. Ill fatedly, he followed her. He caught up to her in the foyer and grabbed her by the elbow, spinning her around angrily.
“That’s right - leave. I have real work to do. I can’t be bothered with the care of a mad woman. I should check you into a madhouse. You’re a menace to society.”
She laughed lustily at this as she pulled away from him, “Oh how very like a man to presume he knows what is in a woman’s best interest! My god, Alex, you’re not even original in your boorishness.”
She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving with disgust. God help him, but she was lovely when livid. The color rushed to her checks and decolletage and her eyes danced vibrantly, flecked with hues of gold and stardust. She was mesmerizingly gorgeous. God help him! He fought the reckless urge to kiss her, despite the circumstances.
At length, she broke the silence by stating flatly, “You are an impossible, insufferable, small, petty, man.” Emphasis on the last word. She held his gaze intently a moment longer, then turned her head quickly, ensuring that her hair would hit his face. She crossed the room with long, purposeful strides, skirts swishing with each deliberate step to expose her shapely legs. He did his best to remain steadfast. He wanted to capture and conquer her. He was half certain she wanted the same, whether or not she realized it out loud.
He forced himself to turn away, yelling over his shoulder, “Well, that’s it, then! This goes straight into my manifesto! Impossible and - what? Sorry. Love, wouldn’t want to misquote you. Impossible, insufferable, and… what else?”
Alex heard her stop in her tracks, halting at the door. Hesitating before she left.
Did she want him to stop her? He thought so. She looked at him with smoldering eyes. Then, her eyes softened ever so slightly. She parted her full red lips and inhaled as if she were going to say something poignant, softly, forcing him to lean in to hear. Instead, she simply shut her mouth, shook her head slightly, as if acknowledging the futility of it, and left, slamming the door soundly behind her.
Alexander managed to maintain his cool demeanor in her absence for a few minutes. He fumbled through his breast pocket for a cigarette and lit it, saying aloud, “Witch. Even a couple of decades ago you would’ve been burned at the stake.”
He opened one of the books on his desk and thumbed through the pages, “Very well, we shall sit here and enjoy this fine wine and a good book. Let’s see, where were we? Zi Dingir Anna Kanpa! Zi Dingir Kia Kanpa!” He paused, slammed his fist onto the desk, cursing Lauren for her adeptness at seducing him, and himself for his inability to resist her. Alex threw the book in hand, not truly intending to hit the screen, but apparently fate had other intentions.
~~~
Inside every man are varying levels of despair; vast and desolate, anchored and undulating. Indelible, intangible, omnipotent and compartmentalized. Alex assessed the situation and, at a rather young age, concluded the following: Know thyself. Being a man of passion is almost as debilitating as being human. The male species, by Alex’s reasoning, has a particularly rough time of it, not because they are necessarily intellectually superior, but because men are required to deal with all the inconveniences derived from the human affliction. War or peace, feast or famine, men have to battle their wits against the elements and each other in hopes that they are able to keep their women in the manner in which, due to man’s ingenuity, they've grown accustomed. Is it any wonder that men develop bitterness towards their female counterparts?
Through introspection, however, man could come to terms with the manifestation of this bitterness and thus avert the possibility of outward self-betrayal. Misogyny? Not if one were aware of one’s actions. Yet in order for one to be fully aware of one's actions, one must first be aware of one’s thoughts. Know thyself. And to thine own self be true.
Accordingly, Alex made a pretense of appearing, under most circumstances, as unmanly as possible. When Lauren had suggested, for example, that they take on supplemental lovers, Alex hadn’t hesitated to comply. Besides, what man would turn down the opportunity to pleasure two women at once? Or so he’d wondered. During the first handful of encounters, Lauren had incorporated his overtures or, at the very least, his anatomy. Yet, as time passed, so did Lauren’s need for either. Alex had attempted to find gratification in merely watching. He’d tried not to voice his dismay at his first covert, then blatant exclusion. He’d done a fine job of it until that fateful night, when he’d inadvertently ripped that damned folding screen.
Alex threw the book in his hand, inadvertently striking the screen, and the lept from his chair, running towards it gasping, “OhnoohnoOHNO!” whilst leaping from foot to foot in a comical dance. He was done for, he thought. Irreparably screwed. He began desperately scrambling about, attempting to somehow conceal the screen until, with a measure of luck, he might fetch someone to repair the treasure. But who had such expertise? Nevermind! Conceal now, reason later! Alexander dashed across the room, retrieved an enormous potted plant of Lauren’s that must have weighed 60 kg and lugged it towards the screen.
Just as he positioned it in front of the damaged portion of the screen Lauren had entered, “What are you doing here, Alex?”
The tone of her voice indicated that she was wise to him. “Well, I was moving this plant. Obviously,” he replied while consciously fashinong his face into an expression that was both indignant and haughty. Lauren simply eyed him in silence, waiting for him to betray himself by the slightest gesture: perhaps he would blink in rapid succession or fidget with his pocket watch.
He reminded rock solid, yet to no avail. Lauren knew that something was amiss,“Why did you find it necessary to move my plant, then? You know it was placed by the window with good reason; it requires southern light.”
Alex was quick, “Right, well , it's only temporary of course. It’s just that I must return to work, you realize. I have a deadline and I didn’t think that I’d be able to concentrate after our quarrel. I thought, perhaps, that looking at a plant might serve to inspire or…soothe me in some manner.” He inwardly cursed himself for that transgression. Soothe me? Well, there you go, dear, pounce away, he thought. Alex never would have spoken of a plant as soothing. What a ridiculous oversight!
To his surprise, Lauren didn’t react in the manner that he’d expected. Instead of pouncing to belittle him, with but the slightest hint of a smile upon her lips, she instead inquired, “So, Alexander, am I to believe that you might have finally become enlightened?” She seemed to be awaiting a response.
Alex wasn’t able to fathom what that response might possibly be, he realized only that he did not trust her. He managed, in his most innocuous voice, “Pardon?”
With the demeanor typically saved for an ill-bred child, she replied, “Dearest, you might have finally turned a corner is all I’m proposing. Possibly you have moved beyond your sullied view of both women and flowers. Alex, not everything is veiled in a prefabricated guise designed to hide its true cunning nature. Some things just are.”
Momentarily thwarted by her mercurial nature, Alex decided to buy himself thinking time by agreeing, “Well, had you abandoned all hope at my ability to change?”
Lauren smiled condescendingly and said,” Not your ability, Alex, your desire.”
Touche! Alex thought. This was mental jousting and Lauren was an expert. Alex found himself at a loss for words and, in his discontentment, he unwittingly cast a quick, sidelong glance at the folding screen. Lauren, of course, noticed.
“Alex,” she began, “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
“Hmmm? Oh, I was thinking about…right. Why pretend? You’ve found me out already anyway. I'm dreadfully sorry, Lauren,” he said as he moved towards the potted plant. He pushed it to one side and stood with his eyes shut awaiting her furious assault. What transpired next was not an argument, although in retrospect, it was infinitely worse.
Lauren approached the screen slowly, eyed the incision, running her long, elegant fingers across it with a tenderness that made Alex yearn for her caress. She stood contemplating the damage done for at least three minutes in utter silence while Alex stood watching her profile, the rise and fall of her chest, the curve of her jaw-line. While waiting, scarcely breathing, he found a new appreciation for the screen. Although not his preferred style of art, it was truly a thing of splendor.
It was technically a collage by virtue of the gilded leaves that firmament the perimeter of the painting, which depicted mountains ascending heavenward in the background, finite only because they were held captive within the frame rather than being cropped to give the impression of endlessness. Alex believed these characteristics to delineate the style as monumental, although Lauren argued that it was, in actuality, narrative due to the fact that the foreground conveyed a story or, specifically, a historical event.
They’d engaged in a discussion upon the screen’s purchase, at which point Alex had remarked, “I am not certain that the Sapinards en route on the Silk Road constitutes a historical event”
Lauren had laughed and replied, “They are Portuguese, not Spaniards - Why don’t you look closely and tell me what you see?”
Alex had sighed heavily but feigned a closer inspection and said,’ A rather large vessel with approximately 50 visible passengers who are all engaged in various activities as the boat pulls ashore, Another 10 or 15 on land, approaching the boat by foot, 5 men following on horseback, all of whom are posed in, what I perceive to be a welcoming gesture.”
Lauren had looked at him, shaking her head and commented, “Intriguing. You’ve missed the most significant detail. Well, the subtleties of Japanese art elude most…”
“Japanese? Are you mad? There is no way a Japanese artist painted this,” Alex had ranted.
Lauren had simply looked amused as she asked, “Really, tell me then, of what ethnicity do you propose the artist was?”
Alex had paused, then replied, “Well, I would have guessed Spanish, but I am willing to concede Portuguese - for the sake of argument. Regardless, since the folding screen is of Japanese invention, this one in particular is clearly a mimic, a borrowed style crafted by a non-Japanese artist. It’s obvious, really, the physical features and attire of the people alone is evidence enough. Look, the men are even wearing those baggy pants - bonbachas I think they were called. And should one, for some reason, require further proof, they need only to look at the ship itself. It has a double mast and pointed helm - it’s clearly of European craft. But even with those observations aside, the most obvious substantiation is the landscape. While outside of the realm of my expertise, I have seen enough Japanese art to ascertain that this painting completely defies the style of traditional Japanese landscape. Not only does it lack the fluid, spontaneous style intrinsic to Japanese landscapes, but it’s generic, nondescript. It’s absent of peach blossoms, cherry blossoms, bamboo, or those trees that look like overgrown bonsai - any and everything that would identify the vicinity as Japan.”
Lauren had looked exhausted, yet sympathetic as she spoke,”Oh, dear, Alex. You know only a fraction of the story, yet you prattle on with the conviction of a far more educated man. Let me see if I can accurately recall your mistakes in order. Hmmm…first of all, the painting doesn’t depict the Portugese en route on the Silk Road, rather, the invasion of Japan by Portuguese missionaries in the mid-1500s. They attempted to convert the Japanese Buddhist and Shinto population to Chirstinatnity and were moderately successful. Needless to say, it influenced not only Japanese culture, but also their art. In fact, a whole style of Christianized art developed during this period that the Japanese termed ‘namban’, which means ‘solid barbarians’. Christian crosses began emerging everywhere, even upon the earthenware used in tea ceremonies. Accordingly, what had once been a meditative convergence with the divine became a socio-political opportunity for a native to show their devotion to the emerging Christian faith. Secondly, the folding screen is not of Japanese origin, but was presented as a gift to Japan by the Koreans when Korea was under China’s reign. The Japanese adopted the folding screen from China, just as they appropriated their alphabet, landscaping techniques, fashion and religious practices - although Buddhism did originate in India, to be fair.”
And in this fashion the conversation had transpired. Then, Alex had said,”That’s all very well and good but we bought this screen in Mexico City. How do you suppose it got from Japan to Mexico City?” Alex’s tone had been sarcastic, but he’d truly wanted to know.
Lauren had been able to perceive this change in Alex, however subtle, and had softened her tones as she continued, “Well, I don’t know the entire history, but when the Portuguese arrived in Japan, the Shogun at that time, I think his name was Nobungaga, didn’t have a problem with them. It wasn’t until the next Shogun, Hideyoshi, that the Portuguese became an issue - he even had some of the missionaries crucified. Poetic justice, I suppose. By the time the following Shogun came into power, his name was Togukawa, the Japanese had pretty much had it with the Portuguese. In the early 1600s, Japan sent a diplomatic mission to the Vatican to consult with the Pope. That mission traveled through Mexico.”
Alex had only been able to wonder how on earth Lauren knew so much about Japanese art and history.
“Alex?” Lauren asked after her silent assessment of the damage. Alex was unsure how to reply, so remained silent, knowing that she’d continue, like it or not.
“Come, look at this. I must admit that the placement of this laceration is uncanny.”
Alex was perplexed,”How so?”
“Look,” she pointed to the far-left side of the screen.
Alex didn’t know what to expect, so bent over to take a closer inspection. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but there, in the corner, was a detail that he’d never before observed: A solitary figure knelt holding something in his hands. It was a bald man clad in the distinct orange robes of a Buddhist monk holding what appeared to be a dead parakeet in his hands. The look on his face was enigmatic; he appeared at the threshold between sorrow and joy, precariously balanced between the two emotions. The man was distinctly Japanese, and the incision ran lengthwise, severing him in half.
“UNbelievable,” Alex heard himself saying aloud. A Portuguese artist never would have included such an image. The folding screen was Japanese, Alex conceded. Lauren had, once again, been correct all along.
“Yes. What’s truly unbelievable is that you never noticed that figure until now; not until after the damage done by your own hand. How very man-like of you, Alex” Lauren castigated. Alex was unable to speak, unable to breathe. Lauren had been right about the screen’s origin, but even more unsettling was her comment about his failure to notice the most significant detail of the painting until it was possibly beyond repair.
“You know,” she startled him, “There was a time when this character reminded me of you, Alex.”
Alex was unable to respond as he was in a state of shock, spiraling into panic, into madness. He had remained silent, struggling to breathe.
“Mono no aware,” Laruen said softly.
“Mono what?”
“”Mono no aware, the path of suffering or grief. It’s a Japanese concept somewhat difficult for a non-native speaker to apprehend for the essence is lost in translation. At least, that’s how it was explained to me. My understanding comes more from experience than book knowledge. More of an abstraction than anything. It’s an awareness of, well, the impermanence of things. But not just that - it’s the ability to see the beauty within suffering; the beauty of suffering. With the passing of time, each living thing changes form and suffers as it does so because it is conscious of doing so. From the human perspective, change equates to loss, equates to grief and sorrow. If an individual, for example, can set aside their own grief and sorrow long enough to be in awe of another’s grief and sorrow, that is mono no aware.”
Alex stood there, looking at the painting, looking at the Japanese man’s face and, for an instant, he truly understood. The parakeet was dead, had changed form, and the man was filled with sorrow because he had known the parakeet’s suffering, yet the man was filled with joy because he had known the parakeet’s freedom from this suffering. Then, Alex let himself go further than he thought himself capable. Not consciously, yet it happened. Alex saw the Portuguese invasion through the Japanese man’s eyes: Alex became the man. Alex thought, “Let them come, try to alter our way of life, our religion, attempt to control us, destroy us. They cannot taint the heart of this land or its people. Beauty shall emerge from the suffering, from the chaos.”
“Alex,” Lauren’s voice pulled him from his reverie. Alex fought to articulate his experience, but the man’s thoughts had not been expressed in actual words. There had been no language as he knew it. Then, he understood that, because language is of human invention, it is lacking, it explains merely a fraction of the essence: words fail to circumscribe the divine. The man’s thoughts had been conveyed through something beyond man. It had been a feeling, an innate understanding of a feeling.
Alex tried to let go of the words, tried to focus on the feeling, absorb it, assimilate it, but the feeling evaded him. How quickly it dissipated, Alex thought. Lauren put her hands upon his chest and leaned in closely, moving her mouth towards his face. He looked down at her and noticed how completely ethereal she was, and how base and vulgar he was. He was so human. Her dark eyes were welling with tears, her full lips slightly parted as she kissed Alex’s face; first one cheek, then the other.
She pulled away, slowly, looked at jm in the eyes and whispered, “I am sorry, Alex.”
Alex didn’t really understand what she meant, but she turned and walked away before he could ask.
He stood there alone, eyes fixed upon the image of the man, the incision that severed him, and wondered whether this was some type of message or omen. He was not able to shake the feeling that it was somehow…prophetic. He subconsciously fumbled in his breast pocket for a Gauloises and, as he lifted the cigarette to his lips, he became aware of a peculiarity. He raised his hand to his face, gently laying his fingertips upon his cheek. There was moisture there. He pulled his hand away from his face and looked at his fingertips. Tears. Alex realized he had been weeping. He realized then that he both loved and hated Lauren more than he had ever loved or hated anyone or thing. He drew his hand back, steadied himself and, with every ounce of his strength, slapped himself across the face.
Alex had been sitting in front of the folding screen with his legs crossed at the ankles for so long that they were losing circulation. He got up to stretch, with some effort, and walked towards the fireplace. The fire had long since died out and the room was cold and dismal. He remembered that he’d left a book of matches in the pocket of his overcoat. He made his way to the closet, got halfway there, and realized that there was no way he’d had the presence of mind to put his overcoat away. It was far more likely he’d left it in the vicinity of the coat rack by the door. As he turned abruptly, he struck his knee on the corner of the liquor cabinet, knocking over a decanter of whiskey.
Despite his drunkenness, he managed a quick recovery, “Never waste a drop of precious elixir! There is no greater crime than wasting whiskey - that’s alcohol abuse! And, since I’ve found my way here, I may as well drink to that!” Alex fumbled around for a glass and, not able to locate one, he settled for taking a shot straight from the bottle, “Ahhh, yes. That was long overdue!”
He then proceeded to make his way towards the door, found the coat rack, and began to feel for his overcoat. None of the coasts on the rack felt like cashmere. He squinted into the darkness at the region to the left of the coat rack and saw a black crumpled mass, which he retrieved at once. He fumbled through the pockets until he found the book of matches, “Eureka!” He exclaimed as he lit his cigarette. He then made his way back to the fireplace, wondering how long he had been sitting in front of that damnable screen.
He lit the fire and, satisfied with the fact that it would not extinguish itself in the near future, walked over to the window and looked out into the night. It was still raining; the round toad of a man was gone. Had he returned to the missus? Had they reconciled? Gone to bed, bodies pressed against one another? Were they happy, content, secure? Did their concepts of these things differ from his own? Did anyone in the entire world, save the toad man and his landlord, understand that Alex persisted to exist? Did he exist? Was this even a valid question? He walked back to the desk and lit his candelabra. These questions had no real answers as far as he could discern, it all amounted to exactly nothing. He sat down at this desk with the intention of writing in his journal. However, Alex could not suppress the memories; they came without his consent.
Smacking his own face had not sufficed; he still felt reality shifting. There was little he could do to alter this: he understood that it was beyond his control. Lauren had been correct. Alex decided not to think about that. He resigned himself, instead, to cataloging his orchid hybrids. He had a deadline, after all. He retired to his desk and made an attempt at continuing his work. Instead, he fell to wondering how Lauren had ever mistaken his bleak, misanthropy as this mono no aware nonsense. Was it nonsense, he wondered? Then, the sounds began. They were muted at first, but rapidly grew louder, more frenzied. Alex thought it impossible, yet after a few moments it was painfully obvious: Lauren was with another lover in the adjoining room.
Alex got up and pressed his ear to the wall, both enraged and envious at the sounds of Lauren love-making with someone else. He remembered his touch once evoking similar sounds and became livid. He marched to the neighboring room, threw open the door and began shouting, “What in the bloody hell is going on here?”
There, on the floor, Lauren was passionately entangled with another woman. Petticoats and garters littered the floor and, although the other woman was still clad in her silk bra and matching panties, Lauren was entirely nude. The other woman looked up at Alex from between Lauren’s legs, pushed back her disheveled blonde hair with her free hand and smirked as he said, “I’m givin’ it to your wife, then, wot’s it look like? Now, why don’tcha kindly piss off?!”
With that, Alex became so enraged that he blacked out. When he came to, he was holding the girl by the throat against the wall. Lauren was yelling and slapping the back of his head and face repeatedly as he regained his senses. The girl’s eyes looked as if they were about to burst from their sockets; her face was turning blue. Alex looked down and noticed the girl’s feet weren’t touching the ground. He released her. The girl fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes and Lauren immediately knelt beside her and tended to her with a responsiveness and tenderness that made Alex wish that he hadn’t quit strangling her.
“Jesus, Alex, you might have killed her,” Lauren scolded.
“So what of it? She’s a whore anyway - who would even care?” Alexander spoke without thinking, but he’d said what he felt. The girl was gasping, still clutching her throat as Alex thought, “I nearly did kill her, indeed. It would have been so easy…”
Lauren merely looked at him in disbelief, stunned. She appeared repulsed and afraid of him.
She was wondering precisely what Alex was capable of as she spoke, “I don’t even know who you are. Get out.”
Alex stood there, dumbly.
“GET OUT, NOW!”
Alex turned and left, primarily because he didn’t know what else to do. He’d crossed the line. He could only think, “Who would shed a tear over a dead whore?”
It was that night that his dreams began.
The light was grey; there was no sound. Lauren was on top of him, her body moving back and forth in slow motion as if she were underwater. Her full, red lips parted as if a moan wished to escape; yet Alex felt nothing. Slowly, Lauren’s features were becoming less distinct, were mutating. Her eyelids began turning red, then purple; her skin and lips began turning blue. The absence of both sound and feeling persisted as the color drained from her raven hair and eyes, leaving them a nondescript colour. The distinct lack of colour was unsettling, yet he felt nothing. Her motion ceased and her body convulsed, began to slump forward, then brutally bolted upright. Everything was dark. A white light that sounded like crashing thunder broke the darkness: a ray of white light shone down upon Lauren, who was no longer Lauren, but the prostitute, and Alex was a daemon. He thrust himself forward, black veins bulging under taut leathery, red skin and speared the prostitute with his horns. She slumped instantaneously and transmogrified back into Lauren. The light was grey, there was no sound, and Alex felt nothing.
The dreams from that point were always similar: the subject matter was invariably the Lauren/prostitute figure dying by his hand. Initially, Alex had been portrayed as a creature that was partly himself, partly demonic. Later, the daemon disappeared and there was only Alex. In other aspects, the dream remained unchanged, until the sensation of feeling introduced itself. The feeling was terror. Next, sound had materialized: blood curdling screams, the screams of flesh and soul torn asunder. Alex began drinking with the hopes of halting the dreams or, at least, stifling the screams. This technique proved moderately successful until the dreams began transpiring during waking hours. Alex made rapid progression in his career as an alcoholic, while his job at the publishing company became seriously jeopardized.
It was embarrassing. Although Alex was able to control the lack of coordination and slurred speech well enough on a daily basis, he wasn't giving proper attention to his physical appearance. And there was the odor. Alex was immune to it, of course, yet his boss pulled him aside one afternoon and had politely suggested that he go home to shower. Alex was ashamed because his boss, Mr. Lehrman, was his mentor, his idol, and Alex furtively sought his approval. It didn’t matter to Alex how the others gawked when he and Mr. Lehrman emerged from their “private” conference. Still, Alex wanted to pull it together, not for the sake of his job, which Lehrman had subtly implied was at risk if he could not improve on his “professionalism”, but for the opportunity to salvage any respect for him that Lehrman might retain.
That night, Alex washed, shaved, laid out clean clothing and, remarkably, remained sober. He battled with insomnia, caught a few hours of fitful sleep, and woke early to assure he would arrive in a prompt fashion. Yet, as he began to dress he became aware of an excruciating pain behind his eyes, which were swollen and red-rimmed. He was sweaty, shaky, and nauseated. He staved off the urge to have a nip in order to steady his nerves, telling himself that it was simply an instance of mind over matter. However, by the time he arrived at work, he was unable to see or think clearly, and the nausea became his primary focus. He thought that, perhaps, if he could remain self-contained for a couple of hours he could overcome the worst of it, but when Mr. Lehrman came into Alex’s office to tell him how proud of him he was, Alex vomited on his desk.
When Mr. Lehrman told Aelx that he was truly sorry that he had to dismiss him, Alex knew that it was sincere and heartfelt. The last words from his mentor were something to the effect of how Alex was so gifted, had so much to offer, before adding,, “Please, get better and I might be able to facilitate your readmission.”
Unfortunately, this mattered very little to Alex who, after seeing the disappointment in Lehrman’s eyes, resigned himself to a life of alcoholism and seclusion. Alex left the office, went directly to the liquor store, spent a small fortune on wine, whiskey and brandy, locked himself inside of his apartment and subsequently, inside of himself for an indeterminate period of time. And then, the dreams changed.
Alex was in a forest, searching for Lauren. He wasn't exactly lost: he knew where she was, he needed only to listen to the voices in order to determine her whereabouts. If he could just retreat into the realm of silence, if he could just quiet the screaming, he could figure it out. There was no escaping the sound; it was tumultuous and deafening. Alex pressed his hands to his ears and began to run, weaving back and forth through the tall trees, dodging skeletal branches which became outstretched limbs; fingers with ragged nails mutilated his flesh. His head swam with disorientation; he fell to the ground with his hands still over his ears, his head upon his lap and his eyes pressed into his knees. Then, all at once, a silence like ice water filled his soul. He removed his hands from his ears and heard nothing but the sound of himself panting. He slowly raised his head, opened his eyes, and looked at the ground. There, jutting from the soil was something red. He reached forth with trembling fingertips to touch it and awoke, screaming.
So, the dreams continued: Alex lost all concept of linear time. He sold most of his possessions, took smaller quarters, and gave himself over entirely to liquor and insanity. He awoke one morning and realized that he was not living in the same apartment. Another morning the revelation was that he was no longer employed, another morning aroused him with the suspicion that Luaren was gone and had been for some time. Thus, the revelations continued, although Alex had no way of discerning in which order the events transpired, let alone why or how. He knew only that they were fact. These were the grim details that constructed his life, for lack of a better term.
They were fact, were they not? Alex remained unconvinced. He sat in front of the folding screen, stroking the dark wood of mysterious origin wondering if he had actually tapped out a meager existence, for a brief period of time, as a freelance writer, or if that was just a thought he’d once entertained? When was the last time he had written? Eaten? How long had he lived in this apartment? He felt sure that daylight was soon approaching and that he hadn’t actually slept. Had he?
He rose and walked to the window, threw open the sash and called out into the wet, desolate morning, “Hello, London! Are you sick of me yet?”
A round man huddled beneath a small tree, eating what must have been yesterday’s fish poked his head out and yelled back, “I’m bloody well sick of you!”
Alex was struck by the man’s comment. Were they familiar with one another?
“Oi, you - toadman!”
“What did you just call me?”
Alex didn’t know, “Isn’t that what I call you?”
The man looked angry, “Not to me face, ‘ya bloody well don’t. I ’ave a good mind to - “
“No, please! Listen, stay there…I’ve got a proposition for you,” Alex shouted down to the man.
He opened the door and began to race down the hallway, got halfway to the exit, and realized he wasn’t wearing shoes. Alex turned around, went back into his apartment, put on his boots and overcoat and, as an afterthought, went to the closet to retrieve his last 200 pounds from his money box and his revolver from the top shelf. Perhaps he didn’t trust toad man. Alex raced downstairs, half expecting the man’s absence, but Alex found him in precisely the same spot.
Once face to face with the man, Alex felt certain that they were not acquainted and he was unsure how to begin, “My name is Alex, how do you do?” he ventured.
“What do you want, then?” the man eyed him suspiciously.
“Well, first I should like to apologize for the indiscretion of referring to you as…” Alex coughed, unable to utter the words,”Ehhmm, toad man. I am entirely uncertain as to why I did so - “
“Likely because you’re a frickin loon, I’d say,” The man retorted.
“Right. Well, I can’t very well argue that now can I? Listen, as I mentioned I have a proposition…” Alex started.
“Yeah, what would that be, then?”
“I just want to ask you a few questions, is all. I am more than willing to pay you for your time, of course,” Alex continued,
“Wot kinda questions? An how much?”
“Questions about our relationship, and I’ll give you twenty pounds,” Alex responded.
The round man smiled and nodded, “Alright, then - but gimme the money first”
Alex fished around in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-pound note, handed it to the man, and asked, “ Now, from where do I know you?”
The man smiled and said, “You don’t know me, we’ve never met, bloke. G’day!”
The man began to walk off and Alex panicked, “Wait!, Please! I really need to know why you look so familiar.”
The man continued to walk away. Alex cried, “I’ll give you another twenty pounds to tell me where I’ve seen you before. Please.”
The man paused, turned around, looked Alex in the eye and nodded. He allowed Alex to approach him, thinking that he’d take the twenty quid, give him another simple answer, and be on his way. However, when the man looked into Alex’s eyes, he could sense his desperation and felt guilty. “You really don’t have a clue, do ya? Ya poor bastard. Do ya got amnesia or somethin?”
The man held out his hand while he spoke and Alex obliged him with another twenty note. The man pocketed the money without taking his eyes off Alex, who shook his head in response to the amnesia question.
The man continued, “It’s like this, then. I come here, to this park, sometimes - to get a break from the missus, you see? I usually take my supper here, have some quiet time alone, ‘ya know? And you, well, you're always up there,” with this, he pointed at Alex’s window, “Doing whatever it is you do, right? Then, you’ll lean out the window some nights and yell your bloody nonsense about, “Hallo London,’ and I’ll yell somethin’ back. And that’s it.”
Alex nodded, then asked, “And this is the first time we’ve had a real conversation?”
“Yeah, in fact, I’ve never seen ya outside that window. By the smell of it, I’m guessing ’ya drink like a fish - and piss yourself too, right?” With that, he scrunched up his nose and turned again to leave.
Alex called after him, “Wait, please - just one more question.”
The man hesitated, thought about walking away, yet couldn’t bring himself to do so. It was ludicrous, really, but he took pity on the poor bastard. He turned and spoke, “Alright, one more question.”
Alex heaved a sigh and asked, “How long has this been going on, this interaction between us?
The man furrowed his brow in apparent concentration and said, “Well, let’s see… it's been before Wally was born, and he just turned one last month, so a little over a year, then.”
Alex was dumbfounded, his head was swimming, his heart racing. A year. Good God - he had been having such a strange exchange with this man for a year? It wasn’t possible.
The man put his hand on Alex's shoulder and said, “Mate, ya ok? Listen, how about I take ya back up to your place so ya can sleep it off? No extra charge,” surprised at his own generosity.
Alex shook his head, fumbled through his pockets and retrieved the remainder of his money. He held it out before the man and said, “There is one hundred and sixty pounds here - it’s all the money I have left in the world, and it’s yours for twenty minutes of your time. I need you to come with me. Oh god, please, I must know. This must end! I need you to come with me - here,” Alex pushed half of the money into the man’s hand and continued, “”Here. Take half right now, and I’ll give you the rest when we’re finished - on my honour. The money is as good as yours. Twenty minutes of your time, please. I must know. If someone isn’t with me, I'll never believe it.”
They walked east, towards Aelx’s old apartment, the apartment where he’d lived with Lauren. It was winter, and the air was getting icy.
They walked for nearly five blocks in complete silence before the man asked, “How much farther we going, anyway?”
Alex looked down the street on which they were standing, but nothing looked familiar. “We are headed due east, aren’t we?”
“For Christsakes, man, don’t you even know where you’re taking us? We’ere headed northeast. Do you mind telling me exactly where we’re going anyways?”
Alex wasn’t sure; he had to concentrate in order to remember. “ There were these woods, just behind my old apartment…”
“The only woods within kilometers are southeast of here, by Gratin’s levy”
“Yes - there! That’s where we must go,” Alex yelled in surprise.
“Well, best let me lead the way, then” said toadman.
The light was pale grey and it was beginning to snow. The trees were barren, skeletal, shadows of themselves. Alex was disoriented and confused, he was beginning to forget what he had hoped to find. He turned and a branch with thorns scraped his left check. Alex touched his face and looked at his fingertips. Blood. He held his hand out, fingertips down. A single drop of blood fell to the ground, landing in a patch of new fallen snow. Within seconds, more snow fell on top of the blood; enveloping it and covering its trace. Strange, Alexander thought, it was as if the snow was digesting the blood.
Alexander’s thoughts were interrupted by the man, “Listen, mate, I wanted to help ya out, ya know? But I feel I’ve more than earned my money. It’s bloody cold out here - it’s snowing for Christsake. I dunno what you’re trying to find, but I don’t think you’re gonna find it now, not with all this snow. Listen, keep the other eighty pounds. If it is the last of your money, you’ll need it more than I do. I’m goin back home to the missus.”
Alex couldn’t couldn’t respond to the man, whoever he was, as he was on the precipice of revelation. The round man waited for a moment to see whether the urine and booze reeking man would reply, then decided he’d done enough. Leave the lunatic to himself, thought the man. The worst-case scenario was that he'd stay out all night and freeze to death. WIth the condition the poor bastard was in, a painless death might be his best bet. The man turned and walked away without looking back.
Alex was on his knees in the snow, unsure how long he’d been that way when the screaming began. It was blood curdling. Alex attempted to stand too quickly and started to blackout. He stood still for the count of twenty and then began to run through the forest. Despite the fact that frozen twigs were snapping underfoot, the ground felt soft. In fact, even the branches, which tore at his flesh as he raced past, felt velvety. The screaming itself was like tiny icicle daggers, yet the current of air that carried the icicle daggers towards Alex was malleable. He raced on without direction until he finally collapsed from fatigue and began to weep. Why? What was he doing here? Why wouldn’t the screaming desist? Where was it coming from? Was it leading him? Chasing him?
Then, Alex realized that the screaming wasn’t leading him or chasing him: It was inside of him. He pressed the palms of his hands to his ears, pressed his eyes into his knees and opened his mouth, but there was no sound. He raised his head and looked up at the sky, beseeching whatever powers that be - God, even - to release him. Alex opened his mouth wider and a scream that sounded like purple light crashed out of him, rendering him immobile. His screams filled the forest, filled the sky, filled his consciousness: all that he’d ever known was lost within this moment. The great cathartic purging, the blissful emptiness that followed was all that he amounted to: all of this and nothing. All of this was nothing.
Alex began to convulse and lurched forward, hitting the ground face first. The tremors ceased and he began clawing at the ground like a feral animal. Alex scooped away handful after handful of snow, then dirt and rocks. Suddenly, his attention was arrested by something red. He thought, at first, that he’d been digging so viciously that he'd cut his finger upon a rock and was bleeding. He bent down closer and looked at the red object carefully. Fabric. The fabric of a petticoat, to be precise.
“No! No! I loved you. I LOVED you…” Alex stopped. He was beyond despair; he was empty. He calmly removed the revolver from his overcoat pocket, placed the barrel in his mouth, bit down on the cold metal and smiled. Alexander pulled the trigger and slumped down into the soft, new fallen snow, which offered itself as a blank canvas for the story of his life and death. Yet, even before his veins were emptied, new snow began to fall. A story so trivial, so meaningless, that the universe sought to eradicate it before it was even complete. Alex thought as his life slipped away. The light was pale grey, there was no sound, and Alex felt nothing.