Short Story: Blink

Short Story: Blink

The flight from O’Hare had been delayed. The light was fading fast – only a broad sweep of crimson glowed in the western sky – but the atmosphere above México was dirt brown. Two kilometres above sea level; forty kilometers from north to south, sixty from east to west; and a population best guesses put close to thirty million. It was the time of year when air pollution – from industry and fecal dust from the sewerless slums – hit the city hardest, killing thousands. At least the air was sufficiently clean for birds. There had been a time when they’d fallen from the sky, brought to earth by the lead in their bodies.

None of my previous visits had been for pleasure and this was no exception. Heading for the exit from baggage reclaim I could sense the anticipation of those experiencing the ungovernable city for the first time: tightening their hold upon luggage, drawing closer to partner or friends, the sensory explosion: noise invading orifices and follicles; impenetrably complex odours; rainbows sparkling across brown flesh and jet hair. Compressed beneath sickly arrival hall lighting; agitated by thrusting bodies that slipped through the perpetual orgy; sensitivities wakened while sensibilities shrank.

‘¿Quiere un ‘ride’?’ a boy demanded, tugging my sleeve as I stepped towards a Transportación Terrestre kiosk. ‘Mi tío un carro bueno.’

Only unwise non-natives took the opportunity to travel in vochos, or street taxis: any one of the hundred thousand Volkswagen Beetles – bonnet and sides bright green, rooftop white; front passenger seat removed; religious paraphernalia hanging from rear views – that scud along the city arteries enjoying longer life expectancy than the drivers. Vochos cost a fraction of Transportación Terrestre but foreigners risked violent robbery or worse.

‘Does your uncle have a nice knife for my throat?’ I returned.

‘Only best for you, Mister Blink,’ the boy laughed, slipping between tongues.

‘Do you decide?’ I enquired, halting.

‘Good flight from Berlin?’

‘You know the right questions, don’t you?’

‘We both know the answers,’ he smiled, slipping his hand within mine and pulling me towards the exit.

~

Black figures fluttered amongst the piled slums, within gutters, and along sidewalks; neon monstrosities squatted at roadsides and upon rooftops; brake lights flecked; teeth flashed and grimaced; nocturnal traders plied flesh and synthetic wares. A silent carnival observed from my position of cold comfort as we skirted Mercado La Merced and joined El Salvador. The driver – the back of his neck pock marked, his shaven scalp stretched over a sharp skull – pulled into the curb.

‘¿Tiene el número por si nos metemos en algo?’ he enquired without turning.

‘There won’t be any problems,’ I said, removing myself from the vehicle and raising my eyes to the venue of interest.

The purpose of my visit crowned the eighth storey: a million dollar vagrant in the sky. The lift was out of order and the ascent sharpened with each exhalation of my tiring lungs. Stepping onto the rooftop offered no respite from the discomfort generated in its attainment: a corona of insomnia bleached the sky; corrupted air adhered to all it encountered; music from rooftop bars muffled the glower from street level.

‘Neto, m’ijo,’ a voice cried to my left. Retreating into deep shadow I appraised an elderly man upon the roof of a neighbouring building. ‘¿Dónde está?’ A low cry sounded from behind where he stood, and with an exclamation of joy he lifted a cat from a ledge and held the animal to his chest. ‘Neto,’ he laughed. ‘Es hora de cenar.’

My stomach jolted at the idea of food: it was close to twenty-four hours since I had last eaten. Approaching the wooden shack, light within escaping the slender gap between door and frame, I held out little hope of hospitality being offered. The door was unlocked. When he turned from his work, revealing a face aged far beyond his years by an unkempt beard, and saw me he smiled; and if air could bleed it would have, a crimson screen between us.

‘So soon?’ he asked, with his soft Texan drawl.

‘It was always going to be hard to remain distant, Maestro,’ I returned, gently closing the door.

‘Little grace remains in these,’ he chuckled humourlessly, raising his hands.

I approached and gripped the dry-skinned, arthritis-swollen digits within my smooth palms. He remained still, but his grey eyes wished to retreat.

‘You’ve made it like home,’ I flattered, releasing his hands and appraising the cluttered studio.

‘You remain as ever, Blink,’ he muttered, wiping his palms down his shirtfront.

‘Did you expect otherwise?’ I challenged, moving to the nearest window and peering down to El Salvador. A relentless procession of Beetles, their shells streetlight amber, nipped and tucked through the westward chaos. ‘Only last week a couple of American tourists were murdered in one of those,’ I remarked.

‘What?’ he muttered.

‘Tried their luck in a street taxi,’ I expanded. ‘Perhaps trying to save money?’

‘I prefer to walk,’ he dismissed.

‘With this quality of air?’

‘One becomes accustomed to it.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ I nodded.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘Look what I bought you,’ I said, extracting a box of two hundred Lucky Strikes from an inside jacket pocket.

‘I no longer smoke,’ he said, accepting the gift. A smile flickered across his lips and he added, ‘Thank you.’

‘A vice I shall never forsake,’ I admitted, slipping a Marlboro between my lips.

‘What do you want?’

‘What are you working on, Maestro?’ I enquired, settling upon a stool.

A pair of large white canvases, balanced upon easels, the aged limbs of which were held together by tape and nails, dominated the far wall. Preliminary tones of brown, red and blue had been splashed here and there; and over these had been chalked intricate networks of lines.

‘What are they going to be?’ I asked.

‘A landscape swarming with tree trunks.’

‘No kidding,’ I laughed, sliding from my seat and approaching a series of charcoal and ink sketches taped to a wall. ‘These are interesting,’ I said, admiring the studies of a naked girl in various poses.

‘You didn’t come for those,’ he snapped.

‘Didn’t I?’ I returned, loosening my tie. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘My appetite has deserted me.’

‘You’re speaking as though we never shared a meal,’ I placated.

‘Neither of us can cook,’ he softened.

‘We ate well, didn’t we?’ I challenged.

‘Did we have a choice?’ he asked.

‘We all have choices, Maestro.’

~

México demands visiting La Casa de las Sirenas on Guatemala – off the mighty Zócalo and tucked behind the rapidly subsiding Catedral Metropolitana – which offers over two hundred varieties of tequila.

‘Dos Don Julio,’ I requested of the waitress, as we settled at a table.

‘Agua mineral,’ Maestro interjected. For my benefit he added, ‘I no longer drink.’

‘Seriously?’ I asked, nodding thanks as the waitress poured our drinks.

‘A bare existence suffices,’ he said, sipping his iced water.

He observed my licking a short trail of salt from the back of my hand, the slow pouring of golden fluid past my lips, and the sucking of a slim lime segment.

‘You left with close to a million dollars,’ I grimaced. ‘Your quality of life could be-’

‘Closer to what I remember?’

‘Sure,’ I nodded.

Few in México would have believed it, and less cared, but Maestro – the wasting limbed man, with more hair on his face than scalp, and little colour in his aged skin and clothes – was one of the most accomplished and highly regarded artists of his time. There wasn’t a major gallery on the planet that didn’t possess at least one of his canvases, and a major retrospective had just opened in London, prior to touring Europe and North America.

Maestro had become my responsibility when the family decided that reconfiguring asset portfolios was necessary to protect value security and longevity. For several years I had encouraged Maestro towards the point where an alliance with the family was in his best interests: we could protect him from the people he made a habit of upsetting. And everything went smoothly for a decade: Maestro painted; the family reconfigured assets; and, the value of Maestro’s art soared. But then he murdered his wife.

‘You always had a soft spot for The Beats,’ I said, savouring the second glass of tequila. ‘It seems almost appropriate that you should be here.’

‘How do you figure that?’ he queried.

‘Burroughs shot his wife.’

‘And?’

‘They all spent time in México. Occupying rooms on upper floors writing and-’

‘Waiting for a bullet in the back of the head?’

Maestro’s wife had received one between the eyes, when she threatened to inform the authorities of his relationship with the family. Protecting the family was the duty of all members; and if terror of incurring the wrath of the family had not compelled Maestro to pull the trigger it would have proven sufficient for me.

He was sentenced to life, but it made sense from an asset management perspective that the family liberate him. The deal was simple, whether Maestro liked it or not: the family would assure his freedom, under my protection, on the condition that he delivered a new collection to the family each spring. And everything went smoothly for three years: Maestro painted, and the value of his new work added millions to the family asset portfolio. But then he disappeared.

For eighteen months I followed his flitting shadow across the globe, false passports leading to Stockholm, Kiev, Hong Kong, Dublin, Lima, Berlin and, finally, México. Understandably, Maestro thought I’d caught up with him to fill his skull with lead.

‘I’m not here to kill you,’ I told him.

‘Should I believe you, Blink?’ he demanded.

‘You’re an asset,’ I advised. ‘We want to protect-’

‘Dos Don Julio,’ he called to the waitress.

‘Is this the way to live?’ I challenged, the waitress delivering the tequila. ‘You said you don’t drink.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you I didn’t want to leave prison?’ He knocked back the tequilas and signalled for another pair. ‘It is a sad day when man cannot suffer the punishment he seeks.’

‘You forfeited decision making long ago,’ I said.

‘Recently my wife has invaded my sleep,’ he whispered. ‘I hardly recognised her. She looked as when I first met her. And she was wearing…’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘A million dollars.’ He smiled as the waitress placed the fresh drinks before him. ‘She was wearing an outfit made of hundred dollar bills.’

‘Enough of the games, Maestro,’ I snapped. ‘You’re all out of ideas and I’m short of patience.’

‘We all have choices, Blink,’ he smiled, sliding a tequila toward me.

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Maestro,’ I muttered. ‘Neither of us does.’

‘One choice remains, Blink,’ he corrected, helping himself to one of my cigarettes.

~

Emboldened, we sought the company of strangers in the pulquerias on Aztecas and Florida – male dominated working class bars where the twang of Corona and lime entwined with sweat and smoke created a perfume few women could suffer. Maestro performed and flirted, engaging the young and old in discussion and farce that I struggled to comprehend. Colours, bright and bold, crowded my eyes shut; the jubilance of the drinkers and their rapid crescendos of speech forced me to the floor, from which erupted a dense denim forest.

‘Blink?’ Maestro shouted in my ear, threading his arm about my waist and pulling me upright. ‘We must go.’

We stumbled along sidewalks. Figures stepped from shadows and became as one with night, feint whispers following our retreat. Packs of women cackled and mockingly clicked their teeth. Street stands, laden with wilting tacos and warm watermelon slices, cloyed the air with burning grease. Police gathered on street corners, protective masks reflecting passing headlights, circular shields strapped to their backs, hands caressing shotguns. Prostitutes flicked ash into gutters, shawls draped round shoulders, denim wrapped about slim hips, ears jewelled with gold and plastic, flowers threaded through and glittering against black hair.

‘¡Maestro!’ a young girl called, hurrying across the street and halting our progress. ‘Who is your friend?’ she demanded, regarding me whilst pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders.

‘A friend,’ Maestro gasped, endeavouring to keep me upright.

‘Drunk!’ she complained, pressing her nose to mine and touching my lips with her tongue.

‘Mixing work with pleasure?’ I enquired of Maestro, recognising the girl from the charcoal and ink sketches on his studio wall.

A thin skirt of rich purple and red flowed between her legs in the breeze generated by passing vehicles; a narrow band of brown muslin encompassed her near flat chest. She balanced upon her toes, each foot callused and filth black, and giggled into Maestro’s ear. He caught hold of her hands and studied the traces of her veins; the grain of her skin. For him each finger appeared more like a person than a thing.

‘You are a fine teacher,’ she smiled, pushing a slim leg between his own. ‘Now?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Kissing Maestro upon each cheek, she skipped away.

~

Maestro barked with displeasure and dropped me onto the broken sofa. He shuffled to the darkest corner of the studio and removed a tatty tapestry that had concealed a miserable old camp bed, and carefully folded the covering. He lowered his behind onto the low crib and removed his shoes.

‘I was once told that you cannot rush art,’ he sighed, reclining onto the bed and raising his legs.

‘What does that mean?’ I demanded.

‘You’ve been chasing my withered behind for three years,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ve lost much of what you remember most fondly: humour, conversation, and verve. But I’ve retained that you most valued: the ability to create an emotional connection with you through what I paint. I drawer you towards a moment of something, in somewhere, where you have to say: that is my memory, my moment.’

‘That’s right,’ I sighed.

‘Do you know what hurts you most, Blink?’ he challenged.

‘Tell me, Maestro,’ I indulged.

‘That you’ve seen what I wanted for myself. The man who once lived like a king drinks in pulquerias with the filthy poor and contaminates girls with his lifeless seed.’

‘Not for much longer,’ I warned.

‘Get some sleep,’ he said, turning to the wall.

~

Through the density of polluted, time zone stretched unconsciousness the crack and bang of his activity gradually channelled a course. Coerced to wakefulness by his calling my name, I fought my way free of the sofa.

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded, swaying where I stood.

Motionless, Maestro occupied the doorway to the rooftop, clad in a suit of American bank notes: armour of hundreds of thousands of dollars.

‘It’s amazing what one can achieve with a common stapler, a two-piece suit and imagination,’ he laughed. ‘I feel like a million dollars.’

With a nod he was gone, stalking across the roof towards the stairs. I hurried from the studio, disoriented by the darkness.

‘Hurry now, Blink,’ his voice called.

Stumbling and twisting to ground level I failed to make inroads to Maestro’s lead, who, leaving the building, had cut a course through the traffic towards Isabel la Católica. Vehicles slowed to a crawl as the drivers spied Maestro, and howls of impatience erupted from traffic blind to the spectacle. The reaction of motorists intensified as he hurried along Uruguay and Cinco de Febrero, towards Zócalo. Despite my best efforts I failed to reduce the distance between us. With each step the procession in Maestro’s wake swelled: initially in ones and two, then dozens. Taxis and other vehicles slew to the roadside, the drivers abandoning their fares. When I reached Zócalo people were hurrying from all directions, drawn to the Pied Piper, whose suit had become a collage of impossible iridescence. The streets were filled with people at Moneda; fireworks glittered and thudded the sky; young and old, male and female danced to music within their own minds. Clambering onto the shoulders of those pressed about me, their fingers clawing my ankles as they endeavoured to pull me from my elevation, I laboured to reach Maestro who, in the distance, was circled by a chanting mob, their hands readied to strip the riches from his suit. Then he was gone.

~

For a month I sought Maestro within the streets and slums of México. The family sent a dozen of their best to assist me. Within a week we had three hundred Police on the payroll. We interrogated those who had reason to be contacted by Maestro, including Gabrielle, the young prostitute. No one had seen or heard from him. We traced hundreds of people who shared the dollars – it was never ascertained how much Maestro attached to his suit – but they had no idea what happened to the man wearing them. Eventually we found the suit itself, covering the limbs of a teenager more interested in finding sweethearts than a missing artist.

~

‘Without ideas great art is impossible,’ Maestro once told me. ‘Without greatness there can be no beauty. It remains to be seen whether I had any ideas and whether they were capable of inspiring greatness.’

The search continues, for me at least.