Orange’s hues of the morning glow still linger in the East. The sun’s rays scorch the desert where shadows fend a crawling sized space at the based of anything protuberant: trees, rock, animals, bushes, posts and benches.
Under a roof a thatches, a hymn heave like the haze formed by the heath beating on the earth.
People gathered and seated on narrow wood benches sing that tune with the best of their heart, if not with a lot of talent.
A man stand in front of them, dressed more solemnly and with a tie. They are all aboriginals. One lady dressed with a leopard fabric dressed, high heeled long boots and an exuberant hat matching the dress cools herself with a pink feathered fan. It hides the lower part of her face and all the left side in a way that she is but a white eye set in ebony, coldly fixed on the celebrant in front. Even the boisterous kids chasing one the others beside that roofed space is not daunting her concentration. It is hard to know if she is signing or not.
An peculiar old man hold his hymn book in one hand, read in it and makes movement with the other hand in the air.
A boy sits lazily, his feet dangling from the sturdy branches of a blacken tree.
Then suddenly, the lone eye peers toward the background, just where the minister shoulder angles with his neck.
She stops fanning herself, staring at the horizon.
Some women incline their head to whisper with one another, weakening the hymn tenor as they do.
Some men raises their chins to try to see what ever the young lady saw herself and their wives rumor about.
The minister opens his eyes, realizing that he is almost signing unaccompanied, but by a few elders oblivious at the moment of what cause that mayhem.
The odd old man hasn’t reacted, he just continues his manner, flexing fingers or straightening them.
The minister clears his throat twice, and then he sings even louder without having lost the tempo.
Called back to order, men lower their chins to read in the Hymn’s book, women do alike, except the fanning lady. Immovable, she watches.
The hymn signing pick up to new height, up until the nagging sound of a motorcycle approaching just makes it impossible to continue.
Then the men’s chins rise again, some hymn book are turned over, the thumb marking the page.
The astonished women gaze one to the others. If you can’t hear yourselves singing, rather you can whisper.
Someone shove in the rib of the old man and makes a sign to him when his attention is gained. Sign that make the old man wrinkled face unfold in joy like a rose button blooming in the morning light. He looks toward the same emplacement the other are watching for, repeating over and over the sign that the other made to him.
The minister sighs.
But the fanning woman keeps her watch with no reaction at all.
A cloud of dust moves steadily toward the gathering.
The kid in the tree jump, his feet taking position on the branch. He tiptoes and places a hand like a visor to the horizon. He stands there for what look like an eternity before animating himself with excitement, letting himself fall on the ground, landing on his feet and running toward the worshippers, arms spread in the air.
“Cian’s back! Cian’s back!” he yells to everyone that can hear his exalted shouting.
The hymn books falls on the ground, the minister crosses his arms and turn toward where he had his back, the kids joined with their parents. Everyone is smiling, but the fanning lady. Her lone eye refuges behind the fence of her pink feathered fan. She bows her head, but she stays in the same position she was.
The old man presses from behind the assembly. People move with a smile to him, letting him pass and progress toward the front without holding him back.
The white man is not long to make the distance, parking the vehicle near a post and roughing his hair to remove the sand in it. He smiles back to the small crowd, milling on the edge of the roofed space. The first to move and draw near is the celebrant.
-You’re late, wishy-washy. He said the moree seriously of the world.
The infliction of his voice give the impression of such a displeasure, as well as the position he adopts, fist closed on each hips, that Cian stays near the motorcycle, mute and arched brow.
There is a silence where the other makes the distance separating them. Arriving at arms length, the minister let fall his pretended stance to wield a smile and embracing a now stiff Cian.
-Man that I am glad to see you’re back!
Cian relaxes.
In the background, people laughs and like if it is the signal they were all waiting for, they leave their far-off post and circle both men, chatting as loud as was the motorcycle’s motor minutes before.
The fanning lady stays behind, glancing over the outer limits of her fan, immobile.
The kid that ran down the three tangles the legs of Cian, making it impossible to walk freely. The man pats his head as the boy look up, clearly happy of this return.
The minister passes on his side, keeping one arm around the shoulder of his friend.
-How do you fair? Cian asks, before some emmotion changes his expression. The timid joy that could be read before turns into a more enlighten one.
-Logan! He says, waving to the odd old man..
The man can’t contain his joy and he hurries to meet Cian and embraces him as well, for a split second. He then backs and starts gesticulating in the air with both hand.
Cian shakes his head and
-Later, later we can take news of each otheer. Later. We have something going on. I was late, I heard? He says.
The minister smiles back as Cian’s gaze reach him and they move back gradually to each their place.
Passing in front of the fanning lady, still dusty by the road and trudging because of the boy holding to his legs, Cian inclines his head politely.
-Tiara. He flatly says to her.
Her eyes barely clearing the feathery border stares at him and follow him till he is too much in an angle for her to see him without moving her head. She resumes her fanning.
He walks two rows behind her, sitting beside the odd old man he called Logan.
---***---
Shadows still shroud the room. An oil lamp placed on the sturdy worktop casts its buttery light around, quickly swallowed by the adjoining obscurity. The stance of a man’s back blocks its diffusion. One of his elbows slowly moves near the camisole. Beside that, he is just wearing a pair of boxer.
Cian focuses on the task he is completing with minutia: Ironing a jogging pant.
His eyes follow the back and forth movement. His fingers roll the fabric between the strokes. The side of his hand removes the wrinkles out of the clammy rag set over it before he passes the heavy iron again.
The iron hushes and gurgles.
As he leans over to glance at the evenness of this work, a dog tag slips out, hanging from a shining chain at his neck.
He emits a tick, clacking the tongue to his teeth.
He takes the nickel necklace and places it back, hidden on his chest by the camisole.
The sound of the water boiling in the old fashion ironing instrument is punctuated by the steam regularly relieved each time he is pressing the button with his thumb.
"You have a new message." speaks the computer from the other ends of the room.
Without quitting a moment his work from the eyes, Cian tersely orders: "Read."
"Cianan, my son, I am so filled of pride to write to you in this day.
Finally, all the distractions that were restraining you to progress in the field have been removed from your path, By the grace of God.
I hope you will rejoice with me."
Hearing this sentence, Cian eyes avert to the ceiling and he sighs.
The iron misses his fingers off close.
"This woman would have just been a load of trouble.
She proved it numerous times, if not only by the fact she restlessly emailed you despite you were clear you were not feeling anything for her.
I would have called justice on her if it was not for your insistence to my clemency.
It’s in your saint nature to have prevented me to act on her. I can just more glorify you by this.
It was harassment and I am glad you are free from that, now."
Cian’s Adam apple bobbles. He sniffles briefly, and then clears his throat. His glance lifts from his work. A wrinkle forms on the rag and he forgets to smooth it up.
The toneless computer continues in the background, thumbing the words on a regular cadence. The unnatural delivery gives an eerie result devoid of emotion.
"What ever killed her, she had what she deserved to have tried to get you astray from God.
It showed me that you are stronger than Beanon, for sure. Him and his tramp!
At least I brought up one good fruit."
"Who's that speaking?" says a woman, now standing behind the minister.
Barely dressed, she is fixing her earring, and then she gathers her thick hair in a pony tail. They are black, thick and curly and cascade to her middle back when she releases them.
"My father." answers Cian.
Distracted from his work, the fingers do not slip away from the iron trajectory.
He conceals any pain indication with a mere contraction at the corner of the eyes and to a flicker of the nostrils as he inhales more deeply.
The tool is tilted on its safety foot. The man moves calmly toward the sink where he opens the tap, letting run the water on the burn without a single wince.
The skin turn from red to a yellow crust while he stands there, wiggling the limbs under the string of water.
The woman frowns. "Oh well, I am not paid to give you my advice?"
"Exactly." he replies, listlessly.
"In hope to see you soon back from your exile.
Your beloved father.
Bearach."
"Kocha would have found this name appropriated." speaks the woman.
Now dressed back in her leopard printed suit, she is leisurely looking in the coffee can near the door. She fetches out of it a few dollars. ”Your father seems like someone that knows what he wants. Sharp like a knife, isn’t he? “ she smooses while counting the dollar. Once she is done, she adds:”If we can put it like that.”
Cian freezes and stares at her.
"What, did I take too much? I thought we agreed on 150 last times?", she questions.
Her speech seems to not register and she recounts her money while still holding to the coffee can. She peers in and purses her lips, glancing suspiciously to the white man with her black downy eyes. She flickers her eyelashes. “Oh, I shall not speak of your father that way, perhaps, your Highness? “
Cian shakes his head and finally replies: ”No… to both. I am not getting back on the agreed tariff. You can speak all you want about my father. But, what name have you just said?”
“Barrach?”
“No, the other…your friend?”
She laughs:”Oh, Kocha! Yes. She was a really sweet girl. Too bad she died, you would have loved her. She was a delight!"
Cian swallows again.” Did she ever tell you about...me?"
"You? Why would have she spoke about you?"
The man makes a sheepish smiles and look at the burnt tips of his fingers. "I think we knew the same Kocha. Kocha Finley?"
"Wow! The world is really small, is it?" exclaims the woman. This realization lifts her concern and her full lips wear a smile.
The man react totally the opposite. There is a moment of discomfort and Cian has to sit, white. His glance casts at the feet of the woman, quivering left and right like someone reading in a book.
Tiara doesn't move, but she frowns, speechless. She observes him a moment, then she speaks again.
"No. She was a very secretive person. And if my thought are alright about you, me and her..." she paused before admonishing: "Cian, you should have told her instead of hiring me up. This is totally insane!"
"It's a bit late to think of this." he weakly retorts, caving more on the chair.
Tiara shrugs and trails her left hand in front of her; dismissing anything she would have said more in that movement. "Not of my business, alright! Thanks for the pay."
She pushes the money inside her over sized bag, takes a feathery pink fan out. The feet slips back in her capsized high heels boots. They are inappropriate for the type of ground she traipsing on: they dig holes in the battered ground as she walks out the building.
Cian places the uninjured hand over his forehead, rubbing the skin of his temple with his middle finger.
After a while, he pulls on the cord of the iron that easily unplug. He leaves his work, raises and twists the oil lamp gage. The flame sputters till finally the light died.
The now left alone man walks to the bed, taking off the wrinkles sheets.
He wags them one by one before redoing the bed with perfect forty-five degree angle corners.
Then he removes his camisole and slips in between the sheet.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling.
His lips move as he lays on his back, arms relaxing on each side of his body. He eventually turns on his side, facing the wall on which the bed is jutted.
His breathing is deep for a while, and then it gains in irregularity before Cian coughs.
He tosses, but eventually sits. One hand picking an inhalator from under the side of the bed. He takes a breath, a deep one as best as he can. He coughs again. Then he regains partly the control enough to bring the inhalator to his lips. Once the aperture in, he pushes on the arming system.
The gas is released and he holds it, getting the inhalator back to its prior place: under the bed side. Some fume escape from his nostrils as he releases his breath through them. He coughs once more then he lay on his side again, facing the wall. A tear trails from the eye nearest of the pillow.
The back of his hand wipe under his nose then he stops moving. His breathing becomes deep but calmer, his hand falls, and all tensions are released. Sleep takes him.
(
geocities.com/cf/beosworld/mybook) (
geocities.com/cf/beosworld) (
geocities.com/cf)