Aldedaros Read online

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  By Mike Brandish

  Copyright 2013 Mike Brandish

  The following letter was found at the harbor of Havenbrook next to a pool of blood. There were signs of struggle, but no body was found. The handwriting is believed to be from Dave Newster, disappeared four months ago.

  To my beloved wife.

  Know that I'm not certain of the verity of what I’m about to describe and that I hope that what I write now was just conceived by the mind of a man afflicted by illness and insanity. I can’t even tell if the eyes that will be set on this missive will be the sparkly blue that I watched for so many years, or the hateful black orbs that watch over my every move. Even as I write, my hands tremble at the thought of what they can do to you. I pray that you have a better fortune than mine.

  Another night had begun and I was too tired to sleep. I wanted to postpone the dreaded arrival of the sunrise for as long as I could, which would bring me to my responsibilities. I just wanted to escape from my life, to find anything that could relief from the suffocating routine. Sometimes, I would think about running, travelling from town to town, meeting new people, historic places. Maybe start anew, doing exactly what I always wanted. Whatever that was. My thoughts were never very clear about that and I never really thought I would do it. I imagined fights and assaults on the road, flirting with young girls and acts of bravery. Just imagining was enough to break the pressure with something simple and harmless. I craved the adrenaline, but I did not want to get hurt and you got to be very naive to believe that bad things only happen to bad people.

  I looked at my car, an old Ford model, given by my father as an attempt of reconciliation. His gift was accepted, but it was too late to have him back in our life, his grandson already starting to show the family upheaval of the teens, another victim of the perpetual cycle of hormonal unbalance that defines our lives. The kid was as rebellious as I were at his age and refused to take part in any of the family’s affairs. For a while I tried to keep him close and now I regret the fact of giving up. I miss him so bad, I would give everything to be able to hold him once again. But on that particular night, I wanted to be far from him. Far from my house, my wife, my mortgage, my bills. Far from me.

  I entered the car and drove around looking at the billboards and signs, inventing games while I drifted. "At the third “No Parking’ sign, turn to the right”, "change lane every time I drive by a bald man". That was what I could do for fun, as the radio was broken for months. I would always tell myself to remember to fix it and forget it as soon as I left the car, spending up the money on other stuff. After a while doing the drive games, I got to a part of the city that was unknown to me, a neighborhood even poorer than the hole I lived. "Marmot hole" I called it. Not for the size, but for the smell of sawdust that came from the joinery near it. Now this place looked like it would be improved by a joinery. It was full of bars, whores and beggars. I had some change in my pockets, enough to make me a king amongst them.

  I parked in front of a pub with a red luminous sign, some letters were turned on but half of them were burnt out. I read the name several times, trying to figure out what it means, each time pronouncing different. It looked like it was written "ALambique DE leDA ROSa". It was poorly lit and half hidden between houses of big brown bricks, complete with an alley full of garbage. Seemed good enough for me.

  The place was small and reeked cigarettes and vomit. Three men with disheveled hair flirted with an old woman that was wearing too much make up and not enough clothing to be a respectable lady. Some others played in a pool table while a few watch from afar with groggy eyes and mind. Most of them were old and toothless, others were just ugly and worn by the daily work, the sun and bad food, but still happy with their yellow eyes and bad shaved haircuts. I chose to sit in front of the barman, next to other three empty benches. It wasn't the type of place where people make lines to go in and I preferred to avoid conversation, taking my time to make plans fed by alcohol. Plans I'd never fulfill.

  The owner, a bearded fat man, was not one of those men that go light on the diet and miss an occasional weekend game. In fact, he was literally rotund, his mushy arms flapping while scrubbing a dirty glass that was tainted again and again by the ashes of his cigar. He approached me, prying with a suspicious stare and mumbled something about drinks and that not being a place for strangers. I thought to myself for a moment that this was one of the reasons so few people attended that place.

  I never followed advice, mostly, I'd go for the opposite of what I was told. That's how I met you, Lisa, when I refused to go to that job interview in my father's friend office. On that day I diverted from my way and went to the park, where for the first time I talked to the girl that would later come to be my wife. I remember how the sun was hot and that we talked the whole afternoon. On that day, I felt brave. I felt I was on the top of the world and I never again took another advice. Mostly, I'd end up pretty well doing it my way. This time, I should have assented. As on that day, my life would have been totally different.

  I ordered a double dose of cognac that was served, still unwillingly, after I waved a huge bill, then I turned to watch the game of pool. It seemed the most interesting thing to do. I started to calculate the points. The player on the right, a man with curly hair and a very thin moustache, almost comical, was at an advantage over the tawny man in a tank top. They were probably betting, as all the moves were carefully played and these men in particular didn't drink or look to anything away from the table.

  I can't say how long had passed until I noticed the seat on my side was occupied. Even though I had briefly analyzed every patron in the bar prior to my entry, it was only when his glass was served and he approached me that I noticed his presence. The man was there, staring straight at me, in the way an adult looks at an abandoned child. I saw his curious expression from the corner of my eye and felt embarrassed, as when my father forgot me in the market and I wandered through the corridors until a blond woman found me. She looked at me with that same look and hugged me before taking me to him. It was the same look.

  I knew he would keep staring, so I decided to break the ice. I took my glass to my mouth and had a long sip, followed by a sigh. I signaled to the bartender to refill my cup, then I tilted slightly to my side said out loud that the player should have hit the blue ball. He kept staring at me, but now an amused smile showed. I can't remember his face, but the smile was there. He said that I could see, that I was special. I replied that the rules of the game benefited a sequence of numbers and so he would make a higher score. He had a hearty laugh. "No, you are special". He spoke with such certainty that I could not doubt that it was true. At least to him.

  For the first time, I looked directly to him, his enigmatic expression made me uncertain if I was speaking with a drunk, a madman or a warlock. For a moment, I just looked at him, trying to figure what he was trying to tell me. Each time I tried to look at my glass or the game, or just simply look away, it got harder. He seemed to suck my attention like a black hole. He told me he could help me see, I only had to go through the gates. This time I was the one to laugh, but inside I felt uncomfortable.

  Something in his eyes seemed to move, as a shadow that crosses behind a cloud. The silhouette was there for less than a second. I remember thinking I should slow down with the drinking and I rested my glass on the wooden balcony. The men at the pool table seemed to still be having fun, unaware of my drama. Moustache adjusted the cue ball in the starting position. For me, the match seemed worlds away. I stared again to the mysterious man at my side.

  “I'm not interested in whatever you are selling and I'm not interested in joining a religion either”. He grinned more. “You don't fancy any god?”, he said, with a soft and resolute voice, as if he already expected my answer. Most people us
ually freak out when I expose my point of view, as if I was naturally obliged to believe in an invisible supernatural being that protect us.

  I replied “My problem with religions is that they not only stop people from pursuing the truth, but they also makes their believers to try to stop others from doing so, and all that for a bit of comfort.” He laughed.

  “Comfort, you say? Isn't it for the joy of doing good for one another and seeking heaven that they pray?”. I halted for a moment, cleared my throat and said with the steadier voice I could. “Yes, comfort. No one says 'oh, I'm so happy today, I think I will go join a religion'. They only seek it when they are dirty and weary, so they can have some absolution before the next sin. I don't need that, although I wear reading glasses, I can already see the truth.”

  Then his voice became raspy and he whispered that eyes are not necessary to truly see. The smile on his face had disappeared. He put his hand over my half empty glass, and rustled words I could not understand. When he drew his hand, I could not believe what I saw. Could I be dreaming in my bed, my imagination creating wizards and oneiric creatures? Would I wake safe in my bed covered in sweat