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7/24/08
6/16/08
Lovesong for Anna
Dear Anna,
Look at me. I am writing this because it is absolutely impossible to tell you any of it. Not because it is wrong, not because wolves will fetch your babies if I do. Only because I can’t say it in person, not face to face, not with gestures, not over the phone, not to you, not like that. Why? Because you don’t deserve it. This song, Anna, is not really a song but let’s pretend it’s a song so I can sing it easier. And my singing voice, Anna, is not the prettiest . You call, you write, you ask why. Actually, you don’t even ask why. I imagine you ask why or shall we say, why not? In words, you ask about the weather, the whereabouts; the here and there of life. In fact, strangers always talk about the weather. We’re not strangers? We are. So let me answer questions you haven’t asked in person for the same reasons I can’t answer them in person.
Let’s face it; at your age, it’s impossible for you to understand what I am singing about; but let’s be fair too; at my age, I’ve forgotten the notes you sing. Age doesn’t make any of us better or better looking. It doesn’t make us worse either. Time is useless. Time’s job is the job of a blind librarian; cataloging chaos. But how does one catalog chaos?
It seems that my doors and windows to you are shut. These shut doors and windows don’t reflect much sunlight. You sit and wonder why. Are you not enough? What is wrong with you? Nothing is wrong with you, Anna. You are beautiful, your golden hair, be it real or be it painted reflects more sunlight than the cigarette smoke which drifts away from my beard as I yell at the gatekeeper “Let the dogs in!”
I know I started something I can’t finish. Blame me. I am good at taking it. Only don’t blame yourself. Ever. I dream that you imagine a plateau which people call the world. And in that world, is a village, where you and I can watch horses play in black sand and whiskey flows in the rivers. But I am not there, Anna. Not because of you, not because I don’t trust your horses, not because your horses are are toothless.
I just can’t ride horses whose shoes I haven’t made myself. Let’s be friends?
5/31/08
Sex and The City
There hasn't been a more sexist TV show/film than Sex and The City in the last decade. This deeply upsets me. No, it is not sexist towards men, it's sexist towards women. And believe me, I am all for admitting and cherishing the difference between men and women. I do think we have essential differences that make us behave, react, think in absolutely distinct ways. Our interest in each other is mostly caused by this variation between the two sexes. Consciously or unconsciously, we are fascinated by each other because we are different; to the point that it becomes a curiosity which must be researched and studied. This research and study translates itself into flirting, love and sex. This is wonderful. I believe the two studying each other (or whatever you want to call it) is actually progressive, beautiful and even. The odds are fair.Sex and The City preaches the opposite. It says women are beings who spend all their time drinking cocktails, talking about men, buying shoes and that's pretty much it. It dumbs down the female to a few almost material equations. The problem gets worse; on top of the picture it paints, it also says that is cool. It lies to the female and says 'if you are like this, it's ok and if you are not like this, you should be; go out and buy some pink heels and everything will be fine, these are your essentials'. In other words, it advocates and confirms that this material, dumb and pseudo-sexual way is the female way.
I think you get what I am saying.
There is, of course, a third and most important layer to the problem. Many women, including some of my very close friends watch the show. Some actually like it, some like it ironically; pretending they only watch it for fun which is all good until it is not good. Ironic appreciation is worse than actual appreciation, it fuels the show's idea further and enlarges its platform for 'proving' itself right. These women who are otherwise intelligent, feminist and progressive get themselves caught in the show's web. It becomes a secret fetish but unfortunately it is not as good as chocolate. :)
I am personally shocked to find so many intelligent females to be engulfed by this nonsense; people who are otherwise ready at all times to fight for women's rights, equality and a fair environment where we can continue the exciting exploration between the two sexes that I mentioned above.
Come on, ladies. Your interest in Sex and The City is making us men look smarter, and believe me; we are not.
5/5/08
Amsterdam - bittergarnituur, maatjesharing
I never thought travel essays made any sense as they are written by the person traveling almost for the same person. I did this, I did that and then the girl in the traditional outfit brought me a rose with my tea, etc, etc. I only have a few notes about Amsterdam, the rest remains for you to find out. And since I have already left and am in Zagreb now, I will still write it in the present tense, that should make it more genuine.
I am staying at a former jail. My room feels like I should be guilty and I feel guilty. In fact, I am guilty. Thank you for this opportunity to confess, retreat and rehabilitate. Shared institutional bathrooms remind me of my boarding school days and that's good. I liked boarding school. I liked it a lot. I spent 7 years there. Most of western Europe has merged into the same notion of the western European cosmopolis and no that's not because of the EU. It has become hard to distinguish between Amsterdam, Paris, Barcelona and so on; not in the way they or their people are or look, just in the daily routine of things; the coffee, the trains, the so-called global intellectualism which bores me to death. I miss when you could sit at a cafe in Barcelona and not feel like you are sitting at a cafe in Paris and vice versa. I guess this sort of strict difference is brought upon by war. War always brings us back to what we believe we rightfully own or have invented. If there was a war between the Dutch and the French, the French cafe cup might very well disappear from the Amsterdam cafes and get replaced by the Dutch goblet in a matter of days?
Two more little notes and I will leave you alone:
a) The main difference between America and the rest of the world is renting vs. owning one's life. In Europe and the Middle East, for instance, one rents his life from the history and the tradition that owns it. In America, one buys, makes and owns one's life. More on this later..
b) I have discovered why prostitution is legal and over-marketed in the Netherlands; the local girls do not wear skirts. They really don't. Don't ask me why.
Bye.
4/17/08
On a Personal Note
I can't seem to find that letter. I can't even remember if I handwrote or typed it. Maybe I sent it? Have I? I have purchased 2 small things that will stay with me forever. I paid $20 for a moment. A moment alone. New curtains. I rolled the dice and got 4 and 6; not bad for a thursday night. I received a letter. I rolled it up and blew smoke rings through it. I cut my fingernails. I will see my mother in 13 days. I will see Nick Cave in 10. I will buy useless stupid souvenirs for my friends and carry them on the plane. I have made an inquiry at the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce. I will spend a night at a former jail building in 11 days. I will see Vienna for the first time and visit Nietzsche's room where he spent months trying to decide if he was crazy. I bought two bottles of Mexican coke, 10 oz. of Amsterdam Shag but it's made in Denmark.
I polished my boots, my shirt is white, my beard trimmed, I am 31, I've got 52 dollars 32 cents in my pocket. I am putting the boots on, my keys are already in my pocket. I am going to go and drink 7 glasses of Irish whiskey; that leaves $10.32 tip for the bartender. Keep in touch.
I polished my boots, my shirt is white, my beard trimmed, I am 31, I've got 52 dollars 32 cents in my pocket. I am putting the boots on, my keys are already in my pocket. I am going to go and drink 7 glasses of Irish whiskey; that leaves $10.32 tip for the bartender. Keep in touch.
3/22/08
Fatherless Daughters of America
They arrange to meet. It won't do any harm. It will be beautiful. His hair parted, her heart skips every other beat; there is future, it's around the corner and it doesn't matter what they do, there will be time to patch and rearrange even if it's a bomb, an apparition, fraud, a fool's paradise. Time will come on its own accord and lay the emergency aids on their table. That's none of their concern.
She saw him walk down the street, on main street, at the corner shop with his buddies so many times, so many smiles. Impression, hunch, intuition, they are all there. Even if it is luck and witchcraft, it's there, it's in the air; magnetic, enchanting and urgent. This is America. Her skirt writes the fate of the town. She is a princess, everyone knows it.
A film, borrow the car and drive-in, kiss her there. She doesn't let him go any further that night. A kiss is a kiss and a kiss is enough. For now. The tale wraps itself around their lips, she tells all her friends; she believes and she is right. He lies and tells everyone he already fucked her. But it's ok because he loves her, he won't leave once he fucks her, the ring will come, marry me darling?
Days and months marry each other. Months run fast and love is not cheap but it comes easy, in the garden, in the back seat, rain and all that, the beautiful etc. of life. He actually speaks; 3 words, marry me darling? Shivers down the spine, blinks in the eye, hold her hand right there and tight. She says yes. Your mother said yes. Who could blame her? He fucks her that night, fucks her hard.
Beg, borrow, steal and there is money. The wedding is small but friend and foe are at peace for one night, music plays, chocolate cake, cheap beer, they dance. Their apartment is small but the curtains are handmade, the bread she bakes is rockhard; he likes it regardless. Now they have to wait, with this bread in the shade, for 9 months. There is a seed. Your seed.
Well, then there is you. Pretty, you cry a lot. Name? You must have a good name. They search dictionaries, ask friends, look through gardening books and voila! There is your name. You love your name, it's the only gift you will appreciate from the future or the past, whatever you want to call it.
The rest of this story is old, told many times: He left a few days after, or few months after. 6 years later, he sent you a postcard. He didn't come to your graduation. 4 years after that, he wrote a letter; it said the weather was warm and he was well and how is school, by the way? He buys and sells horses or he buys and sells houses or he buys and sells stocks or he hunts tigers in the forest. He is dirt poor or he is filthy rich. He didn't say where he was. Either case, he is alive and you can read now and write and forget even. You've learned to forget, that's good. It is good that he is alive, there is still years to come. Time will come on its own accord and you already know he feels he has a debt to pay. That's good. This kind of debt doesn't get interest. We can wait a little longer. A meeting perhaps, a cup of coffee. 10 years from now or let it be 20. It will take 5 minutes and we will forgive 30 years in 3 seconds. But a debt is a debt even if it takes 3 seconds to pay. So you let it go until it comes around on its own, there is nothing else to do, there must be a cycle to all this; all things circle themselves. The rule of leaving is the same as the rule of coming back, you know this. Sooner or later, you will have that coffee.
A few years later, he marries a bigger woman. Bigger than your mother. Age happens to everyone and the size of her bosom loses its relevance. The bigger bosomed wife gives him another child. His name is almost as good as yours.
On a sunny day, he collapses in his office; heart attack. On a sunny day, he falls off his favorite horse and breaks his neck. On a sunny day, he gets killed by the tiger he was supposed to hunt. On a sunny day, he falls of the porch of the new house he was trying to sell.
He dies without paying that debt but the debt lives on. His son takes it over. He is young, parts his hair, arranges to meet a girl at the corner shop, her skirt writes the fate of the town, this is America, chocolate cake, cheap beer, time will come on its own accord.
She saw him walk down the street, on main street, at the corner shop with his buddies so many times, so many smiles. Impression, hunch, intuition, they are all there. Even if it is luck and witchcraft, it's there, it's in the air; magnetic, enchanting and urgent. This is America. Her skirt writes the fate of the town. She is a princess, everyone knows it.
A film, borrow the car and drive-in, kiss her there. She doesn't let him go any further that night. A kiss is a kiss and a kiss is enough. For now. The tale wraps itself around their lips, she tells all her friends; she believes and she is right. He lies and tells everyone he already fucked her. But it's ok because he loves her, he won't leave once he fucks her, the ring will come, marry me darling?
Days and months marry each other. Months run fast and love is not cheap but it comes easy, in the garden, in the back seat, rain and all that, the beautiful etc. of life. He actually speaks; 3 words, marry me darling? Shivers down the spine, blinks in the eye, hold her hand right there and tight. She says yes. Your mother said yes. Who could blame her? He fucks her that night, fucks her hard.
Beg, borrow, steal and there is money. The wedding is small but friend and foe are at peace for one night, music plays, chocolate cake, cheap beer, they dance. Their apartment is small but the curtains are handmade, the bread she bakes is rockhard; he likes it regardless. Now they have to wait, with this bread in the shade, for 9 months. There is a seed. Your seed.
Well, then there is you. Pretty, you cry a lot. Name? You must have a good name. They search dictionaries, ask friends, look through gardening books and voila! There is your name. You love your name, it's the only gift you will appreciate from the future or the past, whatever you want to call it.
The rest of this story is old, told many times: He left a few days after, or few months after. 6 years later, he sent you a postcard. He didn't come to your graduation. 4 years after that, he wrote a letter; it said the weather was warm and he was well and how is school, by the way? He buys and sells horses or he buys and sells houses or he buys and sells stocks or he hunts tigers in the forest. He is dirt poor or he is filthy rich. He didn't say where he was. Either case, he is alive and you can read now and write and forget even. You've learned to forget, that's good. It is good that he is alive, there is still years to come. Time will come on its own accord and you already know he feels he has a debt to pay. That's good. This kind of debt doesn't get interest. We can wait a little longer. A meeting perhaps, a cup of coffee. 10 years from now or let it be 20. It will take 5 minutes and we will forgive 30 years in 3 seconds. But a debt is a debt even if it takes 3 seconds to pay. So you let it go until it comes around on its own, there is nothing else to do, there must be a cycle to all this; all things circle themselves. The rule of leaving is the same as the rule of coming back, you know this. Sooner or later, you will have that coffee.
A few years later, he marries a bigger woman. Bigger than your mother. Age happens to everyone and the size of her bosom loses its relevance. The bigger bosomed wife gives him another child. His name is almost as good as yours.
On a sunny day, he collapses in his office; heart attack. On a sunny day, he falls off his favorite horse and breaks his neck. On a sunny day, he gets killed by the tiger he was supposed to hunt. On a sunny day, he falls of the porch of the new house he was trying to sell.
He dies without paying that debt but the debt lives on. His son takes it over. He is young, parts his hair, arranges to meet a girl at the corner shop, her skirt writes the fate of the town, this is America, chocolate cake, cheap beer, time will come on its own accord.
3/10/08
Diesel Fuck
He keeps everything she ever gave him in a box. Mostly obselete loose ends and meaningless word couplings, I and you this, I and you that, we then, we would. When the car did this, when your mother cooked that, building up, waiting for a sunny Sunday to be returned; in place and as it should be. The weather gets warmer, blossoms reappear, the days are a bit longer. He still waits for something to fall from the sky, hit him on the head so he never has to return the box wishing it would disappear on its own accord; quietly and without unnecessary debate. Go box, go.
The box doesn't go. Everyday the box stays, it gets more and more irrelavant; it quiets down, its seams creak a little more, no, it doesn't get fatter, just older. Letters fly out of it. A to Z. Backwards and in languages we can't comprehend, it forms more words; I can't this, you can't that, when you, when I, if we, if you. It gets worse, turns into jibberish, flat and outlined, still talking. We are still talking. This hotel, that room, your dress, socks in the drawers, raising glasses to victories of no specific battle. We, the army beat the army that was ours. What a victory! Flags up, cheers, mate. Let's fuck.
We fuck. Get inside, baby. For a moment, the battle is physical. Win me. Win me over. Sides change, weapons change, bullets bought and sold. The box rattles under the bed, she puts on a show, he watches. They laugh, sorry to laugh. Her boots paint the walls black, she falls on the floor, splash! Whiskey glass broken, her eyes are saying something, she can barely hear it. He certainly can't. Bathroom, fridge, let's make coffee? No. He whispers something to her. She can't hear it. She stretches out on the floor, legs spread. He pulls her boots off and pins flowers on her hair, carries her back to the bed. She forgets why. Sorry, darling, I forgot why. He puts a song on the stereo and whispers again. Hear me, darling, hear me if you can.
The box rattles more. They stay inside for days, nobody sees them, nobody finds them. There is no TV.
On Sunday, they buy a car. Hello Mercedes. Gas is expensive. In diesel wheels, they drive off. Till the tires are flat, till they find money. Sell the car, buy a horse. No, don't be silly, who rides horses these days? They expected something. Something more.
9 years and more. A box of letters, a wish for a horse and a diesel. What more?
The box doesn't go. Everyday the box stays, it gets more and more irrelavant; it quiets down, its seams creak a little more, no, it doesn't get fatter, just older. Letters fly out of it. A to Z. Backwards and in languages we can't comprehend, it forms more words; I can't this, you can't that, when you, when I, if we, if you. It gets worse, turns into jibberish, flat and outlined, still talking. We are still talking. This hotel, that room, your dress, socks in the drawers, raising glasses to victories of no specific battle. We, the army beat the army that was ours. What a victory! Flags up, cheers, mate. Let's fuck.
We fuck. Get inside, baby. For a moment, the battle is physical. Win me. Win me over. Sides change, weapons change, bullets bought and sold. The box rattles under the bed, she puts on a show, he watches. They laugh, sorry to laugh. Her boots paint the walls black, she falls on the floor, splash! Whiskey glass broken, her eyes are saying something, she can barely hear it. He certainly can't. Bathroom, fridge, let's make coffee? No. He whispers something to her. She can't hear it. She stretches out on the floor, legs spread. He pulls her boots off and pins flowers on her hair, carries her back to the bed. She forgets why. Sorry, darling, I forgot why. He puts a song on the stereo and whispers again. Hear me, darling, hear me if you can.
The box rattles more. They stay inside for days, nobody sees them, nobody finds them. There is no TV.
On Sunday, they buy a car. Hello Mercedes. Gas is expensive. In diesel wheels, they drive off. Till the tires are flat, till they find money. Sell the car, buy a horse. No, don't be silly, who rides horses these days? They expected something. Something more.
9 years and more. A box of letters, a wish for a horse and a diesel. What more?
3/3/08
Brooklyn
It came fast, it came pretty; your dress and hair in complete unison, unanimous, I don't even know the right word. You know all this. At your age, you're still questioning your reasons for doing it, doing it well, doing it wrong, cheap or expensive, as if there was a camera watching you; slow footsteps, floorcreaks, you're out of there, for a brief moment or a whole night, it's the same thing; all of time is madeup. Not of seconds, minutes or hours but of every decision you made; a phone call, an elevator, taxi ride, Manhattan's lights behind you and then we're in Brooklyn; far from the hotel.
1/21/08
Mirrors, Scars and Soy Milk OR Love, Desire and Lust
After four years, seeing you is no ordinary occurence in my life. I can't be quiet about it, so first, forgive me, all apologies..
You know me. You know the parts well, unclear parts, unleashed parts, splinter, limb, my roles against yours.
Time teaches people each other; that's all time is good for, nothing else. My crooked finger, your scar, the night I fell off the porch and you screamed, headlights, earthquakes and there is more. Me as I am in your construction and mine is inevitable as well; the version of you who is more real than you yourself. So time moved on, finally, we pushed it, all the way out to here. Now it's here, now it's gone, you are not in it now, you are not in it now, it'll come back in a minute.. And then, limb again, hello scar, your mother's letters.
Time is useless. Other than this. This is time's job; today's coffee is time's job, your fragile voice, unaltered and uniform. Benevolence is time's job; it builds a gift that knows not to be given, then that same time compensates, it compensates for it's own lack, relief and out of either goodwill or empathy it disguises itself. What else can disguise 4 years? What else yearns for itself? The stone wants to remain a stone and whatever you and I do or whatever partial concern we throw at it, you and I are time's job. They do not have soy milk at this cafe.
Mirror, mirror on the wall.. Let's put that beauty junk aside for a minute. The beauty junk that exactly and specifically fuels time's machine. Let me understand myself first; necessarily understand myself. And you, too. Throw the mirror out for today's coffee. Mirrors are useless. I wake up like all men wake up, in the course of kindness, neighbors, business associates, friends, deal and bargain cutters, I will be asked what I am like. The question is simple and you hear it too; maybe slightly, only slighty more than you ask it yourself: What am I like?
Whether you are awake or asleep doesn't negate the question. It's simplicity kills you at hello. Am I kind? Am I understanding? Am I smart? Am I? Your gut feeling says yes or no, it says yes one day, no the other, yes to one another. It also preaches, your gut. Your gut says "you need to change". Mister. Lady. Your gut knows nothing. It's just a gut. Nevertheless, you let it speak. You say yes. You say no. You say mostly. Whatever you say, the second and simpler question shoots you in the forehead before you can even answer the first one. The second question: Enough?
Am I kind, enough? Am I understanding, enough? Am I smart, enough? Am I, enough?
That's enough. I am not going to go on deeper into this for it's not why I am writing. I am writing this because you are time's gift to me and I know that I am to you. You are my other gut; the one who knows me. In a world riddled with coincidence and circumstance, what we are will never be clear to ourselves. It will only be clear to those that time has picked for that job. I am not talking about love, desire or lust. Surely, they will come in this picture at one point or another but they will also go. What remains is the mirror that doesn't show anything; only knows it. Then, the useless bastard time has done it's job. I know myself because you know me. You know yourself because I know you.
So, old lover, precious friend, keeper of silent tremors, thank you. For the coffee, this hour, and reminding me what I am like.
See you soon or later. Better late than never. Whatever you do, don't die. I've already lost one.
P.S: Sorry about the soy milk.
You know me. You know the parts well, unclear parts, unleashed parts, splinter, limb, my roles against yours.
Time teaches people each other; that's all time is good for, nothing else. My crooked finger, your scar, the night I fell off the porch and you screamed, headlights, earthquakes and there is more. Me as I am in your construction and mine is inevitable as well; the version of you who is more real than you yourself. So time moved on, finally, we pushed it, all the way out to here. Now it's here, now it's gone, you are not in it now, you are not in it now, it'll come back in a minute.. And then, limb again, hello scar, your mother's letters.
Time is useless. Other than this. This is time's job; today's coffee is time's job, your fragile voice, unaltered and uniform. Benevolence is time's job; it builds a gift that knows not to be given, then that same time compensates, it compensates for it's own lack, relief and out of either goodwill or empathy it disguises itself. What else can disguise 4 years? What else yearns for itself? The stone wants to remain a stone and whatever you and I do or whatever partial concern we throw at it, you and I are time's job. They do not have soy milk at this cafe.
Mirror, mirror on the wall.. Let's put that beauty junk aside for a minute. The beauty junk that exactly and specifically fuels time's machine. Let me understand myself first; necessarily understand myself. And you, too. Throw the mirror out for today's coffee. Mirrors are useless. I wake up like all men wake up, in the course of kindness, neighbors, business associates, friends, deal and bargain cutters, I will be asked what I am like. The question is simple and you hear it too; maybe slightly, only slighty more than you ask it yourself: What am I like?
Whether you are awake or asleep doesn't negate the question. It's simplicity kills you at hello. Am I kind? Am I understanding? Am I smart? Am I? Your gut feeling says yes or no, it says yes one day, no the other, yes to one another. It also preaches, your gut. Your gut says "you need to change". Mister. Lady. Your gut knows nothing. It's just a gut. Nevertheless, you let it speak. You say yes. You say no. You say mostly. Whatever you say, the second and simpler question shoots you in the forehead before you can even answer the first one. The second question: Enough?
Am I kind, enough? Am I understanding, enough? Am I smart, enough? Am I, enough?
That's enough. I am not going to go on deeper into this for it's not why I am writing. I am writing this because you are time's gift to me and I know that I am to you. You are my other gut; the one who knows me. In a world riddled with coincidence and circumstance, what we are will never be clear to ourselves. It will only be clear to those that time has picked for that job. I am not talking about love, desire or lust. Surely, they will come in this picture at one point or another but they will also go. What remains is the mirror that doesn't show anything; only knows it. Then, the useless bastard time has done it's job. I know myself because you know me. You know yourself because I know you.
So, old lover, precious friend, keeper of silent tremors, thank you. For the coffee, this hour, and reminding me what I am like.
See you soon or later. Better late than never. Whatever you do, don't die. I've already lost one.
P.S: Sorry about the soy milk.
1/12/08
Nikolai's Death Version I
There is no doubt I will be blamed for Nikolai's death. I get blamed for a lot of shit. It's always Bruno's fault. Bruno did this, Bruno did that.. Bruno said this to me, Bruno said that to me. Did you see Bruno do that? Were you there when Bruno?... I am used to it. I have never left a place or a situation without at least a few sentences being spoken after I've left. I attract blame. If a cat fell from the sky and bit everyone, it would be my fault.
The circumstances are too convenient. Nikolai and I have worked together for 11 years at the same harbor, everyone knows we quarelled quite a bit and as his second in command, I am now the new chief engineer. No one will even think for a second that Nikolai and I were actually friends.
I'll tell you the truth:
It was late. Really late. 5am. Most Saturday nights at the harbor are quiet. People go off in their social circles, some chase after women, some chase after men in order to be chased, some simply cannot stand an idle moment at home. Whatever their reasons, Saturday night is no night to be spent at the harbor. Once in a while, we do get a couple here and there who'd like to sit and stare at the moon. That's understandable; the moon has been romantic since day one and the harbor is no exception to the rule. We even have an advantage because our boats here add a special touch to the whole experience. Women have always loved sailors and men have always loved women staring at the sea. The reflection of the moon falling onto the water is really like the dressing on the salad. It completes the seduction game. Delicious.
Anyhow, there were no couples on any of the docks when I took my usual walk around 5. I walked all the way to the last dock.
My pockets were empty except some change and a large key I use to lock the gate. I should mention my shoes were wet because I almost fell in the water as I was trying to catch a couple of shrimp for breakfast by the large rocks at the north gate. It was quiet, relatively quiet. It's never quiet at the harbor. There's always some hustle going on somewhere though you can never hear or guess what it is. Somebody's selling oysters, the chinese are trading salt and pepper for salmon, the harbor hotel's owner is on the roof trying to fix the antenna, Leila is clicking her red heels together to attract customers. It's not loud here but it's not quiet either. Only the dirtiest of the dirty are around at this time.
As I reached the last dock, I saw a silhouette sitting at the end of it. It was Nikolai. He looked solitary and content. I watched him for a brief moment. I thought "look at you, Nik, sitting there quietly, not yelling at me or saving my life, so together, so wholesome, so posed.." I don't really know what people thought of him. He was not blamed for things like I am. He didn't really talk to strangers, didn't stick his nose into others' businesses except mine and most notably, he never took anything for granted. I turned around to see if I turned off the light in the office. I had. I turned back around. There was no Nikolai. So simple. So gracious. Gone in a moment.
That's what happened. I don't know what happened. It wasn't me.
The circumstances are too convenient. Nikolai and I have worked together for 11 years at the same harbor, everyone knows we quarelled quite a bit and as his second in command, I am now the new chief engineer. No one will even think for a second that Nikolai and I were actually friends.
I'll tell you the truth:
It was late. Really late. 5am. Most Saturday nights at the harbor are quiet. People go off in their social circles, some chase after women, some chase after men in order to be chased, some simply cannot stand an idle moment at home. Whatever their reasons, Saturday night is no night to be spent at the harbor. Once in a while, we do get a couple here and there who'd like to sit and stare at the moon. That's understandable; the moon has been romantic since day one and the harbor is no exception to the rule. We even have an advantage because our boats here add a special touch to the whole experience. Women have always loved sailors and men have always loved women staring at the sea. The reflection of the moon falling onto the water is really like the dressing on the salad. It completes the seduction game. Delicious.
Anyhow, there were no couples on any of the docks when I took my usual walk around 5. I walked all the way to the last dock.
My pockets were empty except some change and a large key I use to lock the gate. I should mention my shoes were wet because I almost fell in the water as I was trying to catch a couple of shrimp for breakfast by the large rocks at the north gate. It was quiet, relatively quiet. It's never quiet at the harbor. There's always some hustle going on somewhere though you can never hear or guess what it is. Somebody's selling oysters, the chinese are trading salt and pepper for salmon, the harbor hotel's owner is on the roof trying to fix the antenna, Leila is clicking her red heels together to attract customers. It's not loud here but it's not quiet either. Only the dirtiest of the dirty are around at this time.
As I reached the last dock, I saw a silhouette sitting at the end of it. It was Nikolai. He looked solitary and content. I watched him for a brief moment. I thought "look at you, Nik, sitting there quietly, not yelling at me or saving my life, so together, so wholesome, so posed.." I don't really know what people thought of him. He was not blamed for things like I am. He didn't really talk to strangers, didn't stick his nose into others' businesses except mine and most notably, he never took anything for granted. I turned around to see if I turned off the light in the office. I had. I turned back around. There was no Nikolai. So simple. So gracious. Gone in a moment.
That's what happened. I don't know what happened. It wasn't me.
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