Prologue
This is the story of the beginning of my journey. It is a path that led me across many countries and continents and spanned many years. It is the painful and anguished story of the path to my happiness. It is the story of when I was but a young lad and the questions I had even then were real and fierce. The world and the way things are were new and mysterious to me then and I had an undying curiosity that couldn’t seem to be filled. I questioned the “whys” and the “what ifs” until it must have driven my parents to lunacy. More often than not they would try to explain things to me, but when I continued my questions they would grow exasperated and send me to the garden to pull weeds. It was in those times that I would have my best thoughts and I would mull something over in my mind for hours until I could come up with a satisfactory answer. Upon such discoveries, I would leap up from the dirt and run into the house as happy as a lark to tell my mother what I had exposed within me and without. Mostly she would just smile and nod, but occasionally she would take what I had given her and shoot it back at me in an angle that I hadn’t quite discovered yet. When that happened, I would frown and return to the garden for another few hours until my head hurt and my back ached and she would call me inside for supper. I was a thinker and an introvert perhaps; I always felt the world made more sense among the peace and serenity of the fields and forests surrounding our farm. I was so often lost in thought that my father would say he could see the wheels turning inside my head. The first time I heard that I ran to the mirror genuinely concerned that my skull was thinning, much to the amusement of my family. It became the standing joke among us, but I didn’t mind. I knew I was different but I took pride in that. I knew even then that it is these differences that set us apart from our peers and make us unique. These differences make us aware that we are our own person and that things are not just one way. It is a concept that I, and most of humanity, still struggle with to this day.
However, I have learned that we are adaptable. Through a conscious effort we can often see the other side of the coin and learn to appreciate things from another’s perspective. The farm that I grew up on was simple and quaint and it was there that I first developed a love for the country and a sense of familiarity in the long grasses in the field. I felt comfortable among the trees and vines of the forests and even when I didn’t know the way back home, I didn’t worry because I knew that I was already home. This is what I lived and breathed and I grew to cherish these memories in my heart. This was my home and I felt much more comfortable there than among the confusion and the crowds in the city. And I still do. However I have learned to tolerate, nay enjoy, the experiences and fast paced environments of the world’s cities. The sights, sounds and cultures are experienced there in a way indescribable. It proves that in only a few years or even weeks, we can change and grow accustomed to our surroundings. We can become comfortable anywhere. Home then, is a state of mind and a feeling rather than a physical place. It is the comfort attained through exposure and the familiarity of a place that was once foreign. In this way the world and even the universe is our home and when we travel we are merely exploring the different rooms in our house like we did as a child. However, if we confine ourselves to one room and refuse to step over that psychological baby gate, we will forever remain infants who are aware of only a minuscule amount of humanity’s home.
I came to be called Juanito by my Spanish companions, a badge of acceptance and belonging. Without them, this story would have ended before it began. So this is a tidbit of my story, a story that took place not too long ago, one of those pivotal moments in a man’s life when he doesn’t know where he is headed or what he is doing until life grabs him by the hand and inevitably directs him on a path that he could not have even dreamed of only a short time ago. This is a story of pain, of love and of loss and the process of finding oneself in the harshest ways known to man. There were many times when I thought it was all over and I fought and fled like any animal would do. But had I been cornered with no way out, I would have faced death and the inevitable circumstances with the knowledge that the circle of life continues. My body would return to the earth and feed the hungry. It would provide mulch for the trees and grass and I would accept that fate, for such is nature. And we are as much a part of nature as the trees in the forest and the animals in the field. We like to separate and remove ourselves from nature, claiming that we are somehow different and not subject to its laws and forces, but that is where we err. There is no joy without sorrow. There is no life without death.
I knew from a young age that I was destined for a lifetime of personal discovery, amid self doubts. The details of this tumultuous past are interspersed throughout; however it is my desire to start this tale at a time when I had already been on the road for quite some duration. Up to this point, I spent my lifetime running from my fears and taking solace in foreign cultures. I had many questions and still do, however the answers to some of those nagging doubts have since been somewhat quieted, thanks in part to the events contained in the coming pages.
This novel is a celebration of life in all its ups and downs. The events contained herein were not always pleasant or easy, in fact seldom so, but I will attempt to reflect the events and nature of life accurately. Some may balk at the more unpleasant scenes, forgetting that life has both rain clouds and sunshine. And for that I am truly sorry. I can only ask such people this question - can one really enjoy the beauty of a balmy summer without experiencing the harshness of a long, bitter winter? In fact, it is in the experience of these winters and not the avoidance of them, that we discover the condition of our souls.
It is my full intention to tell my story as it happened and to leave nothing out, as far as my memory allows, except for those tidbits of sensitive information that should not make its way to print for fear of repercussions. The beauty of Guatemala will live on in my heart forever, but the tactics and brutality of the Kaibiles, should they be exposed in full, could potentially have consequences even to this day.
However, I have learned that we are adaptable. Through a conscious effort we can often see the other side of the coin and learn to appreciate things from another’s perspective. The farm that I grew up on was simple and quaint and it was there that I first developed a love for the country and a sense of familiarity in the long grasses in the field. I felt comfortable among the trees and vines of the forests and even when I didn’t know the way back home, I didn’t worry because I knew that I was already home. This is what I lived and breathed and I grew to cherish these memories in my heart. This was my home and I felt much more comfortable there than among the confusion and the crowds in the city. And I still do. However I have learned to tolerate, nay enjoy, the experiences and fast paced environments of the world’s cities. The sights, sounds and cultures are experienced there in a way indescribable. It proves that in only a few years or even weeks, we can change and grow accustomed to our surroundings. We can become comfortable anywhere. Home then, is a state of mind and a feeling rather than a physical place. It is the comfort attained through exposure and the familiarity of a place that was once foreign. In this way the world and even the universe is our home and when we travel we are merely exploring the different rooms in our house like we did as a child. However, if we confine ourselves to one room and refuse to step over that psychological baby gate, we will forever remain infants who are aware of only a minuscule amount of humanity’s home.
I came to be called Juanito by my Spanish companions, a badge of acceptance and belonging. Without them, this story would have ended before it began. So this is a tidbit of my story, a story that took place not too long ago, one of those pivotal moments in a man’s life when he doesn’t know where he is headed or what he is doing until life grabs him by the hand and inevitably directs him on a path that he could not have even dreamed of only a short time ago. This is a story of pain, of love and of loss and the process of finding oneself in the harshest ways known to man. There were many times when I thought it was all over and I fought and fled like any animal would do. But had I been cornered with no way out, I would have faced death and the inevitable circumstances with the knowledge that the circle of life continues. My body would return to the earth and feed the hungry. It would provide mulch for the trees and grass and I would accept that fate, for such is nature. And we are as much a part of nature as the trees in the forest and the animals in the field. We like to separate and remove ourselves from nature, claiming that we are somehow different and not subject to its laws and forces, but that is where we err. There is no joy without sorrow. There is no life without death.
I knew from a young age that I was destined for a lifetime of personal discovery, amid self doubts. The details of this tumultuous past are interspersed throughout; however it is my desire to start this tale at a time when I had already been on the road for quite some duration. Up to this point, I spent my lifetime running from my fears and taking solace in foreign cultures. I had many questions and still do, however the answers to some of those nagging doubts have since been somewhat quieted, thanks in part to the events contained in the coming pages.
This novel is a celebration of life in all its ups and downs. The events contained herein were not always pleasant or easy, in fact seldom so, but I will attempt to reflect the events and nature of life accurately. Some may balk at the more unpleasant scenes, forgetting that life has both rain clouds and sunshine. And for that I am truly sorry. I can only ask such people this question - can one really enjoy the beauty of a balmy summer without experiencing the harshness of a long, bitter winter? In fact, it is in the experience of these winters and not the avoidance of them, that we discover the condition of our souls.
It is my full intention to tell my story as it happened and to leave nothing out, as far as my memory allows, except for those tidbits of sensitive information that should not make its way to print for fear of repercussions. The beauty of Guatemala will live on in my heart forever, but the tactics and brutality of the Kaibiles, should they be exposed in full, could potentially have consequences even to this day.
Chapter 1
I think I have found my home. I have had many temporary homes in my life, but this one is different from the rest. It is a bustle of activity on the cobblestone streets, yet somehow slow and relaxing at the same time. Once over the bridge and past the DJ playing Latino dance music next to uniformed guards carrying government issue assault rifles, multi colored buildings stand in a row and vendors call out selling street meat or sit in the shade of palm trees chopping coconuts, mangos and pineapples with long machetes. Luggage rains down from the roof of the tour bus onto the hard, stone streets as the passengers rush to protect their belongings from inevitable damage. I am glad I kept my guitar with me on the ride, rather than allow it to be subjected to such abuse. I collect my backpack from the pile and slowly walk away from the bus with all its commotion, stopping to say hello to a small, ancient woman with the distinctive features of a Mayan. My mouth is parched, so I buy a bag of coconut water from her with little chunks of coconut flesh floating inside. I puncture a small hole in the bottom and put the bag to my lips relishing the sweet, warm liquid as I squeeze the bag until it is empty. The woman nods in thanks when I pay her and I continue my stroll down to the water’s edge. It is tea stained much like the lakes of northern Ontario that filter through the rocks and brush, picking up the colour of the leaves but leaving behind their impurities forming clean, albeit brownish coloured lakes. My backpack and guitar case feel heavy in the blazing hot mid afternoon sun, so I turn back toward the street and enter the first hotel I see. The architecture is as surprising as the paint work; a shade of pink dulled from many years of wear covers both the interior and exterior of the building. A large sign declares it to be Hotel La Canoa and I enter under a white awning and through a large, roll up garage door into the courtyard. I weave through a maze of tables and chairs and talk to the manager in Spanish, asking for a room.
“¿Tienes una habitación por una semana?”
The man behind the bar is in his mid thirties, wearing a dirty Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sandals, all past their prime. He can’t hide the surprise in his eyes to see a foreigner like myself speaking Spanish. “¿Si, por una semana?”
I nod an affirmative. I can see that he is wondering why his new Spanish speaking customer is staying for a week on this tiny island, but he doesn’t question it.
“Ok, cuatrocientos noventa y cinco.”
I look into his eyes and he stares back with unwavering conviction. I know the price is about a time and a half more than he would have charged a local, but it still works out to about ten Canadian dollars a day, way cheaper than anything back home. I decide not to haggle with him about the price, choosing instead to allow him this tiny victory. It is a decision that would prove to serve me well in the coming days. I hand him the quetzales and he shrugs, grabs a room key off of a hook behind his desk and guides the way up one of the three main steel staircases that lead to the top floor. The door to my new room swings open to reveal two single beds separated by a small night stand, which are the only furnishings in the room, while an ancient dusty ceiling fan provides little relief from the mid afternoon heat. A small step up through a wooden door that doesn’t fully latch provides access to the bathroom, an equally ancient room with a grimy shower stall in the corner. An electrical outlet beside the shower head catches my eye and I shake my head slightly, unused to the apparent disregard for safety. Despite the room’s shortcomings, it looks comfortable and clean enough to provide a decent place to sleep. I tell the manager that I am satisfied and he leaves me so I can freshen up. After a little searching, I find a package of nag champa in the bottom of my bag and I light the incense, the sweet smell of smoke filling the room and reminding me of home. I stick the end in a small insect hole in the wall, and let the ashes drift down onto the wooden floor. I lie down on the bed to relax. Despite the newness of the country and my surroundings, I am lulled into a peaceful sleep, the pleasant smell of incense filling the outdated room while I think to myself that it is the little things that make us feel like we belong.
I open my eyes and am surprised with how late it is and how dark the room has become. I thought I had only been lying down for a moment, but that moment turned into several hours. I hadn’t realized how tired I actually was; the long day on the bus and hassling with the border guards at immigration had taken its toll. I stretch and yawn, and roll off the bed onto my bare feet, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Hearing some commotion in the street, I open the thin wooden door to my room and look out. The humid night air wraps around me like a thick blanket, but the midday heat has mellowed to a more tolerable temperature. The room overlooks a brightly lit courtyard where random hotel guests walk between the many potted palm plants growing in random locations, some hanging in baskets from the overhangs, others pushed up against the wall and still others in the middle of the concrete walkways like they had been thrown there by accident. I retrace the confusing labyrinth of walkways and stairs, down through the courtyard and stand under the awning to see what the commotion is all about. Early model vehicles fill the streets. Datsuns and Toyotas, ancient but still in excellent shape, vie for space in the streets with mopeds and pedestrians. I can hear live music playing and people shouting and swaying to the melody. My brain still foggy with sleep, I try to figure out what it is all about. I pause for a moment and then recall a scene from the day before; a local man had been arranging a display of flowers in the streets and splashing them with water from a bucket. As that memory comes back to me, the answer to my question becomes clear. It is Semana Santa here, which translated means Week of the Saint. The predominantly Catholic population celebrates this holiday, which is held at the time of the North American Easter, with parades, beautiful flower arrangements, live music and lots of alcohol. This holiday is spent with family and friends, with many trips to the local church and late nights dancing through the streets. I am sticky from sweating in the day’s heat, so I return to my room for a cold shower and wash away the stink of the day. I grab my day pack and my journal and head down to grab some food and join in the festivities.
“’Ello, mate, fancy seein’ you here.” A blonde haired Australian kid in his twenties, wearing a red t-shirt and beige shorts gives me an impish grin. I had seen him on the bus heading out here but had never struck up a conversation. He had been travelling with another Australian guy and a girl, all about the same age. “Mind if I join ya?”
“Yeah man, grab a chair,” I motion to the one across from me. “Crazy party out there, eh? I can’t believe how many people are in the streets.” I’ve occupied a table under the awning which sticks out into the street on the patio below my room; I rest the daypack and book on the ground underneath my chair, momentarily relieved of its weight.
“Oh yeah, my mates’ll be down soon to join in, I figured I’d get a head start on them though.” He winks and pulls a bottle of local rum out of his backpack and puts it on the table in front of us. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He weaves his way through the parked cars, his flip flops tapping out a rhythm on the road. He comes back moments later bearing four bags of coconut water from the Mayan lady who has never left her post under the tree. I catch the manager’s eye and ask for some empty glasses. I like this kid already... he has the happy-go-lucky, carefree attitude that I have since learned to attribute to Australians and travellers in general.
“I’m Nick by the way.” He introduces himself as soon as he returns with the coconut water and sets it down gingerly on the table next to the rum.
I smile in reply. “Where are you from, Nick?”
“Melbourne, Australia.”
“I figured as much.” I give him a grin in return and lean back in my chair watching Nick pour generous helpings of rum into each glass. From over his shoulder I can see his friends approaching us, not in the least concerned that their buddy has already found a drinking partner without them.
Looking up, Nick notices them. “Here comes Sarah and Mark. Now all we’ll be talking about is unicorns and rainbows. Pair of hippies, the both of them.”
He laughs and hands me a drink. I greet the newcomers with a smile and the night air becomes alive, charged with an unspoken connection the instant Sarah’s eyes meet mine. They are a brilliant blue/green and they dance in the dim overhead lights, full of life. Her eyes speak of an ancient but universal language, rarely known but once heard, impossible to forget. It is a language without words, one that transcends the boundaries and barriers of time and distance; language and dialect completely unnecessary. It is a chance encounter, an occurrence of two unlikely souls meeting for the first time in a place foreign to both, but somehow immediately familiar as though it had happened in the past and we were merely reuniting after a long absence. I hold her gaze for perhaps a moment too long, my heart speaking words that my mouth can’t utter. Her cheeks grow rosy and I can see myself reflected in her. She is the first to break the gaze. A long, flowing, patterned brown dress clings to her body in the damp night air; a necklace of beads adorns her neck. Her features are dainty, yet dark as though she has spent a lifetime in the sun. A flowing mane of wavy, dirty blonde hair frames her face and carelessly falls about her shoulders. She is earth, warm, friendly and direct.
Her friend is slightly behind, a shorter man, broad at the shoulders and also very dark, browned by a strange mixture of tribal genetics and a strong Australian sun. Long black dreadlocks fall halfway down his back and he has them bunched together at the nape of his neck in a sort of pony tail. I break the silence with an introduction and Sarah responds, an obvious leader. Mark answers as well, slightly more reserved.
“What brings you guys down here?” I direct my question at the group but I focus on Sarah, awaiting her reply.
“The same thing that brings all young people from all over to foreign countries,” A smile plays about her lips. “Adventure, discovery and too many student loans.”
“Cheap rum, mate. Latino girls and salsa music. I chucked a sickie and took off for a few weeks.” Nick jumps up and does a little jig to the music playing all around us. The other two roll their eyes and Mark speaks for the first time.
“Nick’s on the rebound, his girl left him for some Swedish guy who came across the pond on vacation.”
“Yeah, well her loss,” Nick shrugs it off, “Girlfriends are overrated. What about you man, what’s your story?”
Nick’s question catches me off guard and I have to think before I can answer. What do I tell these happy-go-lucky people? I don’t even know the proper answer to that question. Do I tell them the truth, about running? About the sleepless nights at home and constantly checking my back? Do I speak of the endless quarrels with my now ex-girlfriend, or of our baby daughter who I had never met and is now pushing two? Do I speak of the guilt that I feel for allowing her to grow up without a father? Do I tell them what I’ve never told anyone, a secret that I’ve bottled up for years about the look in a dying man’s eyes which haunt my dreams at night? Do I tell them of the bridges I’ve burned and the mistakes I’ve made, of the cities, towns and countries I’ve wandered through in search of peace and forgiveness? Or do I tell them what I tell everyone, that half truth half lie about taking a sabbatical from work to find myself and see new sights? I opt for the latter and tell them briefly about my hometown in Canada and the places I’ve been. I’m in the right crowd. They nod and understand the need to get away as only one who has experienced it can understand. They don’t press for details and I’m just as happy not giving them. Anything more would have been a lie anyway. The last few years have become something that I’m not proud of; I have deviated from my ideals out of necessity, creating a different, less painful past. But no matter how much running I do, or how convincing my story becomes the truth remains a thorn in my soul, prodding and festering. The conversation around the table ebbs and flows like the waves of a mighty ocean, silent at times and quite animated at others. I sit back and take in the sights and sounds of this beautiful place, my heart for a moment lightened by my surroundings and I muse at the accents of my new found friends. They tell stories of Australia and New Zealand, of Europe and Asia. They ask again of Canada and I tell them of the northern pines and of the thousands of fishing lakes. I explain the northern lights and describe the power of Niagara Falls. I tell them of the monotony of the prairies and of the mighty mountains in the West. The rum is going down faster now, and the trips to the Mayan woman more frequent for a refill of fresh coconut water. In one of the more quiet moments I mention how despite the fact the roads are jammed with vehicles and people; everyone here is friendly and waits patiently for an opening. I remark how the drivers get out and share in the festivities in the streets, instead of honking their horns.
“The traffic back home can be a nightmare sometimes, stop and go, horns honking and people losing their tempers. That’s one thing I definitely don’t miss. Traffic jams are the worst.”
Sarah touches the glass of rum slowly to her lips, barely sampling the amber liquid it contains. She looks me in the eyes with a friendly smile and crosses her legs, the streetlights bathing her in an orange glow. “The single raindrop never feels responsible for the flood.” I ponder that statement for a moment and I recognize the absolute truth of it.
“So just to make sure I’m clear, then. I’m the raindrop and the traffic jam is the flood?”
“Well more specifically, all of the cars in the traffic jam are raindrops and you’re just one more. Partly to blame, but not accepting that you are in fact, part of the problem. It’s a saying in our home town.” Mark chuckles and stretches his legs out, the picture of satisfaction.
I laugh to myself, remembering the frustration and anger I had often experienced, and make up my mind that I am going to try to look at it that way from now on, relieved perhaps at having a new perspective. I counter with a statement of my own, mostly to hold Sarah’s attention. I enjoy talking to her.
“Yes, but a single raindrop, being absent from the flood goes unnoticed. How then is it responsible?”
Her eyebrows furrow and it is a moment before she speaks. “On its own, a raindrop is merely that, a raindrop. You are right, it isn’t responsible because it had no choice to be there, it was merely formed in the clouds and fell wherever it landed. However every part of a whole thing is responsible for the creation of the whole, no matter how minutely. With the flood, were one raindrop taken away you wouldn’t know it, but the fact is that it is still a flood minus one drop. And if enough drops are taken away it ceases to be a flood. It is the same with traffic and people only we are more responsible than a raindrop! The raindrop had no choice but to fall, we have a choice to leave early or late to avoid traffic or not go at all. How useless is it to lose your temper at people that are on the same road, the very same path that you yourself are on and heading together in the same direction? Can you fault someone for doing the same thing that you are doing?”
“So the answer then lies in acceptance, and a realization that we are all in this together? That anger is useless because we would just be getting angry at ourselves and our co travellers that are like ourselves?”
Sarah brightens at this. “Exactly! The Dalai Lama said that foolish people are always thinking of themselves and the result is negative. Wise people think of others, helping them as much as they can and the result is happiness. It’s all in your state of mind, how you perceive events and react to them. We all encounter obstacles in life.”
We all nod in agreement and the table goes silent for a minute. Mark uses his finger to stir his drink.
“You’re right; we all do encounter obstacles in life, some more so than others. Who is happier then, the one that has had an easy life or the one that has had a hard life?” I feel it is a question that he has asked before, something of a test to see what I am made of. It is a good question and I think for a moment, refusing to take the bait until someone else answers. Sarah speaks first.
“Again, it depends on their outlook. I’ve known some very unhappy wealthy people and some very happy poor people.” She turns to me. “What do you think?”
“I agree, sometimes I feel that the people who have had a hard life and better themselves are the happiest of all, because they’ve seen both sides of the spectrum and survived.”
Finishing his drink, Nick stands up a little unsteadily. He puts his hand on the table to regain his balance. “The happiest is the one who’s the most pissed, I’d say.” He laughs. “I’m off to the bottle shop for a stubby, do you wanna check out the band and see what’s happening?” There is a small pause and I wait for Sarah to make her decision. “I mean, we could sit here all night and talk about life or we can actually go out and live it. Maybe we should give you guys some alone time?” Nick grins an impish grin at Sarah and I and she reddens almost imperceptibly in the night air.
“Naw, that’s cool, let’s go see the band.” The chair legs scrape the concrete patio with a dull sound as Sarah pushes her chair back and stands up. She glances at me quickly. “You coming?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “No, I want to walk around a bit and check out the island. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”
“Suit yourself. We’ll keep in touch.” Sarah’s demeanor is that of nonchalance and I wonder if I made a mistake by not going. I remain seated at the table and watch as the three Australians disappear into the night among the pedestrians and concert goers in the streets before getting up and tipping the manager for the use of his drinking glasses. As he goes to collect the glasses from the table where we left them, I can’t help but notice the fuchsia stain on the rim of Sarah’s, where her light coloured lip stick left its mark. It is an instant painful reminder of all the love that I left walk away in times past and present, leaving me suddenly feeling almost empty inside. I kick myself mentally for not capitalizing on the moment, but I shake such thoughts from my head and gather my things together, strap my book to my back and leave the patio. I find myself walking down to the water’s edge, my mind still at the table speaking to a beautiful girl about tolerance and patience. I realize that for the first time in a while I had forgotten my problems and had become immersed in a new feeling, a feeling of hope and the renewal of life. No tirar la basura al lago. The hand painted sign with block letters reminding me not to throw garbage in the lake is nailed to a tree right in front of me at the water’s edge. I sit down at the base of it and look out across Lago Petén Itzá. I take out my notebook and start scribbling barely legible words as the faint breeze creates miniature ripples across the surface of the lake. The moon, high in the sky at this point, reflects across the surface, shimmering and shaking creating a faint glow on the landscape. The mountains on the other side of the lake appear dark and ominous but I remember how in the daytime they rose over the lake majestically, the palm trees barely visible in the distance. I think of the boy, Santiago, who followed his heart across the Egyptian desert in search of his treasure and remember the saying. When a heart wants something really bad, the whole universe conspires to help him get it. My own heart lightens a bit and I make a mental note to re-read The Alchemist. Perhaps now I can get a better understanding or a different meaning from it. My mind wonders back to a distant time in a faraway place, where sparks flew and another chance meeting with another girl caused me to lose my heart, if only for a little while. I can remember it like yesterday, her cheeks framed by a faux fur hood and rosy from the cold, her smile and her eyes like Medusa’s stealing the words from my mouth and turning them to stone. When I found my voice, we talked for hours about life, about love, and about our plans for the future. I told her I loved her, something that had never happened before or since.
“You’ve heard of Socrates I guess?” We were walking side by side down a frozen walkway; I was taking her home.
“Yes..,” she paused and she frowned. “But I don’t know much about him. What did he do?”
“He was a philosopher; Plato was his student. He was famous for coming up with a method of questioning called the Socratic Method. People still use it today to some extent.”
“You’re always so serious,” She smiled at me in the darkness and gave me a playful punch on the shoulder. “I think it’s cute. Tell me about this method though.” She decided to humour me.
I laughed. “Well let me ask you a question,” I countered, “Is loyalty a good thing?”
She answered quickly, without reservation. “Of course it is. Loyalty is a very good thing. It's what you can base trust off of.”
“True. But what about loyalty in the sense of being loyal to your country? What about the Germans that were super loyal to Hitler and ultimately killed six million Jews and led to a world war? Was that a good loyalty? And what if you are super loyal to your spouse, but the spouse is going out and cheating every weekend? Is that a good loyalty?”
She looked slightly rueful. “Oh dear... yeah. Where to begin. You raise some very good points and I'd be dumb to dispute them because you're right and in those cases loyalty is questionable.”
I gave her a smile. “You’re not wrong; you’re just not one hundred percent right. What if you said loyalty is a very good thing, but only if you are loyal to a just cause or a deserving person?”
“Sounds about right.”
“So what if you were loyal to a good cause that helped poor people in Africa? But then you find out that half the funds you donated were being stolen by rebels and went to child slavery rather than the organizations goals? According to our last statement that’s still a good thing, but logic tells us otherwise. So we have to change the answer yet again.” We both laughed at how ridiculous it could become. “Sometimes it gets out of hand, but that's Socrates method of inquiry. You take a seemingly correct statement and prove it false. Then you amend it to make it more correct until you are finally satisfied with your answer.”
She had just shaken her head. “Well, good job Socrates and you!”
At that point we had arrived at her door and I awkwardly gave her a hug. She leaned in for a kiss and when our lips met there was no holding back on the passion that that kiss had sparked. The night was long and sleepless, and when I returned home the next morning I slept fitfully, dreaming only of her. It is strange how time and circumstance changes so much, how such a passionate feeling is now only a distant memory and a faint feeling on a humid night, dancing across the waves and replaying itself in my mind’s eye. The memory leaves me a little homesick and I leave my perch under the tree and wander the streets, the music loud in my ears while ancient scenes still flit uninvited through my conscience.
“¿Tienes una habitación por una semana?”
The man behind the bar is in his mid thirties, wearing a dirty Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sandals, all past their prime. He can’t hide the surprise in his eyes to see a foreigner like myself speaking Spanish. “¿Si, por una semana?”
I nod an affirmative. I can see that he is wondering why his new Spanish speaking customer is staying for a week on this tiny island, but he doesn’t question it.
“Ok, cuatrocientos noventa y cinco.”
I look into his eyes and he stares back with unwavering conviction. I know the price is about a time and a half more than he would have charged a local, but it still works out to about ten Canadian dollars a day, way cheaper than anything back home. I decide not to haggle with him about the price, choosing instead to allow him this tiny victory. It is a decision that would prove to serve me well in the coming days. I hand him the quetzales and he shrugs, grabs a room key off of a hook behind his desk and guides the way up one of the three main steel staircases that lead to the top floor. The door to my new room swings open to reveal two single beds separated by a small night stand, which are the only furnishings in the room, while an ancient dusty ceiling fan provides little relief from the mid afternoon heat. A small step up through a wooden door that doesn’t fully latch provides access to the bathroom, an equally ancient room with a grimy shower stall in the corner. An electrical outlet beside the shower head catches my eye and I shake my head slightly, unused to the apparent disregard for safety. Despite the room’s shortcomings, it looks comfortable and clean enough to provide a decent place to sleep. I tell the manager that I am satisfied and he leaves me so I can freshen up. After a little searching, I find a package of nag champa in the bottom of my bag and I light the incense, the sweet smell of smoke filling the room and reminding me of home. I stick the end in a small insect hole in the wall, and let the ashes drift down onto the wooden floor. I lie down on the bed to relax. Despite the newness of the country and my surroundings, I am lulled into a peaceful sleep, the pleasant smell of incense filling the outdated room while I think to myself that it is the little things that make us feel like we belong.
I open my eyes and am surprised with how late it is and how dark the room has become. I thought I had only been lying down for a moment, but that moment turned into several hours. I hadn’t realized how tired I actually was; the long day on the bus and hassling with the border guards at immigration had taken its toll. I stretch and yawn, and roll off the bed onto my bare feet, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Hearing some commotion in the street, I open the thin wooden door to my room and look out. The humid night air wraps around me like a thick blanket, but the midday heat has mellowed to a more tolerable temperature. The room overlooks a brightly lit courtyard where random hotel guests walk between the many potted palm plants growing in random locations, some hanging in baskets from the overhangs, others pushed up against the wall and still others in the middle of the concrete walkways like they had been thrown there by accident. I retrace the confusing labyrinth of walkways and stairs, down through the courtyard and stand under the awning to see what the commotion is all about. Early model vehicles fill the streets. Datsuns and Toyotas, ancient but still in excellent shape, vie for space in the streets with mopeds and pedestrians. I can hear live music playing and people shouting and swaying to the melody. My brain still foggy with sleep, I try to figure out what it is all about. I pause for a moment and then recall a scene from the day before; a local man had been arranging a display of flowers in the streets and splashing them with water from a bucket. As that memory comes back to me, the answer to my question becomes clear. It is Semana Santa here, which translated means Week of the Saint. The predominantly Catholic population celebrates this holiday, which is held at the time of the North American Easter, with parades, beautiful flower arrangements, live music and lots of alcohol. This holiday is spent with family and friends, with many trips to the local church and late nights dancing through the streets. I am sticky from sweating in the day’s heat, so I return to my room for a cold shower and wash away the stink of the day. I grab my day pack and my journal and head down to grab some food and join in the festivities.
“’Ello, mate, fancy seein’ you here.” A blonde haired Australian kid in his twenties, wearing a red t-shirt and beige shorts gives me an impish grin. I had seen him on the bus heading out here but had never struck up a conversation. He had been travelling with another Australian guy and a girl, all about the same age. “Mind if I join ya?”
“Yeah man, grab a chair,” I motion to the one across from me. “Crazy party out there, eh? I can’t believe how many people are in the streets.” I’ve occupied a table under the awning which sticks out into the street on the patio below my room; I rest the daypack and book on the ground underneath my chair, momentarily relieved of its weight.
“Oh yeah, my mates’ll be down soon to join in, I figured I’d get a head start on them though.” He winks and pulls a bottle of local rum out of his backpack and puts it on the table in front of us. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He weaves his way through the parked cars, his flip flops tapping out a rhythm on the road. He comes back moments later bearing four bags of coconut water from the Mayan lady who has never left her post under the tree. I catch the manager’s eye and ask for some empty glasses. I like this kid already... he has the happy-go-lucky, carefree attitude that I have since learned to attribute to Australians and travellers in general.
“I’m Nick by the way.” He introduces himself as soon as he returns with the coconut water and sets it down gingerly on the table next to the rum.
I smile in reply. “Where are you from, Nick?”
“Melbourne, Australia.”
“I figured as much.” I give him a grin in return and lean back in my chair watching Nick pour generous helpings of rum into each glass. From over his shoulder I can see his friends approaching us, not in the least concerned that their buddy has already found a drinking partner without them.
Looking up, Nick notices them. “Here comes Sarah and Mark. Now all we’ll be talking about is unicorns and rainbows. Pair of hippies, the both of them.”
He laughs and hands me a drink. I greet the newcomers with a smile and the night air becomes alive, charged with an unspoken connection the instant Sarah’s eyes meet mine. They are a brilliant blue/green and they dance in the dim overhead lights, full of life. Her eyes speak of an ancient but universal language, rarely known but once heard, impossible to forget. It is a language without words, one that transcends the boundaries and barriers of time and distance; language and dialect completely unnecessary. It is a chance encounter, an occurrence of two unlikely souls meeting for the first time in a place foreign to both, but somehow immediately familiar as though it had happened in the past and we were merely reuniting after a long absence. I hold her gaze for perhaps a moment too long, my heart speaking words that my mouth can’t utter. Her cheeks grow rosy and I can see myself reflected in her. She is the first to break the gaze. A long, flowing, patterned brown dress clings to her body in the damp night air; a necklace of beads adorns her neck. Her features are dainty, yet dark as though she has spent a lifetime in the sun. A flowing mane of wavy, dirty blonde hair frames her face and carelessly falls about her shoulders. She is earth, warm, friendly and direct.
Her friend is slightly behind, a shorter man, broad at the shoulders and also very dark, browned by a strange mixture of tribal genetics and a strong Australian sun. Long black dreadlocks fall halfway down his back and he has them bunched together at the nape of his neck in a sort of pony tail. I break the silence with an introduction and Sarah responds, an obvious leader. Mark answers as well, slightly more reserved.
“What brings you guys down here?” I direct my question at the group but I focus on Sarah, awaiting her reply.
“The same thing that brings all young people from all over to foreign countries,” A smile plays about her lips. “Adventure, discovery and too many student loans.”
“Cheap rum, mate. Latino girls and salsa music. I chucked a sickie and took off for a few weeks.” Nick jumps up and does a little jig to the music playing all around us. The other two roll their eyes and Mark speaks for the first time.
“Nick’s on the rebound, his girl left him for some Swedish guy who came across the pond on vacation.”
“Yeah, well her loss,” Nick shrugs it off, “Girlfriends are overrated. What about you man, what’s your story?”
Nick’s question catches me off guard and I have to think before I can answer. What do I tell these happy-go-lucky people? I don’t even know the proper answer to that question. Do I tell them the truth, about running? About the sleepless nights at home and constantly checking my back? Do I speak of the endless quarrels with my now ex-girlfriend, or of our baby daughter who I had never met and is now pushing two? Do I speak of the guilt that I feel for allowing her to grow up without a father? Do I tell them what I’ve never told anyone, a secret that I’ve bottled up for years about the look in a dying man’s eyes which haunt my dreams at night? Do I tell them of the bridges I’ve burned and the mistakes I’ve made, of the cities, towns and countries I’ve wandered through in search of peace and forgiveness? Or do I tell them what I tell everyone, that half truth half lie about taking a sabbatical from work to find myself and see new sights? I opt for the latter and tell them briefly about my hometown in Canada and the places I’ve been. I’m in the right crowd. They nod and understand the need to get away as only one who has experienced it can understand. They don’t press for details and I’m just as happy not giving them. Anything more would have been a lie anyway. The last few years have become something that I’m not proud of; I have deviated from my ideals out of necessity, creating a different, less painful past. But no matter how much running I do, or how convincing my story becomes the truth remains a thorn in my soul, prodding and festering. The conversation around the table ebbs and flows like the waves of a mighty ocean, silent at times and quite animated at others. I sit back and take in the sights and sounds of this beautiful place, my heart for a moment lightened by my surroundings and I muse at the accents of my new found friends. They tell stories of Australia and New Zealand, of Europe and Asia. They ask again of Canada and I tell them of the northern pines and of the thousands of fishing lakes. I explain the northern lights and describe the power of Niagara Falls. I tell them of the monotony of the prairies and of the mighty mountains in the West. The rum is going down faster now, and the trips to the Mayan woman more frequent for a refill of fresh coconut water. In one of the more quiet moments I mention how despite the fact the roads are jammed with vehicles and people; everyone here is friendly and waits patiently for an opening. I remark how the drivers get out and share in the festivities in the streets, instead of honking their horns.
“The traffic back home can be a nightmare sometimes, stop and go, horns honking and people losing their tempers. That’s one thing I definitely don’t miss. Traffic jams are the worst.”
Sarah touches the glass of rum slowly to her lips, barely sampling the amber liquid it contains. She looks me in the eyes with a friendly smile and crosses her legs, the streetlights bathing her in an orange glow. “The single raindrop never feels responsible for the flood.” I ponder that statement for a moment and I recognize the absolute truth of it.
“So just to make sure I’m clear, then. I’m the raindrop and the traffic jam is the flood?”
“Well more specifically, all of the cars in the traffic jam are raindrops and you’re just one more. Partly to blame, but not accepting that you are in fact, part of the problem. It’s a saying in our home town.” Mark chuckles and stretches his legs out, the picture of satisfaction.
I laugh to myself, remembering the frustration and anger I had often experienced, and make up my mind that I am going to try to look at it that way from now on, relieved perhaps at having a new perspective. I counter with a statement of my own, mostly to hold Sarah’s attention. I enjoy talking to her.
“Yes, but a single raindrop, being absent from the flood goes unnoticed. How then is it responsible?”
Her eyebrows furrow and it is a moment before she speaks. “On its own, a raindrop is merely that, a raindrop. You are right, it isn’t responsible because it had no choice to be there, it was merely formed in the clouds and fell wherever it landed. However every part of a whole thing is responsible for the creation of the whole, no matter how minutely. With the flood, were one raindrop taken away you wouldn’t know it, but the fact is that it is still a flood minus one drop. And if enough drops are taken away it ceases to be a flood. It is the same with traffic and people only we are more responsible than a raindrop! The raindrop had no choice but to fall, we have a choice to leave early or late to avoid traffic or not go at all. How useless is it to lose your temper at people that are on the same road, the very same path that you yourself are on and heading together in the same direction? Can you fault someone for doing the same thing that you are doing?”
“So the answer then lies in acceptance, and a realization that we are all in this together? That anger is useless because we would just be getting angry at ourselves and our co travellers that are like ourselves?”
Sarah brightens at this. “Exactly! The Dalai Lama said that foolish people are always thinking of themselves and the result is negative. Wise people think of others, helping them as much as they can and the result is happiness. It’s all in your state of mind, how you perceive events and react to them. We all encounter obstacles in life.”
We all nod in agreement and the table goes silent for a minute. Mark uses his finger to stir his drink.
“You’re right; we all do encounter obstacles in life, some more so than others. Who is happier then, the one that has had an easy life or the one that has had a hard life?” I feel it is a question that he has asked before, something of a test to see what I am made of. It is a good question and I think for a moment, refusing to take the bait until someone else answers. Sarah speaks first.
“Again, it depends on their outlook. I’ve known some very unhappy wealthy people and some very happy poor people.” She turns to me. “What do you think?”
“I agree, sometimes I feel that the people who have had a hard life and better themselves are the happiest of all, because they’ve seen both sides of the spectrum and survived.”
Finishing his drink, Nick stands up a little unsteadily. He puts his hand on the table to regain his balance. “The happiest is the one who’s the most pissed, I’d say.” He laughs. “I’m off to the bottle shop for a stubby, do you wanna check out the band and see what’s happening?” There is a small pause and I wait for Sarah to make her decision. “I mean, we could sit here all night and talk about life or we can actually go out and live it. Maybe we should give you guys some alone time?” Nick grins an impish grin at Sarah and I and she reddens almost imperceptibly in the night air.
“Naw, that’s cool, let’s go see the band.” The chair legs scrape the concrete patio with a dull sound as Sarah pushes her chair back and stands up. She glances at me quickly. “You coming?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “No, I want to walk around a bit and check out the island. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”
“Suit yourself. We’ll keep in touch.” Sarah’s demeanor is that of nonchalance and I wonder if I made a mistake by not going. I remain seated at the table and watch as the three Australians disappear into the night among the pedestrians and concert goers in the streets before getting up and tipping the manager for the use of his drinking glasses. As he goes to collect the glasses from the table where we left them, I can’t help but notice the fuchsia stain on the rim of Sarah’s, where her light coloured lip stick left its mark. It is an instant painful reminder of all the love that I left walk away in times past and present, leaving me suddenly feeling almost empty inside. I kick myself mentally for not capitalizing on the moment, but I shake such thoughts from my head and gather my things together, strap my book to my back and leave the patio. I find myself walking down to the water’s edge, my mind still at the table speaking to a beautiful girl about tolerance and patience. I realize that for the first time in a while I had forgotten my problems and had become immersed in a new feeling, a feeling of hope and the renewal of life. No tirar la basura al lago. The hand painted sign with block letters reminding me not to throw garbage in the lake is nailed to a tree right in front of me at the water’s edge. I sit down at the base of it and look out across Lago Petén Itzá. I take out my notebook and start scribbling barely legible words as the faint breeze creates miniature ripples across the surface of the lake. The moon, high in the sky at this point, reflects across the surface, shimmering and shaking creating a faint glow on the landscape. The mountains on the other side of the lake appear dark and ominous but I remember how in the daytime they rose over the lake majestically, the palm trees barely visible in the distance. I think of the boy, Santiago, who followed his heart across the Egyptian desert in search of his treasure and remember the saying. When a heart wants something really bad, the whole universe conspires to help him get it. My own heart lightens a bit and I make a mental note to re-read The Alchemist. Perhaps now I can get a better understanding or a different meaning from it. My mind wonders back to a distant time in a faraway place, where sparks flew and another chance meeting with another girl caused me to lose my heart, if only for a little while. I can remember it like yesterday, her cheeks framed by a faux fur hood and rosy from the cold, her smile and her eyes like Medusa’s stealing the words from my mouth and turning them to stone. When I found my voice, we talked for hours about life, about love, and about our plans for the future. I told her I loved her, something that had never happened before or since.
“You’ve heard of Socrates I guess?” We were walking side by side down a frozen walkway; I was taking her home.
“Yes..,” she paused and she frowned. “But I don’t know much about him. What did he do?”
“He was a philosopher; Plato was his student. He was famous for coming up with a method of questioning called the Socratic Method. People still use it today to some extent.”
“You’re always so serious,” She smiled at me in the darkness and gave me a playful punch on the shoulder. “I think it’s cute. Tell me about this method though.” She decided to humour me.
I laughed. “Well let me ask you a question,” I countered, “Is loyalty a good thing?”
She answered quickly, without reservation. “Of course it is. Loyalty is a very good thing. It's what you can base trust off of.”
“True. But what about loyalty in the sense of being loyal to your country? What about the Germans that were super loyal to Hitler and ultimately killed six million Jews and led to a world war? Was that a good loyalty? And what if you are super loyal to your spouse, but the spouse is going out and cheating every weekend? Is that a good loyalty?”
She looked slightly rueful. “Oh dear... yeah. Where to begin. You raise some very good points and I'd be dumb to dispute them because you're right and in those cases loyalty is questionable.”
I gave her a smile. “You’re not wrong; you’re just not one hundred percent right. What if you said loyalty is a very good thing, but only if you are loyal to a just cause or a deserving person?”
“Sounds about right.”
“So what if you were loyal to a good cause that helped poor people in Africa? But then you find out that half the funds you donated were being stolen by rebels and went to child slavery rather than the organizations goals? According to our last statement that’s still a good thing, but logic tells us otherwise. So we have to change the answer yet again.” We both laughed at how ridiculous it could become. “Sometimes it gets out of hand, but that's Socrates method of inquiry. You take a seemingly correct statement and prove it false. Then you amend it to make it more correct until you are finally satisfied with your answer.”
She had just shaken her head. “Well, good job Socrates and you!”
At that point we had arrived at her door and I awkwardly gave her a hug. She leaned in for a kiss and when our lips met there was no holding back on the passion that that kiss had sparked. The night was long and sleepless, and when I returned home the next morning I slept fitfully, dreaming only of her. It is strange how time and circumstance changes so much, how such a passionate feeling is now only a distant memory and a faint feeling on a humid night, dancing across the waves and replaying itself in my mind’s eye. The memory leaves me a little homesick and I leave my perch under the tree and wander the streets, the music loud in my ears while ancient scenes still flit uninvited through my conscience.
Chapter 2
It was in the year 1999 when Felipe Pérez Rodriguez was killed. He had just finished buying a coffee from the local donut shop and was walking nonchalantly back to his black and white cruiser when the man stepped in front of him and lifted the gun. It was slow motion almost; how he saw his assailant’s eyes tighten in a hard line and watched as his trigger finger squeezed of the shot. He dropped his coffee and attempted to draw his own side arm, but even Felipe knew that the act was futile. He watched in horror as the gun bucked twice in the out stretched arm of his assailant before it disappeared from view. Felipe had a moment to marvel at how fast the ground had come up to meet him, and felt the wetness in his stomach where the bullets had penetrated his uniform just underneath the bullet proof vest before the street went dark.
It is strange how the people we would take a bullet for are often the ones that pull the trigger. It all started the summer I turned 11. It was a hot humid year, one that made the effort of any simple task almost too much to bear until the sun was falling into its nest of thin clouds in the west. My sister had come home that year from a boarding school in London and we spent much of our time talking and tormenting each other as only siblings can do. The conversation started amongst the tall corn stalks in the backyard, where we were hidden from view from the large two story farm house where we lived. This house and farm were all I had ever known. Maude liked to pretend that she missed the city and was too important for me, but I knew better. This was her home as well. I don’t know how we got on the topic or why our father had seemed so upset about it over dinner. We wondered if he had something to do with it. We ran through scenarios and dreamt up reasons as kids will do.
Our father had come strolling through the fields, as he did ever day at five thirty, swinging his lunch box and chewing on a piece of timothy hay that bobbed and shook as he clenched it between his teeth and swallowed the juices that accumulated in his mouth. He called out a greeting to us kids and set his lunch pail down on the sidewalk in the summer heat while he fetched the newspaper from the stone driveway. Retrieving his lunch pail, he walked up the steps into the house and paused before entering the back door to spit out the hay that still protruded from his mouth. It was a normal routine, one that we had watched many times. Later that night after the dishes had been cleared from the table; he frowned and looked around a little, obviously agitated.
He cleared his throat. “Another murder in the papers today.”
My sister and I looked at each other.
“A cop this time. Shot down in the streets like a dog.”
“Hardly dinner time conversation, Marvin. They don’t need to hear that.” My mother’s disapproving eyes shot small daggers in his direction for ruining the mood. A fan set up at the end of the table whirred peacefully and a robin called through the open window. I was soaked with sweat.
“And why not? They are both getting older now and need to hear this as grownups. The world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There are people out there with bad intentions and it’s about time they learned it.”
The conversation stalled, mostly due to the look from our mother. But it hadn’t kept the wheels from turning and looking back on it, I am glad I was made aware of that simple truth. We all find out sooner or later, some sooner than others depending on how the straws are pulled. As Maude had said on numerous occasions, ‘Some people are just destined to pull the short straw, time and time again. You gotta make lemonade.’ She had a habit of mixing metaphors.
Life can be as simple or as complicated as you make it. But we must have drawn the short straw that summer evening because it was about to get real complicated real fast. Maude and I were outside after dinner, the corn stalks rustling about us as we hid from the late day heat that still filtered through the broad leaves of the corn around us.
“I want ice cream,” I said. “I’m sweating like a pig.”
“Pigs don’t sweat,” Maude smirked at me in my ignorance. “Why do you think they roll around in mud?”
I hadn’t really thought of it before. To me, a pig was just a pig and it rolled in mud because it was in its nature to do so. I hadn’t guessed there was an actual reason for it.
“Well I’m sweating anyway. Let’s bike into town and get an ice cream cone.” It was an innocent suggestion.
She grabbed my arm. “Want to check out where he died?”
“Who?” I was confused for a moment, my mind on frozen dairy.
“The cop, of course. It happened right downtown by the ice cream shop.” Maude was impatient, always the instigator.
“Sure, I guess.” I wasn’t a fan of blood or of ghosts and I thought there was a good likelihood of running into either, or both, a prospect that terrified me. I was already too proud to say I was scared.
“Good, I’ll tell mom.” In a flash she was gone. Moments later she emerged strapping a bike helmet under her chin. I was already saddled up and halfway down the street. I knew she could catch up. My bike was of the mountain variety, slow perhaps, but good for the dirt where I generally rode it. Maude’s was quicker, designed for the road and streamlined. Besides, she was a teenager, a fact that was rubbed into my face constantly. She blew past me, laughing over her shoulder.
Pump, pump, pump. The rhythm of my legs matched the pounding of my heart as the sidewalk, trees and neighbouring houses slowly slid past me and into the abyss behind. I was playing catch up now and I knew it. I could feel my face flushed with the heat and exertion and I knew that Maude would be nearing the ice cream shop soon. It wasn’t far. A squirrel sat up on its haunches in the sidewalk, holding an acorn and staring at me scornfully. I slowed my pace, more to ease the burning in my legs than out of concern for the squirrel. As I neared the animal, it darted behind a large oak tree and scolded me loudly for interrupting its supper.
“Hey punk!” I looked behind me and almost wobbled into the tree as a stone hit me between the shoulder blades. I sped up my pedalling to avoid falling and to get out of range. It was Mike. I never liked him. He was loud, obnoxious and a bully. I knew if he grew up in my household he would have gotten the strap. A lot. I wondered if it would’ve helped and took satisfaction in imagining it.
Maude was standing outside the shop with a double scoop chocolate ice cream cone when I arrived, with a smug look on her face. The ice cream was already starting to melt and ran a trail down her fingers and dripped on the ground.
“What took you so long?” She was rubbing it in.
I told her about Mike.
“I’ll whoop him if I see him.” She liked to have me as her own personal punching bag. If anyone else took a swing, she’d take offence. She was selfish like that. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk. I think it happened over there.” She pointed to the coffee shop on the next corner.
I lagged behind a little. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I felt foolish the instant the question left my mouth.
Maude snorted. “No. Why, are you scared?”
“No.” I denied the accusation. “But, if there were such a thing as a ghost, I would say there would be one here.”
Maude snorted again. “Just because he got shot here?”
“Yeah. He’s probably stumbling around in the darkness somewhere over our heads trying to figure out how to get back into his body.”
Maude laughed at the idea. “He should’ve brought a flashlight with him then and his glasses.”
“Where do you think he is then?” I persisted, genuinely concerned about the location of the policeman’s spirit.
“His spirit lives in the memories he left behind.”
It was the first piece of wisdom I had ever heard her speak. It made me think and I trudged along behind her in silence for a moment.
“Is that where Sandy is?” Sandy was our dog, a golden lab, which had passed away the previous year.
“Of course.” Maude smiled. She could actually be sweet sometimes. I rarely saw that side of her. “Sandy lives in your memories. She’s safe there and happy.”
“Oh.” The thought lightened my heart. “I think I found his blood.” I point at the sidewalk, recently cleaned and flooded. There was a dark stain there. I pictured the body lying in the street and shuddered. It wasn’t a good picture.
“I wonder who did it.” Maude thoughtfully looked around. “I bet he was coming from the coffee shop.”
“Why? Just because he was a cop?”
“Of course. Cops drink a lot of coffee. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh.” It seemed a little stereotypical to me even at that age, but I wasn’t about to argue the point. Maude was older and smarter. And probably right. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. It’s almost dark.” I was still nervous about the possibility of seeing a ghost and thought the likelihood of it happening would probably triple once the sun went down. I wasn’t about to stick around to find out. The simple act of biking to the store at that age pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone a bit, let alone having to deal with blood and murder. Or ghosts.
“Wussy.” Maude smirked at me but followed me back to the ice cream shop and the bikes. The little uncertainty and smidgeon of fear that still resided in the back of my mind hurried my pace a little and I suddenly longed for the safety of home. Maude was already in front of me and on her bike. I reached mine and peddled ferociously to catch up. The trees seemed almost ominous in the gathering darkness and their shadows grew long like grotesque forms of their spirits. Imagination is a funny thing and I was my own worst enemy. Maude disappeared around the corner a few minutes before I reached it and I made a dash for it, hoping not to get left behind. I coasted around it at full speed and almost wiped out trying to avoid running into Maude who was stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. She was talking to Mike. He was in my class at school and slightly larger than me.
“Listen, you better leave my brother alone.” Maude was standing there holding her bike. Mike leaned against the fence, defiantly.
“Or what?” He replied impishly.
“Or I’ll whoop you. Better yet, I’ll get my dad down here to whoop you.” Maude stood her ground.
“I’m not afraid of you or your dad.” Mike sneered at us. “Anyway, my dad is tougher. He’s not afraid of anything. He killed that cop downtown the other day. He told me.”
Maude and I looked at each other, completely startled by the revelation. “He said that?”
“He was there anyway. I know it. He never actually said. But look out or I’ll send him after you too.” Mike scowled and spat on the ground at our feet.
“Let’s go.” I was really nervous now and I tugged at Maude’s arm. I could see she was scared too, but too stubborn to back away from the bully quickly and allow him to think he had won. She turned slowly and mounted her bike, pedalling deliberately in the direction of home. I was already half way down the road. If there was something that bothered me more than blood and ghosts it was the possibility of coming into contact with mine.
We had an emergency conference in the hay mow above the chicken pen on our return. The mow had the sweet smell of fresh cut hay and I plopped down on a bale and leaned back against the prickly stack of hay bales behind me, sending a miniature cloud of dust skyward. Maude stretched out full length on a bale opposite.
“What do we do now?” I felt a little more safe surrounded by hay bales but still nervous all the same.
“We have to tell Mom and Dad.” Maude was firm about the decision.
“But what if Mike’s dad finds out? He might come after us too.”
“I don’t think so. The cops will arrest him and he won’t get the chance.”
“Maybe. They would need proof though. They’re not just going to arrest him because of what Mike said.” I could see it becoming an issue if he was ever let out on bail. Or not arrested at all, but somehow found out we had told on him.
“True. I never thought about that.” Maude sighed, suddenly seeing the direness of our situation from my perspective. She thought for a minute. “What about an anonymous note left at the police station? Or Crime Stoppers?”
“Maybe.” I was still doubtful. “Think about it though. I’m sure no one knows about this except us, Mike and his dad. If his dad gets arrested, regardless of how, he’s going to think we had a hand in it.”
We hung our heads in silence for a long time, then glanced at each other and slowly and silently climbed down the wooden ladder that led to the lower level. It was the last we talked of it. And so we hung on to that indirect admission of guilt and kept it locked up within our hearts. We allowed fear to silence our consciences and traded justice for silence. And in this silence we reaped our reward. In essence we had become accomplices to murder, but because of our young age and fear, we kept our mouths shut. We carried the weight of the world on our shoulders for a while because we knew we were partly responsible for the freedom of a killer, but yet we were too scared and too immature to correct our grave mistake.
The weeks passed in relative calm and Maude and I never again talked about what Mike had told us. I tossed and turned at night, imagining murder and seeing ghosts until I was convinced that I myself was the cause of death. One night shortly after dozing off, I had a dream and in it I dreamt I met a new acquaintance.
“What do you do?” He asked me.
“I paint pictures with words,” said I, “But my paintbrush has been still for too long.”
“It has been said,” said he, “That a picture is worth a thousand words, so why not paint? Why write?”
“Each artist to his own,” I replied, “I lack the talent. Besides, when you dream a dream it vanishes, when you whisper a thought it is gone, but when you write it on paper it is there forever.”
And so I began to write. At first my words were half thoughts jumbled up and mixed together, but before long full sentences started to form and ideas flowed from the tip of my pen like water. The emotion that I felt inside inspired me, and the thoughts that bounced within my skull came out on paper. During this time I became more and more of a loner, finding solace and companionship in pen and paper. When another cop was killed I drifted farther into a depression, feeling within my heart that my actions indirectly caused his death. Are we as guilty through inaction as we are through wrongful action? I knew that I was. The decision to remain inactive is an act in itself and this decision that I made led to another death. I watched the parade of blue go past my house and I knew that I had caused this grief and that knowledge was the beginning of my death.
Maude immersed herself in her studies and at the end of the summer moved back to London taking her problems with her. I was left in the dust, stuck in a hornet’s nest and I saw that the pain surrounding me was of my own invention. My report cards began to reflect my lack of interest in my work and I would come home frequently with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles. Increasingly, I alienated those close to me and I began skipping school and starting arguments with my teachers and my parents and developed a hatred for authority. At the same time, reform was sweeping the country. Tensions overseas were reaching a boiling point. Fearful words and names kept appearing and reappearing in the news. Things like weapons of mass destruction. Saddam Hussein. Osama Bin Laden. Al Qaida. Islam. Muslims. Missiles and death. I seized hold of the unrest among my neighbours and compounded it, taking part in the racial reform that everyone was talking about. I would sneak out at night and paint slogans on the brick walls of government buildings; I would smash mailboxes and spread the self hatred that I felt inside. But the machine that creates all things and brings to life the cause and effect nature of our existence was far greater than I and circumstance would prove that I would soon regret this. At any rate, one small flame had sparked a forest fire and things got out of hand before the authorities or the civilians really knew what had happened. It all started with Filipe. His death was the first in the infamous cop killings, a statement to prove that even the authority figures in this town were not safe from terrorists. When the second cop was killed, the Feds rolled in and took up permanent residence in our town. But the killer was smart and I was still scared so I said nothing and the problems magnified.
September 11, 2001. It was a date that I will never forget. It was just after my thirteenth birthday when the World Trade Centres were hit by hijacked airplanes and everyone began talking about war. Fear griped my heart when I heard the news and we spent the day inside watching the TV as the events unfolded only a few hours to the south. Everywhere in town emotions ran high, cowardice and fear were hidden by posturing and false bravado; racism was rampant. The cop killer did nothing to ease tensions. Only a few days later a bomb went off in a garbage can beside the door where the cops exited the station after work. The explosion was timed perfectly, but the cops were lucky in the sense that our killer was a better shot than he was a bomb maker. It fizzled and then blew, but the charge wasn’t powerful enough and the steel garbage can largely contained the explosion. When a disgruntled Pakistani cab driver was arrested for the bomb and cop killings, the murders stopped and the town breathed a collective sigh of relief. The people looked at the silence from the killer and took that as proof that they nabbed the right guy. However I knew that the killer was just in hiding and the worst was yet to come.
The day of the sentencing dawned bright and early and I was up and out of bed before the robins outside my window had awoken from their slumber. I couldn’t sleep. I was aware that a man was being sentenced today for a crime that he didn’t commit. Well, at least partly. I couldn’t be sure of the details and I couldn’t be sure that the same person who killed those cops was the one who planted the bomb. But I was fairly confident that this man was innocent of at least the cop killings. The arrest couldn’t have been made at a worse time for him. The police and the citizens were hungry for blood and a scapegoat to blame all of their problems on. And not just any scapegoat, but an Islamic one because it was the common thought in the media and among the people that Islam was to blame for terrorism. The sins of a few extremists were being shouldered by an entire community and the outlook was bleak. Many Muslims shed their traditional clothes and any outward signs of religion to avoid retribution or retaliation from the people. I thought it a shame, but by this point I had become used to inactivity and remained like always a silent bystander.
I made my way down to the courtroom just in time to see the man being led into the stately building in handcuffs and knew that the sentencing was a foregone conclusion. The man had been convicted from the moment of his arrest, merely because he prayed five times a day at the local Mosque and had a Qur’an on his bedside table. I hung around in the streets outside the courthouse because the room was already jammed to capacity. The whole town was there, hoping to get in on the most exciting thing that had ever happened in this town and in a hurry to pass their own judgement, despite what evidence might be revealed there.
It was a long day. I walked aimlessly through the streets and took in the sights of a town void of action. The few people I passed glanced nervously about and walked by without so much as a smile. It is strange what fear can do to a person and how it can alter the perspective.
The bell above the glass door of the local music store jingled lightly as I pushed it open and wandered in. The store smelled of sweet, foreign incense, but what struck me the most was the peaceful serenity inside, a vast contrast to the fear I had just witnessed in the street. A man was sitting on a stool in the back of the room lightly plucking the strings of an acoustic guitar, the music a light airy melody that seemed to wash away the pain of the last few months. I stopped inside the door and listened wistfully, wishing the music would never stop. But it did, as the man carefully and lovingly rested his guitar in a stand in the corner and stood up.
“Can I help you?” He had long, sandy blonde dreadlocks down his back, his demeanour easy and relaxed.
“Umm, I’m not sure. I’m just looking I guess. What were you playing?” The music had resonated inside me in a way I couldn’t describe.
“It was just something I made up,” the man smiled, “Would you like me to show you?”
“Sure.” I smiled back, hesitantly. He walked to the wall and lifted a guitar from its hooks and handed it to me. I instantly felt a sense of intimidation and held it awkwardly. It felt foreign in my arms, yet light and full of possibility. I plucked a string and it twanged and I felt the vibration through the wood and into my chest.
The dreadlock man smiled again. “Have you ever played before?”
I shook my head. It didn’t matter. He walked me through the basics and I spent the better part of the afternoon struggling to force my fingers to coordinate themselves on the fret board. By the end of the day, I was sold. I wanted the guitar in the worst way and decided I would do whatever it took to get it. I reluctantly hung it back on the wall and assured him I would be back.
The breeze was starting to pick up and the late sun of an Indian summer was just fading into the west when I made it back to the court house. I was a little late. The defendant had already emerged and had been whisked away in handcuffs in an armoured van. A reception of photographers and journalists had met him and I knew it was too late to help him. The jury had declared him unanimously guilty, a decision that was to be expected. How can one truly remain unbiased so soon after the events of September 11? I retreated to my bedroom and remained there until hunger propelled me in the direction of the fridge. And so began my rocky road to adulthood, a path paved in secrets, lies and fear. Things quieted down over time, but I watched the papers and Mike’s house with an eagle eye. It was mostly dark inside, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before the real killer struck again. When he did I wanted to be prepared so that I might clear my conscience, but the path to atonement is long and treacherous and guilt often pierces one’s soul like the blade of a knife, a wound that even time has trouble healing.
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It is strange how the people we would take a bullet for are often the ones that pull the trigger. It all started the summer I turned 11. It was a hot humid year, one that made the effort of any simple task almost too much to bear until the sun was falling into its nest of thin clouds in the west. My sister had come home that year from a boarding school in London and we spent much of our time talking and tormenting each other as only siblings can do. The conversation started amongst the tall corn stalks in the backyard, where we were hidden from view from the large two story farm house where we lived. This house and farm were all I had ever known. Maude liked to pretend that she missed the city and was too important for me, but I knew better. This was her home as well. I don’t know how we got on the topic or why our father had seemed so upset about it over dinner. We wondered if he had something to do with it. We ran through scenarios and dreamt up reasons as kids will do.
Our father had come strolling through the fields, as he did ever day at five thirty, swinging his lunch box and chewing on a piece of timothy hay that bobbed and shook as he clenched it between his teeth and swallowed the juices that accumulated in his mouth. He called out a greeting to us kids and set his lunch pail down on the sidewalk in the summer heat while he fetched the newspaper from the stone driveway. Retrieving his lunch pail, he walked up the steps into the house and paused before entering the back door to spit out the hay that still protruded from his mouth. It was a normal routine, one that we had watched many times. Later that night after the dishes had been cleared from the table; he frowned and looked around a little, obviously agitated.
He cleared his throat. “Another murder in the papers today.”
My sister and I looked at each other.
“A cop this time. Shot down in the streets like a dog.”
“Hardly dinner time conversation, Marvin. They don’t need to hear that.” My mother’s disapproving eyes shot small daggers in his direction for ruining the mood. A fan set up at the end of the table whirred peacefully and a robin called through the open window. I was soaked with sweat.
“And why not? They are both getting older now and need to hear this as grownups. The world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There are people out there with bad intentions and it’s about time they learned it.”
The conversation stalled, mostly due to the look from our mother. But it hadn’t kept the wheels from turning and looking back on it, I am glad I was made aware of that simple truth. We all find out sooner or later, some sooner than others depending on how the straws are pulled. As Maude had said on numerous occasions, ‘Some people are just destined to pull the short straw, time and time again. You gotta make lemonade.’ She had a habit of mixing metaphors.
Life can be as simple or as complicated as you make it. But we must have drawn the short straw that summer evening because it was about to get real complicated real fast. Maude and I were outside after dinner, the corn stalks rustling about us as we hid from the late day heat that still filtered through the broad leaves of the corn around us.
“I want ice cream,” I said. “I’m sweating like a pig.”
“Pigs don’t sweat,” Maude smirked at me in my ignorance. “Why do you think they roll around in mud?”
I hadn’t really thought of it before. To me, a pig was just a pig and it rolled in mud because it was in its nature to do so. I hadn’t guessed there was an actual reason for it.
“Well I’m sweating anyway. Let’s bike into town and get an ice cream cone.” It was an innocent suggestion.
She grabbed my arm. “Want to check out where he died?”
“Who?” I was confused for a moment, my mind on frozen dairy.
“The cop, of course. It happened right downtown by the ice cream shop.” Maude was impatient, always the instigator.
“Sure, I guess.” I wasn’t a fan of blood or of ghosts and I thought there was a good likelihood of running into either, or both, a prospect that terrified me. I was already too proud to say I was scared.
“Good, I’ll tell mom.” In a flash she was gone. Moments later she emerged strapping a bike helmet under her chin. I was already saddled up and halfway down the street. I knew she could catch up. My bike was of the mountain variety, slow perhaps, but good for the dirt where I generally rode it. Maude’s was quicker, designed for the road and streamlined. Besides, she was a teenager, a fact that was rubbed into my face constantly. She blew past me, laughing over her shoulder.
Pump, pump, pump. The rhythm of my legs matched the pounding of my heart as the sidewalk, trees and neighbouring houses slowly slid past me and into the abyss behind. I was playing catch up now and I knew it. I could feel my face flushed with the heat and exertion and I knew that Maude would be nearing the ice cream shop soon. It wasn’t far. A squirrel sat up on its haunches in the sidewalk, holding an acorn and staring at me scornfully. I slowed my pace, more to ease the burning in my legs than out of concern for the squirrel. As I neared the animal, it darted behind a large oak tree and scolded me loudly for interrupting its supper.
“Hey punk!” I looked behind me and almost wobbled into the tree as a stone hit me between the shoulder blades. I sped up my pedalling to avoid falling and to get out of range. It was Mike. I never liked him. He was loud, obnoxious and a bully. I knew if he grew up in my household he would have gotten the strap. A lot. I wondered if it would’ve helped and took satisfaction in imagining it.
Maude was standing outside the shop with a double scoop chocolate ice cream cone when I arrived, with a smug look on her face. The ice cream was already starting to melt and ran a trail down her fingers and dripped on the ground.
“What took you so long?” She was rubbing it in.
I told her about Mike.
“I’ll whoop him if I see him.” She liked to have me as her own personal punching bag. If anyone else took a swing, she’d take offence. She was selfish like that. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk. I think it happened over there.” She pointed to the coffee shop on the next corner.
I lagged behind a little. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I felt foolish the instant the question left my mouth.
Maude snorted. “No. Why, are you scared?”
“No.” I denied the accusation. “But, if there were such a thing as a ghost, I would say there would be one here.”
Maude snorted again. “Just because he got shot here?”
“Yeah. He’s probably stumbling around in the darkness somewhere over our heads trying to figure out how to get back into his body.”
Maude laughed at the idea. “He should’ve brought a flashlight with him then and his glasses.”
“Where do you think he is then?” I persisted, genuinely concerned about the location of the policeman’s spirit.
“His spirit lives in the memories he left behind.”
It was the first piece of wisdom I had ever heard her speak. It made me think and I trudged along behind her in silence for a moment.
“Is that where Sandy is?” Sandy was our dog, a golden lab, which had passed away the previous year.
“Of course.” Maude smiled. She could actually be sweet sometimes. I rarely saw that side of her. “Sandy lives in your memories. She’s safe there and happy.”
“Oh.” The thought lightened my heart. “I think I found his blood.” I point at the sidewalk, recently cleaned and flooded. There was a dark stain there. I pictured the body lying in the street and shuddered. It wasn’t a good picture.
“I wonder who did it.” Maude thoughtfully looked around. “I bet he was coming from the coffee shop.”
“Why? Just because he was a cop?”
“Of course. Cops drink a lot of coffee. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh.” It seemed a little stereotypical to me even at that age, but I wasn’t about to argue the point. Maude was older and smarter. And probably right. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. It’s almost dark.” I was still nervous about the possibility of seeing a ghost and thought the likelihood of it happening would probably triple once the sun went down. I wasn’t about to stick around to find out. The simple act of biking to the store at that age pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone a bit, let alone having to deal with blood and murder. Or ghosts.
“Wussy.” Maude smirked at me but followed me back to the ice cream shop and the bikes. The little uncertainty and smidgeon of fear that still resided in the back of my mind hurried my pace a little and I suddenly longed for the safety of home. Maude was already in front of me and on her bike. I reached mine and peddled ferociously to catch up. The trees seemed almost ominous in the gathering darkness and their shadows grew long like grotesque forms of their spirits. Imagination is a funny thing and I was my own worst enemy. Maude disappeared around the corner a few minutes before I reached it and I made a dash for it, hoping not to get left behind. I coasted around it at full speed and almost wiped out trying to avoid running into Maude who was stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. She was talking to Mike. He was in my class at school and slightly larger than me.
“Listen, you better leave my brother alone.” Maude was standing there holding her bike. Mike leaned against the fence, defiantly.
“Or what?” He replied impishly.
“Or I’ll whoop you. Better yet, I’ll get my dad down here to whoop you.” Maude stood her ground.
“I’m not afraid of you or your dad.” Mike sneered at us. “Anyway, my dad is tougher. He’s not afraid of anything. He killed that cop downtown the other day. He told me.”
Maude and I looked at each other, completely startled by the revelation. “He said that?”
“He was there anyway. I know it. He never actually said. But look out or I’ll send him after you too.” Mike scowled and spat on the ground at our feet.
“Let’s go.” I was really nervous now and I tugged at Maude’s arm. I could see she was scared too, but too stubborn to back away from the bully quickly and allow him to think he had won. She turned slowly and mounted her bike, pedalling deliberately in the direction of home. I was already half way down the road. If there was something that bothered me more than blood and ghosts it was the possibility of coming into contact with mine.
We had an emergency conference in the hay mow above the chicken pen on our return. The mow had the sweet smell of fresh cut hay and I plopped down on a bale and leaned back against the prickly stack of hay bales behind me, sending a miniature cloud of dust skyward. Maude stretched out full length on a bale opposite.
“What do we do now?” I felt a little more safe surrounded by hay bales but still nervous all the same.
“We have to tell Mom and Dad.” Maude was firm about the decision.
“But what if Mike’s dad finds out? He might come after us too.”
“I don’t think so. The cops will arrest him and he won’t get the chance.”
“Maybe. They would need proof though. They’re not just going to arrest him because of what Mike said.” I could see it becoming an issue if he was ever let out on bail. Or not arrested at all, but somehow found out we had told on him.
“True. I never thought about that.” Maude sighed, suddenly seeing the direness of our situation from my perspective. She thought for a minute. “What about an anonymous note left at the police station? Or Crime Stoppers?”
“Maybe.” I was still doubtful. “Think about it though. I’m sure no one knows about this except us, Mike and his dad. If his dad gets arrested, regardless of how, he’s going to think we had a hand in it.”
We hung our heads in silence for a long time, then glanced at each other and slowly and silently climbed down the wooden ladder that led to the lower level. It was the last we talked of it. And so we hung on to that indirect admission of guilt and kept it locked up within our hearts. We allowed fear to silence our consciences and traded justice for silence. And in this silence we reaped our reward. In essence we had become accomplices to murder, but because of our young age and fear, we kept our mouths shut. We carried the weight of the world on our shoulders for a while because we knew we were partly responsible for the freedom of a killer, but yet we were too scared and too immature to correct our grave mistake.
The weeks passed in relative calm and Maude and I never again talked about what Mike had told us. I tossed and turned at night, imagining murder and seeing ghosts until I was convinced that I myself was the cause of death. One night shortly after dozing off, I had a dream and in it I dreamt I met a new acquaintance.
“What do you do?” He asked me.
“I paint pictures with words,” said I, “But my paintbrush has been still for too long.”
“It has been said,” said he, “That a picture is worth a thousand words, so why not paint? Why write?”
“Each artist to his own,” I replied, “I lack the talent. Besides, when you dream a dream it vanishes, when you whisper a thought it is gone, but when you write it on paper it is there forever.”
And so I began to write. At first my words were half thoughts jumbled up and mixed together, but before long full sentences started to form and ideas flowed from the tip of my pen like water. The emotion that I felt inside inspired me, and the thoughts that bounced within my skull came out on paper. During this time I became more and more of a loner, finding solace and companionship in pen and paper. When another cop was killed I drifted farther into a depression, feeling within my heart that my actions indirectly caused his death. Are we as guilty through inaction as we are through wrongful action? I knew that I was. The decision to remain inactive is an act in itself and this decision that I made led to another death. I watched the parade of blue go past my house and I knew that I had caused this grief and that knowledge was the beginning of my death.
Maude immersed herself in her studies and at the end of the summer moved back to London taking her problems with her. I was left in the dust, stuck in a hornet’s nest and I saw that the pain surrounding me was of my own invention. My report cards began to reflect my lack of interest in my work and I would come home frequently with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles. Increasingly, I alienated those close to me and I began skipping school and starting arguments with my teachers and my parents and developed a hatred for authority. At the same time, reform was sweeping the country. Tensions overseas were reaching a boiling point. Fearful words and names kept appearing and reappearing in the news. Things like weapons of mass destruction. Saddam Hussein. Osama Bin Laden. Al Qaida. Islam. Muslims. Missiles and death. I seized hold of the unrest among my neighbours and compounded it, taking part in the racial reform that everyone was talking about. I would sneak out at night and paint slogans on the brick walls of government buildings; I would smash mailboxes and spread the self hatred that I felt inside. But the machine that creates all things and brings to life the cause and effect nature of our existence was far greater than I and circumstance would prove that I would soon regret this. At any rate, one small flame had sparked a forest fire and things got out of hand before the authorities or the civilians really knew what had happened. It all started with Filipe. His death was the first in the infamous cop killings, a statement to prove that even the authority figures in this town were not safe from terrorists. When the second cop was killed, the Feds rolled in and took up permanent residence in our town. But the killer was smart and I was still scared so I said nothing and the problems magnified.
September 11, 2001. It was a date that I will never forget. It was just after my thirteenth birthday when the World Trade Centres were hit by hijacked airplanes and everyone began talking about war. Fear griped my heart when I heard the news and we spent the day inside watching the TV as the events unfolded only a few hours to the south. Everywhere in town emotions ran high, cowardice and fear were hidden by posturing and false bravado; racism was rampant. The cop killer did nothing to ease tensions. Only a few days later a bomb went off in a garbage can beside the door where the cops exited the station after work. The explosion was timed perfectly, but the cops were lucky in the sense that our killer was a better shot than he was a bomb maker. It fizzled and then blew, but the charge wasn’t powerful enough and the steel garbage can largely contained the explosion. When a disgruntled Pakistani cab driver was arrested for the bomb and cop killings, the murders stopped and the town breathed a collective sigh of relief. The people looked at the silence from the killer and took that as proof that they nabbed the right guy. However I knew that the killer was just in hiding and the worst was yet to come.
The day of the sentencing dawned bright and early and I was up and out of bed before the robins outside my window had awoken from their slumber. I couldn’t sleep. I was aware that a man was being sentenced today for a crime that he didn’t commit. Well, at least partly. I couldn’t be sure of the details and I couldn’t be sure that the same person who killed those cops was the one who planted the bomb. But I was fairly confident that this man was innocent of at least the cop killings. The arrest couldn’t have been made at a worse time for him. The police and the citizens were hungry for blood and a scapegoat to blame all of their problems on. And not just any scapegoat, but an Islamic one because it was the common thought in the media and among the people that Islam was to blame for terrorism. The sins of a few extremists were being shouldered by an entire community and the outlook was bleak. Many Muslims shed their traditional clothes and any outward signs of religion to avoid retribution or retaliation from the people. I thought it a shame, but by this point I had become used to inactivity and remained like always a silent bystander.
I made my way down to the courtroom just in time to see the man being led into the stately building in handcuffs and knew that the sentencing was a foregone conclusion. The man had been convicted from the moment of his arrest, merely because he prayed five times a day at the local Mosque and had a Qur’an on his bedside table. I hung around in the streets outside the courthouse because the room was already jammed to capacity. The whole town was there, hoping to get in on the most exciting thing that had ever happened in this town and in a hurry to pass their own judgement, despite what evidence might be revealed there.
It was a long day. I walked aimlessly through the streets and took in the sights of a town void of action. The few people I passed glanced nervously about and walked by without so much as a smile. It is strange what fear can do to a person and how it can alter the perspective.
The bell above the glass door of the local music store jingled lightly as I pushed it open and wandered in. The store smelled of sweet, foreign incense, but what struck me the most was the peaceful serenity inside, a vast contrast to the fear I had just witnessed in the street. A man was sitting on a stool in the back of the room lightly plucking the strings of an acoustic guitar, the music a light airy melody that seemed to wash away the pain of the last few months. I stopped inside the door and listened wistfully, wishing the music would never stop. But it did, as the man carefully and lovingly rested his guitar in a stand in the corner and stood up.
“Can I help you?” He had long, sandy blonde dreadlocks down his back, his demeanour easy and relaxed.
“Umm, I’m not sure. I’m just looking I guess. What were you playing?” The music had resonated inside me in a way I couldn’t describe.
“It was just something I made up,” the man smiled, “Would you like me to show you?”
“Sure.” I smiled back, hesitantly. He walked to the wall and lifted a guitar from its hooks and handed it to me. I instantly felt a sense of intimidation and held it awkwardly. It felt foreign in my arms, yet light and full of possibility. I plucked a string and it twanged and I felt the vibration through the wood and into my chest.
The dreadlock man smiled again. “Have you ever played before?”
I shook my head. It didn’t matter. He walked me through the basics and I spent the better part of the afternoon struggling to force my fingers to coordinate themselves on the fret board. By the end of the day, I was sold. I wanted the guitar in the worst way and decided I would do whatever it took to get it. I reluctantly hung it back on the wall and assured him I would be back.
The breeze was starting to pick up and the late sun of an Indian summer was just fading into the west when I made it back to the court house. I was a little late. The defendant had already emerged and had been whisked away in handcuffs in an armoured van. A reception of photographers and journalists had met him and I knew it was too late to help him. The jury had declared him unanimously guilty, a decision that was to be expected. How can one truly remain unbiased so soon after the events of September 11? I retreated to my bedroom and remained there until hunger propelled me in the direction of the fridge. And so began my rocky road to adulthood, a path paved in secrets, lies and fear. Things quieted down over time, but I watched the papers and Mike’s house with an eagle eye. It was mostly dark inside, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before the real killer struck again. When he did I wanted to be prepared so that I might clear my conscience, but the path to atonement is long and treacherous and guilt often pierces one’s soul like the blade of a knife, a wound that even time has trouble healing.
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