Epiphany Jones (21 page)

W
hen I get out of the shower and dress it’s the first time I notice how baggy my pants are. I didn’t even try them on when I bought them. I just went by my usual waist size. I take a long look in the mirror and notice my potbelly is almost gone too. All the running; all the craziness; I must have dropped fifteen pounds.

‘Looking good, Jerry,’ a voice says.

I put my T-shirt on.

‘Come over here and fuck me.’

I count the money in my wallet.

‘This time your mom won’t walk in on us.’ And I make the mistake of looking in the direction of her voice. Rachel, she’s laying in my bed with her ass in the air and her tits on the sheets. ‘Just hit it baby. Remember how it felt? A velvety tunnel of love?’ She laughs. ‘Don’t get me wrong, you sound like a fourteen-year-old virgin when you say that, but it’s sweet anyway.’

‘Not real,’ I say to myself.

‘What’s real anyway?’ she asks, wiggling her ass. There isn’t a single hair on her pussy. ‘Reality is only in the mind. And you, baby, have one hell of a mind,’ she grins. ‘It’ll feel
soooo
real. You know it will.’

But I grab my keys. Out on the hilly streets I stroll past a flower stall, past a wine shop, past a shop selling cheap souvenirs. I walk with no direction in mind. When I hear her voice again I begin to hum. I hum to drown her out.

‘Baby, I’m still here,’ Rachel says, now dressed in the most form-fitting, low-cropped jeans I could ever imagine. I cross the street and she follows, skipping by my side.

I shake my head and walk around her. I hum.

‘Fine, baby,’ she says. ‘I tried to give you a good send-off. She’s going to find you, you know. She’s going to kill you.’ And Rachel, she starts singing
‘la la laa la,’
in tune with my humming.

I pass a bus stop; pass a bakery selling sweets that look like they’re dipped in orange wax; pass a church whose walls look stained with olive oil. I walk and I walk and I walk, all the time hearing Rachel sing. It’s relentless, this noise only I can perceive. I find myself back in front of the bookstore. The one where I bought the guidebook.

I sit on the curb. I grab my ears.

Traffic is heavy. What would I need to do? Just walk out a few feet?

‘La la laa la, la la laa la.’

That’s all – a few feet.

I stand.

And then–

‘Do you like my flowers?’ a voice asks.

And, as if on cue, the
la la laa
-ing is gone.

‘What?’ I bark, expecting to see Rachel, but I turn to find the pretty girl from the café standing in front of me, her arm outstretched.

‘My flowers. Do you like them?’ the girl from the café asks slowly, pausing a little too long between each word. ‘The flowers, no?’ Her little plump lips almost comically bellow in and out as she speaks her
o’s
and
w’s.

And, yes, now I notice that she is indeed holding some yellow flowers. Sunflowers, I think.

‘What I would like to know is: I ask, do you like my flowers?’ she smiles as she asks the same question a third way.

I furrow my brow. ‘No,’ I say.

‘Excuse me, please,’ she calls after me. ‘You are American, no?’

I turn back. ‘Why are you talking to me? Are you another one? Or did Epiphany send you?’

The girl, her head bounces up and down a little as she replays in her mind what I’ve just said. It’s like she’s following one of those dots above the words in a karaoke song. ‘I do not know that word –
iffany
,’ she finally answers. ‘But you are American, no?’

In a nervous sort of way, in her style of pausing a little too long between words, the girl, she says, ‘I saw you talking to my friend Paulo at the café. He said you are a nice person. My name is Bela and these flowers are for you, if you like. I am hoping we can be friends and you can help me learn better English.’

Seriously, that’s what she says. Just like that. Right to the point. No beating around the bush. No hiding
why
she wants to be friends. No pretending that she doesn’t want something in return. I haven’t had conversations this direct since I was four.

And she stands in front of me, arm straight, sunflowers in hand, and waits. Her smile, it fluctuates between nervousness and hope. And as she waits for my answer, in the silence between us, there’s no
la la la
-ing or imaginary supermodels offering forbidden fruit; there’re no dead madams or imaginary Mexican children. There are just some sunflowers grasped in an outstretched, slightly trembling hand.

And standing there, this girl, she casts furtive glances at me.

And as it looks like her arm is about to give out, I take the flowers. ‘My name’s Jerry,’ I say.

For the rest of the afternoon we walk the streets, just me and Bela – figment free.

Bela, my odd little tour guide. ‘The city enchanting, no?’ she says. A two-storey bridge that looks like it was designed by Eiffel spans a wide, flowing river that divides Porto. On the south side is the wine-makers district, and on the north, in Porto proper, is the main city. It’s a city of hills and churches; of narrow streets and cafés. It’s a city that looks like its being born again from the inside out. From the outside the buildings look old and dilapidated, but in any number of them, when you peek through open doors, you see carpenters hard at work.

Sometimes we talk, sometimes we move silently, side by side. Bela moves like an old lady: feet together, cautious little steps, elbows at her sides – as if she doesn’t balance properly she’ll tip over. When she asks, I tell her I’m in town on vacation. She tells me she wants to move to America one day. She points things out as we walk and says their names in English, but she always adds a ‘no’ on to the end. Her
no’s
mean
yes
.

‘Apple, no?’

‘Grandmother, no?’

‘Cat, no?’

We’re waiting at a crosswalk for the electric sign’s red man to go green when Bela tells me that she’s seen me before this morning. She was in the bookstore when I bought the Porto book. I’m listening to her but there are no cars coming so I begin to cross. And that’s when she rebukes me. Right out of nowhere. ‘We are not to cross until it turns green!’

She does that sometimes. She has these little moments where she’ll snap at you.

‘The man is not green!’

So, as we wait on the corner of the street with no cars for the red man to turn green, Bela says that when she saw me again at the café she thought it might be a sign that we’re supposed to be friends.

And me, I get nervous now when people speak of ‘signs’. So I change the subject. I say, ‘Porto is a pretty city,’ not so much because it is but because it sounds like something you should say.

‘Eet is,’ she says. ‘What else have you been?’

‘At the beach,’ I say, not correcting her pronoun error, ‘then the bookstore. Besides those, I’ve just been sleeping in my apartment. Haven’t seen much else.’

‘So lazy,’ she shakes her head.

See what I mean? Who says that to someone they’ve just met?

But then she adds, ‘I see,’ and nods. ‘The shore and then the bookstore.’

I grin and she asks me if her English was incorrect. ‘You rhymed, that’s all.’

‘Rhymed?’

‘You know –
rhyme
.’

Bela stares blankly.

‘See you later, alligator? After a while, crocodile?’

‘Ah! Yes.
Rima
.’

At eight o’clock she checks her watch and says she must go. She needs to be at work in an hour.

‘Where do you work?’

‘The bookstore. That is why I saw you before, and again today. The first time you would not let me transaction your book. My father. He has a bad back, no? You made him get off his seat and do it. You should be more considerate.’ Scold. Scold.

‘I
was
trying to be considerate,’ I say. ‘The guidebook said you people have a
hierarchy
.’

‘And you were screaming at him to buy your book. Very rude.’

‘I was
enunciating
.’

‘And then you even screamed when you left.’

‘I was telling him to have a good day!’

Then Bela, she furrows her lips, like she’s considering what I’ve said. Like it’s dawning on her that, from my point of view, I wasn’t being a dick. And as she looks like she’s about to apologise for snapping at me, she says, ‘
I-er-archy
. I do not know that word.’ She shrugs, ‘But it is always good to be considerate in a country that is no yours, no?’

Groan.

Moving on, she says, ‘We put out new table displays at night. Yes, I must go to work. We all can’t be American tourists.’ But this time she lets out a good-natured laugh that almost sounds fake, but the crinkles around her eyes tell me it’s genuine.

And as I watch the crinkles go flat again, I suddenly feel a little, well,
something
. I don’t want her to leave. I mean, what if my figments come back?

‘Now, Jerry,’ she says accentuating the -
ry
, ‘I will see you tomorrow, no? We will continue our walk then?’

‘OK,’ I say.

‘Good,’ she says and quickly kisses me on both cheeks. Her kisses, they feel like little, moist doughnut holes. ‘Ciao. Oh, and don’t tell my father about the flowers. They were for the shop,’ she laughs like a child who’s gotten caught doing something naughty but knows they won’t be punished. As she begins her old-lady’s walk, she turns back briefly. ‘See you later, ally-gator,’ she smiles. ‘Rhyme, no?’

The way she says it makes me laugh. She waves goodbye and I turn to
walk in the other direction. Then I remember she hasn’t told me where we’ll meet, but when I look back, she’s disappeared.

And look, if you were in my position, you’d worry too.

But … these flowers. She’s got to be real,
no
?

I run back to the apartment. Like if I keep moving my figments won’t have a chance to catch up with me. When I get back Paulo is still seated outside, glass of wine in hand, puffing on a cigar. I suddenly feel stupid carrying a bunch of sunflowers and dump them into a trashcan before Paulo can see. The night breeze blows his white strands of hair. It’s good to see the face of someone who I know exists.

‘American or Canadian?’ he asks.

‘American,’ I say. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘My friend Diana joined me for dinner tonight. She said a man had called her asking if the flat was still available. When she said it was taken he asked if an American had rented the room. Her brother rents a room in the city centre, too. Earlier today he received the same call.’

A chill runs through my body. Epiphany does have Abdul looking for me. ‘What did she say?’

‘Told him “no”. Can’t be too safe, can you?’

‘No, you can’t,’ I smile, hoping my look comes across as one of mild amusement. I wish Paulo a good night and unlock the door leading to the stairs.

‘Bela is a pretty one, isn’t she?’ Paulo says.

‘You’ve seen her?’ The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them.

Paulo gives me an odd look. ‘Watched her grow up across the street where I used to live.’

A thin layer of anxiety sheds from my skin. ‘How’d you know I was out with Bela?’

‘Those were her flowers you threw away, right? She loves sunflowers.’ I feel bad, like I should have a really good explanation for ditching the flowers, but then Paulo says, ‘We’re men. We’re not supposed to like flowers.’ Then he gives me a wink and says, ‘After you left today she asked if you came here much. She was so excited to hear a native
English speaker. I hope you don’t mind that I told her you were renting the room?’

I tell him no, of course not, and wish him a good night, then make my way up the dark stairwell leading to my apartment.

And when I open the door Epiphany’s in the living room. She waits, wraith-like, in the dark to remind me what a silly boy I’ve been. How I’ve been a child out playing in the world of adults today, like I have any say over my life.

But she’s wrong. I did have a say. I could have ended all this today, but instead I walked around town with an odd girl who gives flowers to strangers.

‘My voices require a sacrifice, Jerry,’ Epiphany says, holding a little sickle in her hand. It’s not one of those long, Grim Reaper sickles. It’s more like the sickle in the Soviet flag. The kind she had in my dream. ‘Your throat, Jerry. They require your throat.’

‘Epiphany, look–’ But I’m frozen as she glides towards me. Then I’m on my knees. I’m crying.

She holds the sickle above her head, ready to swing.

‘Please,’ I say.

‘Sins of the father, Jerry.’

‘Please stop this,’ I tremble.

‘Then say it.’

I gaze into her face. She’s so calm. The sickle is held motionless, its orders to strike on temporary hold.

‘No,’ I shudder.

She sighs. ‘I gave you your chance…’

‘Please…’ I beg.

‘…and you didn’t take it.’

And as she swings the sickle at my throat I scream all the things you believe are false but you secretly fear anyway. ‘My father! My father! He did do all those things you said he did! He’s a rapist and a liar and a devil!’

And like that, Epiphany is gone. And me, I’m left kneeling on the floor, sobbing.

It’s who knows how long before I can pick myself up. The heaviness has returned to my body. I make my way to the cracked window where I threw the book at Ana Lucia. Outside, Paulo’s seat is empty. The café’s lights are off for the night. I walk through the apartment and check the back window. Moonlight splits the cobblestone alley as cats scamper from shadow to shadow. My face is clammy with cold sweat and looks yellow in the reflection of the glass.

‘People like heroes better if they die for something,’ I told Emma once. But I’m not a hero and I’m going to die anyway. It’s only a matter of time. Epiphany
is
out there, somewhere, hunting me. This has got to end. And I open the guidebook to the dog-eared page with the answer about how to stop all of this. The only sane way, anyway.

I read: