Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams (3 page)

With his head
lowered slightly, West watched the old lady work. Old. West mused
on the word, on the degrees of separation such a word could create.
Miss Osterman’s features bore many marks of age, true, but West
wouldn’t have described her as old, and he wondered now why the
word had even come to his mind. He watched the tendons in her
wrists as her fingers clutched the bottle, watched the colorful
skin move subtly over the deep etched veins. He wanted her to
discover him for who he was and he knew that ultimately it wouldn’t
require another word to pass between them, but still, he hoped she
would start to open up and talk. Perhaps she would ask the right
questions and he would reveal himself before she finished cutting
away his Clark Kent disguise. Then again … perhaps she wouldn’t
know him after all.

He watched her
purse her lips several times and lick them in concentration,
watched muscles tense in her throat, all signs that she might talk.
When he glanced down at the unnecessary towel tucked around his
neck and saw that there were already several large clumps of hair
lying there, he thought he would have to break the ice again, the
pool of conversation had frozen over so quickly, but Miss Osterman
was already waiting with her icepick.

“Mr Yestler,
would you mind telling me about the leeches?”

West blinked
slowly, running the question through his mind a couple of times,
trying to figure out if perhaps he had misheard it. A sense of
paranoia hardened his muscles, fingers clamping the arms of the
chair with nervous tension. How could she possibly know about the
leeches? Had he been made to sit and ponder this question for long,
he would have abandoned this social exercise prematurely and
returned to his apartment to hide for a few more days. At least
that, although maybe he would have simply packed up, and abandoned
New York altogether, write it off as an abortive attempt at
assimilating with humanity. Before he had the chance to make up his
mind to leave, Miss Osterman spared him the tortuous introversion
and elaborated, “When you talk to yourself, when you’re storming
out of the building or through these corridors,” she pulled down
the tip of his ear with one hand and started to carefully snip a
contoured line through the hair there, “you mention leeches quite
frequently.”

West’s eyelids
fell closed as he tried to imagine how her fingers felt touching
his ear. It hadn’t occurred to him that he talked to himself; he’d
heard voices for as long as he could remember, it didn’t seem
possible that any of the voices were his.

“I’ve heard you
often enough, f’ing leeches this and damnable leeches that. I’ve
sometimes thought you might be talking about the other inhabitants
of this building to be honest.”

He glanced up
at her reflection in the mirror and made eye contact. This probably
wasn’t the way West had wanted the conversation to steer. Not
realizing that he talked to himself made it difficult for him to
respond to Miss Osterman. He
could
have been talking about
the residents of the building, but he estimated that playing to
that line of thought wouldn’t be the most endearing tact to
take.

“I’ve got some
scars on my legs, they bother me sometimes,” West lied, “I had a
nasty run in with some leeches while I was river swimming upstate a
few years back.”

Miss Osterman
smiled a thin lipped acknowledgment and nodded, “I suppose Mr
Yestler, it’s possible that your neighbors have you all wrong. I’d
be the first to admit, I am always worried when I hear you talking
to yourself.”

West sensed
that this honest admission from Miss Osterman deserved to be
answered with an equal show of trust. He grimaced and let his eyes
fall to his lap, “Miss Osterman, until just now, I hadn’t realized
that I talked to myself.”

She pulled the
scissors away from his hair and let her arms fall to her sides as
she started to laugh warmly, “Well, it happens to the best of us, I
wouldn’t worry about it. You can call me Charlene by the way.”

West smiled
weakly, “and you can call me West.”

“Hippie
parents?” she asked, innocently.

“My parents
were scientists, foreign; for them, West was just a word that moved
the air pleasantly.”

“So there is
some foreign blood in you?” Charlene asked, reassuring herself that
this was at least some validation of her suspicion that Mr Yestler
was potential terrorist material. He smiled at her, brow furrowed
slightly, “I’m not honestly sure what kind of blood runs through me
anymore. I suppose it could be foreign.”

She had started
cutting in layers at the back of his head, graduated towards a
curve that described the arch of his neck, “Well I suppose whatever
blood it is, it’s lived in America long enough to be considered
native now?”

West laughed
gently and nodded.

She pulled her
hands away from the back of his head quickly, “Oh I’m sorry, did
that hurt?”

West was
confused by Charlene’s question; unable to tell what she had done
that might have hurt him.

“No, no bother,
don’t worry about me.” West knew that she couldn’t have cut him; he
suspected she’d tugged his hair with her scissors. She looked calm,
her mouth flickering into a smile as she returned to her work.

Charlene leaned
in closer as she cut the hair around his neckline, “Were you born
here?”

“No, I was born
in a town called Allim.”

“Is that near
Texas? California? I haven’t heard of it.”

West smiled
broadly, “It’s not in America.”

Charlene
stepped away from him, apparently ignoring his last statement. She
went over to the sturdy dresser and picked up a small hand mirror
and, bringing it back over to the seat, she moved the mirror around
behind West so he could see how she had cut the back of his hair.
West nodded approvingly as he glanced in the mirror at the smaller
reflection. He didn’t care about how his hair looked of course; he
cared about the reveal, the casting off of a long worn
disguise.

Charlene
watched his eyes closely, looking for approval. There was something
odd about those eyes. She couldn’t put her finger on it, so she put
the mirror down carefully on the dresser and continued with the
cut.

“Have you lived
in New York long?” she asked, again pulling sections of hair into
uneven lines between her middle and index fingers, cutting a neat
line and letting the hair fall back into place.

“I suppose. It
depends on your frame of reference really.”

She pursed her
lips as she glanced at his reflection, “Hmm, well let’s see … I
bought one of the first pressings of the Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan on
the day I moved into this apartment on my own. Do you know
Dylan?”

West laughed
gently, “Not personally, but I do listen to him.”

Charlene nodded
and smiled, “Well, I was 18 years old and that record was ‘bout all
I played for the first few months after my mother, god bless her
soul, passed away.”

“Well by that
frame of reference, I suppose I’ve lived in New York a good while.”
He glanced up at Charlene to gauge her reaction. She was squinting
at his scalp, teasing and cutting his hair. She pouted and squinted
as she cut a couple of layered sections on the top of his head. “So
where else have you lived in the city?” she asked, letting him know
that she had been paying attention to what he said.

“Since I moved
to New York, I’ve mostly lived close by here. I had an apartment in
East Harlem for a couple of years.”

Charlene
nodded, “Where else have you lived?”

West closed his
eyes and allowed his memories back in. “I … I … I’ve,” he
stammered, unable to focus the flow of time in his mind’s eye. He
settled on a noncommittal answer, “I’ve seen the world you could
say.”

Charlene
Osterman picked up a fine haired brush from the dresser and brushed
hairs from around West’s neckline. “You may have traveled the
world, but I’d wager it’s a while since you’ve had such a smart
haircut.” She laughed gently to herself and picked up the hand
mirror again to show West her handiwork. West looked at his
reflection earnestly and nodded approval.

“Now,” Charlene
tugged gently at his thick beard with her left hand as she reached
over and put the mirror to rest again, “Time to take care of
this.”

West watched Charlene
as she busied herself in her kitchenette, boiling water on the
stove, filling a bowl and a jug, adding a little cold water from
the tap. She brought the jug over first, then the bowl, placing
them with ceremony on the dresser beside her, and then returning to
the side table where she had kept the scissors and razor, she
pulled out a long length of leather with a handle on the end and a
small stone. She placed these too on the dresser before she walked
awkwardly out of the room and returned moments later with a short
white towel over one arm and a white bar of soap and a brush in her
other hand. Placing these on the dresser beside the bowl of
steaming water, she soaked the towel in the bowl and came and stood
behind West. “This is hot mind you!” she told West before she
pulled his head back gently and placed the damp and steaming hot
towel over his face.

Charlene soaped
the water in the jug, rubbing the white bar between her hands in
the hot water, then, having wet the small stone, she went about
honing the blade of the razor, holding the razor by the shank with
her index finger pointing down the spine, moving the blade
carefully over the wet stone. The blade was already well honed, but
she liked to be sure she was working with the optimum conditions.
It had been a while since she had performed a straight razor shave
on someone else, even longer since she had performed one on
herself, her joint pains making it almost impossible to reach her
legs, never mind taking the risk of using such a dangerous
implement on them.

She picked up
the long strip of leather and taking a metal hoop which was
attached to one end, she hooked it over the handle of the dresser’s
central drawer. She held the wooden handle which was attached to
the other end of the leather strip and she pulled the material
tight and applying light pressure, she ran the blade back and forth
with the sharp edge trailing, stropping the blade. Charlene always
found pleasure in the small details of such tasks.

She picked up
the brush and the bar of soap from the dresser, submerging both in
the jug of already soapy water and she whisked the brush back and
forth on the soap, working up a good foamy lather. Placing the soap
back on the dresser, she held the brush in her right hand and as
she stepped behind West, she pulled the still warm towel off his
face. She was surprised to see that he still looked quite pale,
expecting that he would be rosy cheeked after the steaming towel.
She placed her left hand on his forehead and tilted his head back
gently, using the brush in her right hand to work up the foam
around his facial hair, cheeks and neck, then she returned the
brush to its place on the dresser and picked up her gleaming
razor.

West allowed
his head to fall forwards slightly, watching Charlene’s face as she
stepped up behind him with the razor. That delicate hand, thumb on
the blade, fingers trembling slightly, she brought the blade to the
right side of his face, angling it and drawing it in a smooth
motion towards the center of his cheek, then with a second stroke
she moved the blade from his cheek to the side of his mouth. He
watched her eyes tentatively as she brought the blade down beside
the right side of his chin and moved it slowly out towards his ear,
following the line of his jaw. West’s eyes traced the gentle curve
and slight hollow of Charlene Osterman’s cheeks, then he gazed at
the corners of her mouth as she stroked three lines with the blade
down the right side of his neck, all the while holding his skin
gently taught with her free hand.

There … there
it was, that gentle twist and spasm of the skin at the corner of
Charlene’s mouth. That was what West had been watching … waiting
for. The blade dropped to the floor with a clatter and West closed
his eyes and allowed himself to wade in the half silent
reverberations caused by that razor shaped penny hitting the floor.
He felt Charlene’s hands fall to his shoulders and start to slide
down to his chest. He gripped her hands gently, but firmly,
climbing quickly out of the chair as he ducked from between the
hollow of Charlene’s crossed arms, dancing quickly behind her and
catching her before she fell completely into unconsciousness.

Upon his return to
Washington, David Beach had been called in for questioning several
times. In the first week, he had felt almost exhilarated to be the
center of attention; however, as the weeks wore on, it became
tedious, the same questions coming up again and again.

“Did you
receive any unusual phone calls in the week leading up to the March
10th?”

David’s heavy
eyes rolled as he sighed a world weary response, “No, I’ve
explained this already, I was on a week-long vacation with my
daughter. The only phone call I received during the entire week,
other than from my sister, was from Undersecretary Carlton.”

Sitting across
from David, the agent ran his fingertips across the smooth steel
surface of the table before reaching for his glass of water. He
took a slow sip from the glass before continuing with his
questions, “Please Mr Beach, I understand your frustration. We are
doing everything we can to build a thoroughly accurate time-line
for everybody surrounding the key figures of the
administration.”

David chewed a
fingernail idly, annoyed by a snag that kept catching on the fabric
of his sports jacket, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to come off as
frustrated, it just feels like you guys should have some of this
straight by now.”