Purgatorium (6 page)

Jehudiel bangs on the table, tearing me from my reverie. “Let’s play a game.”

I remain silent.

“I know, you’re asking yourself, ‘What’s in it for me?’ Right?”

I don’t respond but keep watching the energetic man shuffle the cards.

Jehudiel continues, “My silver is as priceless to me as a person’s name. Now, what if I was to say I know your name, your true name? You find my silver and I’ll solve your name. I can’t say what’s inside, but if you guess, I won’t lie.”

He cuts the deck and holds a half in each palm. He slaps his hands together and when he opens his hands, the deck is gone.

“I am personally more of a queen man myself,” he says, touching the Queen of hearts card in his fedora.

Jehudiel gets up and leaves through the door to the kitchen. I take the card out of my pocket. Jack of hearts. Same suit as Jehudiel. I think back to the other cards I have seen today, trying to make sense of it all.

The man in the elevator had the King of spades, the man in the park had the Ace of hearts, my new boss had the Ten of hearts, and the man that slapped me had the Jack of diamonds. Most of them are not even the same suit, which eliminates my conspiracy theory. I must be losing it.

The cards are just a fashion trend.

Jehudiel returns carrying a silver cloche cover, which he places on my table.

“I found a way, Alice! The only way! I have a riddle. You mark your answer on this cloche cover,” he says excitedly. “Listen closely now. I lack much reason, but often rhyme, and require logic to pass the time. To get the words to tell your kin, look for clues that lie within. Though all are different, they act the same. The answer is practically in the name. What am I?”

He places a marker in my hand and waits eagerly.

Deciding I should humor this crazy man, I think for a second and draw an R, then I-D-D-L-E on the cloche cover.

“Bingo! Now for what’s inside: As I went over London Bridge, I met my sister Jenny. I broke her neck and drank her blood and left her standing empty.”

I write the letters G-I-N on the cloche cover. He’s staring at me, satisfied with my answer. I notice his eyes. Not surprised that they are green as well.

What’s the coincidence of that actually happening five times in a row?

“Gin! Correct! I told you that you were smart! Or did I? But not just any kind of gin. The best of the best! The holy grail of gin. All in its splendor in my silver… You know where it is? Somewhere in that black hole of yours!” Jehudiel is suddenly angry. Rage flickers across his face but is gone as soon as it appeared, a façade of calm taking its place.

“Good for you, Alice! You’re playing by the rules of the game, and we both know never to go against the rules. You know where it’s at, and that’s all that was required. So, to keep to my word, I’ll give you a riddle and if you can solve it, you’ll know your name. Listen carefully, because I am only going to say this once: Five hundred begins it. Five hundred ends it. Five in the middle is seen. First of all figures, the first of all letters, take up their stations between. Join all together, and then you will bring before you the name of an eminent king.”

I strain to find an answer, but nothing comes to mind. My watch beeps.

40 Minutes

“Time’s up, Alice!” Jehudiel shouts, smashing the table with his hand. “But I will give you a second chance if you find my silver. Then after the exchange, out of your head you go!”

I stand up, confused and afraid of what he is going on about. I can’t believe I listened to this crackpot for so long.

“It’s all in your mind! Do you get it, Alice?! Everything! This table, this spoon, this empty bottle, me, you! It’s all in your mind!”

I head for the door, Jehudiel laughing insanely behind me.

I walk towards the subway and head down the stairs, lost in thought.

Bewildered, afraid, and feeling not myself, I board the train and take a seat on the opposite side.

It’s all in my head? What was his deal? And why is it fazing me so much? I need to get my head back on straight. Stay focused.

I see movement in my peripheral vision. Another dashingly well-groomed man, mid-thirties, walks towards me. I become instantly distracted, not because of why he is walking over to me but yet his taste in style. He’s wearing a shawl, brightly colored and fringed at the ends. It reaches down to his knees like an ol’ western. The colors and design patterns are combinations of black, orange, red, and tan, with a large design, some sort of Maya motifs.

He then tosses this Mexican poncho over his right shoulder, now wearing it as a cloak, which oddly reveals the rest of his outfit: A black dress shirt over a stylish black leather vest with a red tie.

He walks closer
, making me now see a King of hearts sticking out of his vest pocket. I can’t help but think back to my failed conspiracy theory. His card completes the royal flush. I try and get hold of myself, knowing my mind is trying to solve a puzzle that has already been finished.

He looks at me intensely, his green eyes furious. I see that he is oddly caring an old 1980’s Polaroid camera in his left hand.

He quickly lifts it up and snaps a picture of me, which slides out the front of the camera. He pulls it out and starts waving it back and forth and blowing on it intermittently. He looks at it and grins. “It’s like what they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.”

The unwelcoming stranger takes another photo of me, then reaches back behind his seat and comes up holding a black baton. He heads back toward me, swinging the baton. I take a step back to make sure he isn’t going to use it on me. He smashes my window and swipes the broken glass off the seal.

I stand up to make a run for it. “Do you have any idea what this is?” he demands. “This is what’s called a blackjack. It has the most stopping power of all close quarter weapons. A knife can cut the crap out of someone and they don’t even realize it. People get shot with 45s and keep going. Granted, these people may die shortly thereafter, but while the struggle continues, they’re still on you and still hurting you. The reason the police carry plastic nightsticks now is because of the damage the old wooden billy clubs inflicted. Broken arms, broken legs, blunt force trauma, all of which is a greater deterrent than the cut of a blade or a small bullet. Again, I am not talking lethality, I am talking stopping power.”

I have no idea how to respond to this lecture.

“A blackjack will pretty much destroy anything it touches. Targeted at knees, collarbones, or elbows, it will render the attacker useless. That’s what I’m getting at. If I take this blackjack and target your head repeatedly, it’s over. So I suggest you don’t run at this given time zone we’re both in.”

He twirls the blackjack again, trying to intimidate me.

“It’s okay, you can sit down,” he says, as calm as ever. He puts the baton down and slides into the booth opposite to me.

I look at him, stunned, not knowing what he’s going to do next.

“Almost lost my cool there,” he says, laughing. “I bet you’re not a man who believes in second chances. Am I right?”

My head is too full with the day’s events to listen to any more, so I get up and walk away. He grabs my shoulder and forces me back down into my seat.

“Oh, how greed gets the best of us,” he says, looking down at the photo. “I’m sure you’re not aware of your own name, but I’ll tell you mine.
Michael
, at your non-service and dismay.”

Michael
reaches into his pocket and pulls out a butterfly knife. “Have you ever heard of the trebuchet trick? It’s a balisong knife, like this one, consisting of a combination of three moves: a reverse twirl, a backhand opening, and an aerial.”

Michael adeptly makes these three moves with the knife as he names them.

“The balisong knife was used to distract. The attacker would come in close and you’d distract him by flashing the knife in front of him. It’s sort of hypnotizing, and as soon as you have your attacker’s attention, you—”
Michael
flips the blade back out and jabs it into the air to the right of my face.

“Do you feel afraid right now?”

Michael continues to play with the knife, light glinting off the blade as it twirls.

“Do you even know what it is to feel?”

Michael flips the blade in and out as he stares at my
watch
.

“Pain, happiness, sorrow, regret, fear, and anger are all human related constructs of the mind. Though you know the meaning of each of these, can you actually express them?”

Before I can think of a response, I see a little girl, appearing as if from thin air, walking past us. She has green eyes, and her face seems very familiar.

“Mannequins walking,” Michael says, and takes a picture. After the flash goes off, the girl is gone. I look around to see if the girl has ducked under one of the seats.

“It’s okay if you feel afraid with all the stuff that has happened or is happening to you.”

My head hurts from all this forceful thinking I have had to put up with today. I just want it to end.

“Feeling fear is a part of life, but you get to decide how much you let it consume you. You can spend your whole life imagining ghosts, worrying about what comes next, but all there will ever be is what’s happening right now and the decisions you make in this moment. Many choose their path out of fear disguised as practicality. What you really want seems out of reach, so you never dare to ask yourself what you are truly afraid of.”

I look at my watch. It reads 42:02. Some kind of noise is heard in the distance.

“Heaven itself will recall it to your recollection,” he says. “First you will come to the sirens that enchant all who venture near.” He rips open his shirt, exposing religious and tribal tattoos covering his muscular torso and neck. “Pay attention to what I am about to tell you,” he continues. “A loud unbearable noise is coming in just a few seconds. You will want to black out. I say instead of trying to cancel it out, try to let it in. I hear it coming. Get ready!”

What is he talking about?
I need to get away from him before he snaps. I rise from my seat until I see him picking up the blackjack. I sit down and lower my head. Seconds pass and nothing happens. I look back up at him with the thought of running for the door when my stop arrives. I’m a fast runner when I need to be. Suddenly my head starts to hurt. I clutch my temples.

Michael
, seeing me retreat, slaps me across the face.

“Listen to the sirens!” he screams. “Get lost in their melody!”

A horrendous screech—like a needle across a vinyl record—echoes through my head and everything starts to go black.

He continues preaching, “You must fight through the noise, fight through the pain. Find the melody hidden deep inside the void.”

What is he talking about? It’s just a loud noise! Nothing else!

I squeeze my eyes tight. I cannot take any more of this abuse. I just want to escape. I cover my ears, focusing on the sound of my own heart beating.

“Let your heart feel it! Let the melody take you in!”

Suddenly, I feel like I’m in back in my nightmare. I can almost see the snow melting on the glass, wiper blades flicking it away, headlights flashing in front of me.

I’m blinded! I can’t see!

I hear Michael in the back of my thoughts whispering, “Listen.”

I feel my body spinning out of control like a car has hit me or something.

Michael whispers again, “Listen. The pitch. Tempo. Meter. Articulation. The art form whose medium is sound and silence. It’s all there! You just have to listen.”

I begin to focus, using my ears to pick up anything out of the ordinary. I begin to hear soft music playing on the radio.

Just then, something happens to me. The loud noises begin to sound almost instrumental. I hear different elements of sounds all coming together at the same time. I hear vocal sounds now! The sirens are almost lyrical. I can feel their cadence in my bones. It’s familiar and exquisitely beautifully painful.

Michael magically appears beside me. He slaps me again and it’s as if something’s been knocked back into place. I look around to see that I am back on the train. I can still hear that same soft melody that was playing on the radio, in my ears. Bells tinkling just out of sight. I know this song. It’s the same music that my piano played for me this morning. I listen to the beautiful sirens coming out of the soft melody as they sing:

“I don’t see a miracle shining from the sky

I’m no good at statues and stories

I try

That’s not what I think about

That’s not what I see

I know what the sunlight can be

The Light, the Light in the Piazza….my love”

I feel an emotional barrier has collapsed in my mind as I let the music guide me to where it wants me to go.

“Sleep, sleep, little lamb,” Michael sings.

As I open my eyes to find where the music is coming from, I see everything breaking away like puzzle pieces—the train car, the floor, the lights, Michael, the seat I’m sitting on, and finally, myself as well.