The Devil's Fate (11 page)

“How old is he?”

“Ten. He’s a lovely lad, intelligent and inquisitive. Just like his father at that age. Go over to him, go on.”

Norman hesitated. He found it difficult enough to converse with a stranger of his own age, let alone a ten-year-old child. And it was the son he had never met to boot. He looked at his father for help, like a drowning man clutches a straw.

“Go on, son. He won’t bite you. I’ve told him all about you. He can’t wait to meet you.”

He nudged Norman forward, hoping to inspire a little serenity and trust. Norman’s legs trembled as if he were again the boy at school being tested in front of the whole class. His fear of looking a fool had lasted until university. He thought he had overcome it, but fear never dies unless it is tackled head on; his solution had always been to turn tail. And now it had found him, it was demanding revenge. It took him endless minutes to approach Will. When he was close enough to touch him, he came to a halt and searched his vocabulary for a suitable greeting.

“Hello, my name’s Norman.”

The circumstances mocked him, and so did the child.

“I’m Will. Are you my Daddy?”

Shame erupted like a soldier eager to put an end to war. He felt so awkward he wanted the ground to swallow him. Then he understood that Will was ill at ease too, and acted the way any normal person his age would with children, trying to instill peace of mind in one who needed it.

“Yes. I’m your Daddy. What are you doing?”

“I’m listening to nature. It’s got so many things to tell you. Do you listen to it?”

“Sometimes.”

“And what does it tell you?”

“That it would like to meet children like you. What does it tell you?”

“That there are loads of sad people that need its help, but they deny it.”

“Do you know many?”

“I feel them. I don’t have to know a person to see whether he’s sad or happy. It’s enough to look at someone.”

“Really? And what do you think of me?”

“I think you’re spending your time looking for something. As if you’re afraid to live.”

“What? What do you mean “afraid to live”?”

“You run away from everything around you, chasing your dreams.”

“And how do you know all these things? Did your Grandpa tell you?”

“No. Grandpa didn’t tell me much about you. He always says a person can’t be told like a story, you have to get to know him.”

“Right. Grandpa always was the wise one in the family.”

“He told me you’re good at writing poems that go to people’s hearts. I write poems as well, you know.”

“Do you now.”

“Yes. Do you want to hear one?”

“Sure.”

Norman sat on a bench, his son standing beside him, rummaging in his pockets for the verses he had painstakingly written for the occasion. Norman felt emotion permeating the air from a small but wonderful heart. He had his mother’s eyes, gentle and intense like the sea under the glow of the moon; it was enough to make him believe it was his son. He was surprised to realize he wasn’t interested in looking into his true paternity; there was something about the child that created a stronger bond between them than he could ever have imagined possible, even though his reason inclined him to doubt something before assimilating it. That morning had been too bizaare to be able to digest everything at once and, like everyone else, he needed time to overcome even the smallest hesitation.

Will unfolded the sheet of paper in his hand and began to read with a tremor in his voice.

“Dawn woke me this morning and told me I’d be happy. In exchange, it asked me only to repay its gift, mixing a little love with the wish to meet you...”

Silence fell in all its glory. Norman was deeply moved. He could hardly have written it better himself. He remembered how his ten-year-old self had only wanted to play with his friends and how he had spent his time watching them chase a ball as he sat on a bench waiting for an angel to tell him he could join them. Will’s face turned red with embarrassment.

“Did you like it?” 

Norman felt he had been turned to stone. All he could do was nod as his heart burst with emotion, drowning any chance of speaking. He looked at his son with the admiration due a genius. But deep down, he was aware that love comes in all shapes and sizes. He could scarcely believe his ears.

“You’re very clever, you know. Did you write it all by yourself?”

“Yes. I was thinking about how much I love Mom and Grandpa. And you too, if you want.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. You can love me as much as you like. Hey, you know what we’ll do? When we see each other again, you can let me read all the other poems you’ve written and, if it’s OK, I’ll let you read mine. That way you can tell me if you like them. What do you say?”

Will looked at him, joy shining in his eyes.

“Do you mean that? You want to see me again?”

“You bet, young man.”

The boy threw his arms round his father’s neck, shedding the embarrassment that had held him back. Norman was caught off guard again. But for the first time, he was filled with an emotion he could only have described if he had known heaven.

“I see you’ve already made friends.”

Jonathan had crept up to them silently and spoken the words softly, shy of spoiling the magical atmosphere they had created. Will moved away from his father and eyed him with satisfaction.

“Grandpa! Norman said he wants to see me again!”

“I’m glad. I never doubted it for a minute. But you have to say goodbye now. Mom is waiting for us.”

“OK. Can I say goodbye to my bird friends?”

“Of course you can, my boy. But don’t be long.”

Without replying, Will ran off towards the sound that was calling him.

“Are you happy you’ve met him, Norman?”

“I think it’s the most fantastic emotion I’ve ever felt. But I still don’t see why I’ve had to wait all these years to meet him.”

“The answer’s in your heart. Don’t blame others when it’s not their fault. Julia tried to talk to you, but you were obviously too busy thinking about more important things.”

Feelings of guilt flooded Norman’s mind, revealing images from his recent past that confirmed his father’s opinion. He had thought of many things, except how to make the woman he loved happy.

“I can see him again, can’t I?”

The old man smiled at him and called to the boy.

“Come on, Will, it’s time to be off.”

He looked Norman in the eyes and his feelings were evident in the intensity of his gaze, full of hope, as he had always been throughout his life.

“Have faith, Norman. Your heart needs it. And so does Will’s.”

The child hugged his father goodbye and took hold of his grandfather’s hand. Gloom still colored the day and became grayer with each step Will took away from the eyes of a man to whom he had gifted the joy of meeting him.

Chapter 19

Alex was not one for talking. He preferred listening. He was interested in all kinds of topics and in a different way each time. He tried to identify with others, as if he were taking part in their discussions, almost feeling their emotions and fears. He often went to the bar and ordered his favorite beverage, and it never ceased to amaze him how many people divulged their secrets over a drink. One confided to a friend that he had betrayed his wife. Another declared his feelings to a girl after describing the fabulous dreams in which tiny angels told him it was time to say “I love you”. Others chatted about business, from small investments to enormous sums shunted from one side of the globe to the other for the sole purpose of making more money. Sometimes they made a killing, sometimes they failed. He could tell from their faces when he saw them months later at the same table ordering the same drinks.

But if there was one thing he could not stand, it was gays. They disgusted him. He found it impossible to fathom their nature or even their lives. If he had the power, he would burn them alive. He had only met a couple in the bar where he spent most of his days. He recognized them immediately, as if he had a sixth sense. Repulsion often blinded his vision and he had to go outside to breathe some fresh air and control his anger in the hope that the “itch” would pass on its own. He had almost always been that way.

He lived with his mother and she looked after him and protected him from all the ills the world can bring to one whose mind is tuned to places normal people know nothing of. He never replied to those who mocked the scar disfiguring his face, a reminder that his was not the affectionate father he had hoped to have; he merely flashed a malevolent glance at them and the twelve-inch knife he carried about him. The owners of the bar had known him for years and gave him a hand by distracting any unfortunate fellow foolhardy enough to be deceived by his short stature and docile appearance and confront him.

His aversion to homosexuals had been inculcated by his mother, who was for ever telling him it was a sin to circumvent or corrupt nature. His father had done the rest, pushing his brain to the brink of collapse by taunting him daily about being a sissy incapable of doing the simplest job. Every morning, his father had dragged him out of bed at four o’clock and made him run up and down the stairs until he could hardly feel his legs. It would have been easier if he hadn’t had to carry a ten-pound sack of potatoes on his shoulders and a dozen encyclopedias in his arms.

“That’ll build your muscles up and blow the cobwebs away, you ugly faggot! And knock all that crap they teach you in school out of your head. Filthy bastard. You know you’re a bastard, don’t you?” Such were the words he yelled and a soldier’s response was expected in reply.

“Yes, sir! I’m a bastard!”

“And what’s your mission, soldier?”

“To kill the enemy, sir!”

“And who is the enemy, soldier?”

“Damned faggots, sir!”

“I didn’t hear!”

“Damned faggots, sir!”

The various punishments he had rigorously been subjected to had given him amazing strength, but had also had the adverse effect of pitching him into the black depths of an abyss. Not a night went by without nightmares too dreadful to describe. He woke with a start, cursing hell for still not taking him away. Most of the time he would calm down, thanks to the psychotropic drugs his mother regularly dosed him with. But there were times when his brain toyed with his perception, painting frightful monsters that guzzled on his legs, arms and above all his penis. Once he was so scared that he trembled for a whole week, while his mother plied him with the only effective cure she knew and injected him with a mixture of drugs and morphine. The end-result took him close to madness and back in time to when he was a boy playing with his best friend in his miserable little room. His friend’s name was Sam, and although he was older, it had hardly mattered because he had made Alex feel the desire to get well and be happy.

One afternoon, his father was in such a rage that he had burst into the room where the boys were playing draughts, untrammeled by the bulky clothes that suffocated thought in the heat. He had almost beaten Sam to death as Alex tried with all his might to stop him. Then fate had done its duty and shown him the way to end all the abuse he had suffered. The open window overlooking the courtyard had invited him to push his father out and the four yards to the ground had finished the job. He had died instantly and taken his brutality with him. Alex never saw his friend again, and spent the next five years in a mental hospital before returning home to his addicted mother.

That particular morning, he left the house early to take a walk in the park before going to the bar. In the distance, he saw a child and walked toward him, intrigued by the gestures he was making. It looked as if he was talking to the birds, because each movement of his hand was answered by a different chirp. He had been watching him for several minutes when a man holding a briefcase arrived. He tried to listen to their conversation, as he liked to do, but they were too far away. So, he hid between the trees and silently drew closer so that he could overhear them. From the corner of his eye, he saw the boy take a sheet of paper from his pocket and begin to read. He had no idea what the words meant, but the sound of them gave him goose-bumps. He began to weep for joy. All his terrible memories were erased for a moment by an unfamiliar feeling of peace. For the first time in his life, he recognized happiness and decided to follow it.

Chapter 20

“Your son’s a lovely lad, isn’t he?” Luc’s voice came as a shock. Norman whirled round and saw a man duck from behind a nearby tree.

“You! What are you doing? Are you stalking me now as well?”

“It’s for your own good, to show you a truth that no one wants to tell you.”

“Truth? I only want answers!”

“No, you don’t, old friend. You need to be illuminated.”

“I don’t know why, but every time I talk to you I get a strange feeling and then bad things always happen. So, this time I’d be better off leaving.”

Norman turned on his heel and stalked off, probing the air for confirmation that he had made the right choice at least this time. He was at a loss to know what to do or what would happen, but he had an uncontrollable urge to hide in a corner to think over everything that had happened that day. There must surely be a thread connecting all the events. There had to be a reason why his life was being derailed. And there had to be a reason for meeting his son that day in particular.

“He didn’t tell you he’s ill, did he?”

The sound of his footsteps stopped abruptly, ousted by the echo of the words pronounced by the man he was trying to get away from. He rounded on him with a menacing and incredulous look.

“And just who is ill?”

“Will. It’s serious. Your father wanted you to meet him before he takes him on his one-way journey.”

His mind refused to take it in, replacing it with the love kindled in him by a child he hadn’t known existed.

“You’re lying!”

“Why should I lie? I’m here to help you.”

“And this is how you help? Who are you?”

“I’m the light that brings solace to those who’ve lost it; I’m the one who trusts in his neighbor so that he can become a better person and who helps the weak conquer fear.”