Chinin (solo)

light was out. A red LED was blinking instead. Black plastic, answering machine. Nobody is here to answer your call. We are so sorry. (No were not. Leave us alone when we don’t have to work.) It is breaking the shadow, capitalism’s emergency lighting. The room is somewhere. Nobody needs to know where. Only people who are interested in phones and machines and guns and killings. An ordinary room, like any other. Dried flowers in a vase without water shine colorless, near black, in the red light. The smell of dust is strong here. A grandmotherly atmosphere, complete with antiques, but missing the important parts. Not decoration. And them: A voice breaking in, the machine recording, Obedience. “It was a kind consideration. I sent it back to you.” It could have been the voice of the machine – or bad ice cream. Metallic, artificial flavoring. Silence. Done.

Martin had just clicked a button on a computer, ending all programs. A room full of machines, software, internet cafe – meaning overpriced coffee, stale air and people that looked like they never saw the sun. Or saw too much of it. He and his bleached hair were nothing ordinary here. And they would forget him quickly because of his hair. Because of his clothes. He was not the target for marketing of online-gaming. Not interested in procuring the next generation graphics chip (advertisement complete with scantly-clad half-beast woman), nor cheap energy drinks. He was foreign here. His likes consumed overpriced wine, breathed air conditioned to his exact liking, sometimes scented, always filtered. He had a dozen people to talk to about his problems. A lawyer. A psychologist. And a few other ones beside. All paid well to nod when he said that he felt alien. He was. Like a million other people. And not. Different.

Outside the air was cold as usual. Dusty, the flavor of autumn. A hint of gasoline flew by on the wind. The great rains were coming it said. Summer died here. Soon. Everything died. Dies. It was leaving time; for the journey. To the journey. He took the time to make sure he remembered that moment. A few words. Haiku.

A package arrived at an address. It was unusual. There had been any before. Until that day. Had the post even known the place existed? They had found it now. Brown paper. It lacked markings, stamps, everything. In it something. Hidden under that thin layer. Permanent marker had hoped to leave something on there, semblance of language, symbols. In there was left something different. Heavy, slightly strange smell. It was brought to Nikolai. After someone had opened it; left for the bathroom. Urgently. To Nikolai. He looked at it. His eyes widened. Thoughtfully.

Nikolai... The black knife was there again. From somewhere. He was good at hiding things after all. Maybe it was just another one, of the same kind. Let industrial magic make his own? Maybe. It was a knife, black, completely black. Nothing to reflect light, nothing to give him away. A high-tech product of modern engineering. (Kindly optimized for killing, as studies had shown) It was in his left hand, gripped by it, white skin shining. Dusty the smell? Why the left? Because it was the right that was considered dangerous. People shot with their hand. Right hand. Mostly. Just one hand missing made peace. The sinister one. A knife slipped down into his pocket. And the Romanian streets that greeted him. Broken lights. Post-socialistic (New Realism?) charm of gray buildings. Monuments to a grandeur that counted nothing any more. The ideal of the equal society was dead. Marx was dead. Long ago he died. And with him everything else? He was not important enough it seemed. Though he nearly had been. Time had always been stronger.

There was nothing much to be seen in the slightly damp day he had chosen to arrive on. A city in the sun, light as usual with a fog of fumes consideration of both factories and cars. Choking mist. Leaves were turning yellow here. The few trees stood scattered, as if the bulldozer which had cut their brethren away had simply overlooked them. They were crooked things. Brown battered against concrete and rust. Lost the battle of color. By a wide margin it lost. He was just another speck of no-thingness in these parts of the world. Some things were different from his last time here. The streets were cleaner in a way – less guns carried openly. The people walked more slowly now. They didn’t look over their shoulder at every turn any more, held their heads higher. The shops were full of life, open places filled with voices. Speaking, laughing, yelling. It was all there. And all was well – or seemed

He took a taxi on his way to some hotel he had booked under false name and false pretense, his new night-job having him long since awarded the pleasure of owning a great number of quite real-looking identifications with his picture in them. Some of them probably were real. His place of residence was supposedly luxurious, right in the center of the city, near the old parliament building. He had to smile, as the driver told him, commented on the buildings on the sides, too. Even on the history of some – where he had learned it he did not tell. Neither did he speak about the more recent past of his country. The present and ancient history had to suffice. Who needed yesterday anyways? An unasked question that made his passengers eyes twinkle in an interested light. An amused one maybe. But Martins lips, smiling before the causa left the drivers mouth, tightened. He had seen all this before, heard it. In a different time, life, darkness of memory having fallen over it, curtain of his being. There was a great emptiness where the building of parliament had once stood. It was there and not, obstructed only by a great number of cranes and metal skeletons, a cheap alternative to forgetting it had ever existed, rising high into the sky. The driver ignored it purposefully. Martin smiled at it. Purposely. And of course, after getting a small briefcase (all the luggage one like him needed) out of the back, the driver got the tip he had been working for so hard. Green dollars shining in his hand. Some things really did not change. Not even behind the curtain. So he stood before the entrance to the grandest hotel (socialist realism had left a few marks here and there on the building, too) of the Romanian capital and smiled at the emptiness in its neighborhood. A helpful hand inquired whether the Sir did have a good journey and was well. “Thank you, everything will be fine.” He took it with a nod of his head for what it was. Reassurance. It was the beginning of Act I in a Dramedy that was called Life. The title was ironic.