Caprice No. 25

Caprice No. 25

Daniel Sidor

© 2014 Daniel Sidor. All rights reserved.

Daniel Sidor was born in Rodna, Bistriţa-Năsăud County, on June 12, 1983. He grew up in Pripas, the same place that inspired the Romanian realist novelist Liviu Rebreanu. He graduated from the Faculty of Political Sciences in Sibiu, with a thesis on The Church, between an Interest Group and a Pressure Group: The Gojdu Problem, and from the Faculty of Philosophy, with a thesis on The Concept of Signification in Wittgenstein’s Work. He has obtained a PhD in the field of Political Philosophy (The Philosophical Dimension of the Relationship between Political Power and Participatory Consciousness in Contemporaneity) from Babeș-Bolyai University and has published several articles in specialized journals: The Utopia of Universalized Tolerance. Tolerant Liberalism and Modus Vivendi, Revista Intercultural, Year III, no. 1 (11)/2009, pp. 143-149; The Syllogisms of European Identity, Revista Intercultural, Year III, no. 2-3 (12-13)/2009, pp. 217-224; Nae Ionescu and the Idea of Political Power in Romania during the 1920s, Revista Transilvania, no. 7/2009, pp. 29-32; The Sacred, a Concept of Religious and Aesthetic Experience. The Icon, Revista Intercultural, Year IV, no. 1 (15)/2010, pp. 16-21; From the State of Nature to the Political Community. Between Waiver and Delegation, Sfera Politicii, Volume XVIII, no. 3 (145)/2010, pp. 15-19. Daniel Sidor is also the author of several books, including Cum percepem puterea politica? (How Do We Perceive Political Power?, Argonaut Publ., 2012) and A Manual of Epistemic Sex or How to Write a Maxim, Eikon Publ., 2011).

Chapter 1

‘Hello, Michael, it’s Erika, I’ve got to see you as soon as possible!’

I was distracted, as usual. I can’t even remember if I turned the key in the door lock with the same ease. I dropped my bag onto the floor, forgetting that my laptop was inside it. I was drained, bushed, knackered. I had no energy left even to be angry. All I could think of was my favorite way of relaxation. How odd! So terribly odd! A man of my status controlling a bunch of little people in a game, setting them tasks, having them fight against themselves... but the game is, indeed, quite chilling.

Something was wrong. Tim wasn’t there, and he’d always wait for me in the hallway, whenever he could hear my car pulling up. And it was all so quiet. The plates could be heard clinking discretely against one another in the kitchen. My wife was laying the table. My wife was at home. I’d just got there. Tim was supposed to be already bombarding me with questions. But where was he? I started instinctively to look for him. I think I must have asked Magda, my wife, a question, but I wasn’t expecting, nor did I receive an answer. Tim’s room was empty, and no cartoon character could be heard babbling in the dining room. I passed by my study and its door was ajar. Could I have forgotten to lock it in the morning? There’s no way I could have done that, I’ve got too many things in there that are not to be seen. I can’t have been that reckless. But the door was ajar. I pushed it open.

Tim was in the middle of the room, sitting there like a Turk, his back to the door. He was holding something in his hand; I was unable to see what exactly. Nothing that I could think of could have got his attention, making him sit so quietly. Nothing could have held his attention like that. My son is three years old. He used to have Magda’s disarming smile, the kind that wouldn’t take no for an answer. His eyes, on the other hand, were mine. They were worried eyes, and as far as talking went, Tim excelled at it. He didn’t talk much, he talked all the time. If he asked me to tell him a story, at night, before he fell asleep, he would tell at least two stories before I could finish mine. He just couldn’t get enough of all the details. However abundant, they were never enough. It was as if he wanted to make sure that no created image would stray from the model. That’s why he didn’t lie, I think. He just wasn’t able to spin a broader context, so crucial for lying, yet. For now, he was just struggling to understand the context of the real.

As I took two steps, he heard me.

 ‘Michael, what’s this?’

He called me ‘Michael’, not ‘Dad.’ It was the first time I’d been taken aback by this. He’d said ‘Michael’ with a sort of obedience. But not the kind that a son would show his father: this obedience had nothing warm about it. An efficient, cold obedience, one that could only occur if one of the parties was being looked down upon. Having suddenly turned towards me, he showed me something yellowish, something he held very delicately in his hand as if even a ray of light might have damaged it. I guess I wouldn’t accept that what he was holding in his hand was actually it. Something I’d hidden away for a long time, something I’d been trying to forget. The yellowish precious object was a ring. A ring in which I’d enclosed a good part of my life, a ring that was supposed to remain hidden, a ring that was supposed to keep quiet. It spoke to no one else but me. I was the only one condemned to listen to it, and when it was just the two of us, it wouldn’t just talk, it would howl at me, and its howling would make my blood boil, my blood, which no longer surged through my veins, it flowed through my eyes, through the palms of my hands, trickling down my back and gushing out in my dreams at night. Neither a smooth, nor a swirling watery stream: my blood was like cooling lava pouring down a cliff, with jolted, rolling motions, leaving a trail behind.

I can feel sweat dripping down my back. My palms are wet. My son’s eyes were waiting for an answer, and now they were more worried than ever. Even his childish smile had vanished. He looked like an inquisitor, eager to burn me at the stake, whatever answer he received. I felt small in front of my own three-year old child.

‘This is Daddy’s ring, Tim!’

‘You mean your ring, Michael?’

Unbelievable! I felt like screaming. Dad, Dad, Dad, not Michael! Why isn’t he calling me Dad? Uttered by his mouth, my name now sounded like a sentence. My son, my judge at this moment, was holding my guilt in his hands, and to him, this was not Dad’s guilt, but Michael’s!

‘Michael, if it’s your ring, why aren’t you wearing it?’

I have to stay calm; I can’t betray myself, not in front of my son. I want to answer him as quickly and as innocently as possible. I’ve never been at a loss before.

‘Tim, dad lost it a long, long time ago. That’s why I’m not wearing it. I’ve forgotten it even existed.’

‘But now I’ve found it, Michael. It was all alone there, in the drawer. Put it on your finger, Michael!’

I’m holding it in my hand. The mark on my finger is gone. It’s heavy. It’s damp, from the sweat of my palms. It’s warm. Tim’s little hands have warmed it up, as if preparing it to take its place. I feel almost dizzy.

‘Michael, why are you upset?’

Anxiety is visible, even Tim has noticed it.

 ‘Dad’s tired, Tim, he had a lot of work today.’

 ‘Michael, I want a story, I want a story with a ring.’

 ‘Come to bed, Tim, and Dad will tell you a story. Time for bed now!’

 ‘Michael, I want you to tell me the story of the ring!’

I managed to put him to sleep. I can’t even remember what story I told him. I feel as if I’ve been hurled back into the past, into a part of my life that I’ve been trying to set aside. And all this because of an innocent gesture, made by an innocent person. Why did it have to be my son? Why did I feel as if he was my judge? Probably because he has no guilt of his own. He’s never had one, and I hope he won’t have any from now on either.

I went down to the kitchen. Magda was no longer there, she’d probably gone to bed. The food is on the table, cold, untouched. I’m hungry but cannot eat. I feel like the food itself is useless if there’s no one hungry around it. And food left untouched for a long time gets moldy. That wouldn’t be a problem, for as long as there is mold, it means that the food is not thrown away, at least not yet. My mold has just been noticed, but by someone who knows not what mold is. My son is too young. Now I am afraid I might be thrown away. Where? Into my former life. I’ve got to tell someone about it, I need to talk to someone; I must give up being my only confidant. Whom could I hinder with my burden? Who would be immature enough to carry the weight of my anxieties?

‘Hello, hi, Ariel!’

‘Hi, Michael!’

‘I know it’s late... what’re you doing?... not sleeping?... do you feel like... what’re you doing?’

‘Nothing, I just can’t fall asleep. Were you going to tell me something?’

‘Would you... do you feel like going out for coffee?... I don’t really feel like it either, but if you do...’

‘Michael, is something wrong?’

‘No... But you said earlier that you wanted to go out... I was pressed for time then, I was in a discussion... but if you feel like going out now...’

‘Ok, Michael, will you pick me up?’

‘Well, you can come down when you’re ready.’

‘Where are you? Are you here already?’

‘Just come down when you’re ready, okay, Ariel?’

Before I could know it, I was in the car. When Ariel answered, I was already on my way to him. I’m waiting for him to come down and thinking about where I should begin. I’d have to begin somewhere. Is there any point in that? Will he understand, I wonder? I can’t think of a single thought to begin with, I can’t get a hold of my thoughts. I’m coming to my senses just as Ariel is slamming the car door shut.

‘Mr. Michael,’ Ariel says, tongue-in-cheek.

‘Mr. Ariel,’ I answer with the same seriousness.

‘Where to?’

‘Wherever you want!’

‘It’s all the same to me, wherever.’

‘Same here, let’s go wherever you want.’

My phone is ringing. I answer it. Good, at least I won’t have to feel embarrassed on our way there. Ariel beckons me to take the right seat and talk at ease. He takes the wheel. He mumbles something, surely about the car, that’s what he’d usually do. Something is wrong with Ariel, his weirdness is not weird, it’s intriguing. He’s probably weird enough to listen to me and not to judge me. I’m on the phone, talking, but it’s useless. All I can do is not cope with my thoughts. I’ve been through that before and I don’t want this to happen again. I’ve been dull to myself, but brilliant before others for too long. Ariel is struggling to park the car. He looks into my eyes, seeking approval. I nod that he’s parked it well, but I’m really not interested. He doesn’t know it anyway, I guess. We get inside the club. Smell of urine, sweat, smoke, stuffiness, fake smiles, inquisitive glances everywhere. We take our seats.

 ‘How are you doing, Michael?’

 ‘I’m knitting!’

 ‘Ha, ha, ha, knit and purl, knit and purl, huh?’

I’m no longer in the mood for banter. If I don’t start talking, I feel like I’m going to explode. I’ve ordered some drinks. Arching my back a little, enough to get my chin between my hands, I’m leaning my elbows on the table. I am stroking my beard, from top to bottom, using my thumb and my forefinger. I stop and look into Ariel’s eyes; he’s mesmerized by the setting.

 ‘Ariel, if you could see the world through my eyes for one moment, you’d be horrified.’

 ‘Come on, Michael, let’s drink this in peace. I’m not in the mood for any kind of game.’

We used to chitchat about nonsense, so I don’t blame him at all. But this time I couldn’t take it anymore. I leaned on my back and took my hand to my shirt pocket. Using two fingers, I fumbled for the ring. Got it. I spun it around my forefinger twice before I made up my mind. Then I flung it onto the table, next to Ariel’s hands. It made a muffled sound when it touched the wooden table. Ariel looked up.

 ‘What the hell is it doing here? You said you’d let it go. Are you fucking kidding me?... what’s with you, all of a sudden?’

I didn’t react at all. Just kept silent. Not breathing, not thinking, not feeling anything.

 ‘Tim has found it!’

 ‘Oh, shit! Tim of all people and today of all days! Do you really think I’m that thick? This coincidence is as big as ass. At least admit that you can’t help it. You’ve got too much power on your hands, dude!’

 ‘True, too much power, indeed, Ariel. But I can help it. And I promised you I would. So listen to me well. Very well. Tim has found it. And yes, today of all days.’

 ‘Well, this really stinks. If Erika hadn’t called you about the job today, it would’ve been okay, we would’ve had a good time over a glass of something. But it gives me the chills, dude, I feel like banging my head against the table. How are you feeling, man?’

I was sitting with both elbows on the table, leaning my forehead between my forefingers and stroking my eyebrows with my thumbs. I was dry inside, I think that’s why my heart was pounding. I felt like being in a dream you can’t wake up from, however hard you may try. I wanted to speak to Ariel, but I couldn’t, nothing would come out of my mouth. Try as I might, all I could utter was...

 ‘What am I going to do, Ariel?’

***

Erika is the agent who’d been following me for about four years. Or so I thought. There were too many coincidences anyhow. She is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. Perhaps the most beautiful. Four years ago I laid eyes on her for the first time. I had a problem with one of the girls, one of the twenty, a Ukrainian thoroughbred. I used to like thinking of my girls as translators. They translated the language of men fluently. They understood all their anxieties, fears, problems and needs. And after the men had been trying to express, more or less verbosely or crudely, for longer or shorter whiles, the fears in their hearts, they would come out from my girls’ rooms with one conviction alone: that they were men. It was a conviction that went beyond the inappropriately buttoned shirt after the act of translation, the lipstick marks on their necks and collars, or their glasses smeared with grease or foundation. My girls made them believe that these things were nothing more than the incontestable proof of their manhood. But this manhood would last only as long as the scent of my girls, soaked up into their clothes. Until the first shower, followed by libidinous perspiration. The scent would then begin to fade, simultaneously with the conviction of their own manhood, which had to be reconfirmed. Translation became necessary once again, so my girls were always busy. Either translating or confirming the translation itself.

To me all this meant profit, more profit. I would collect the fruits of translation in the morning. The kitchen of the villa I lived in would turn into a veritable pilgrimage spot in the morning. I’d be the one sitting at the table, like a relic that can’t be approached just by anyone. I had a man who’d gather the money from the girls in the hallway and bring it over to me. The girls wouldn’t dare cross the threshold of the kitchen as long as I was at the table. It was all a ritual. If I said nothing, everything was fine and the girls would leave merrily, each of them heading for their rooms. They needed to rest, they deserved it. Here, in the villa, they had everything they wanted, plus protection. And I had power. The power to protect them. After the girls went upstairs, my man took the money, and I minded my own business. Sometimes one of the girls had a problem. At other times the girls’ acquaintances had a problem. Both had to be addressed. I respected my girls. I respected their art of translation. I did not look down upon what they did. And they sensed that. They were women, after all. They didn’t look at me in fear. They didn’t feel uncomfortable in my presence. They just looked at me with respect.

When they translated, my girls were not alone. I had a few men watching out for them and a few men who were prepared to intervene. And the girls knew it. That’s why they made no mistakes, that’s why they couldn’t make mistakes. The greatest danger for them was not the clients, but the competition. The clients weren’t allowed to touch my girls, they weren’t allowed to speak to them. All they could do was look at and admire them. But this didn’t always happen like that. I’d just found out that one of the girls had been approached, the Ukrainian thoroughbred. I understood why. It was hard enough to talk to a woman like that, and you could only look her in the eyes if you mustered enough courage. Touching her was an extreme sport, not because she would retaliate, but because the heart muscle would no longer have any control. Even I felt like smiling at her when I saw her. She was a woman who could confirm anyone’s manhood, which is why so many had tried to make her work for them. I’ve just found out about this thing, so I told my man to have her stay until the end, and when all the girls were upstairs, to send her into the kitchen. I could see her approaching the table, admired her and envied, in a way, all those who had touched her. I didn’t think they were entitled to touch such a woman, they could’ve settled for a different kind of confirmation.

 ‘Tania, do you know what I hate the most?’

‘Erhhh, no, señor,’ she said, letting her head down slightly. I couldn’t see her face anymore, but the shape of her head made it impossible for her to be anything but beautiful.

‘I hate lies, Tania. And do you know what I hate more than lies?’

‘...’

‘I hate being lied to. And you’re lying to me. Why? Haven’t I taken care of you?