Fast approached Ramadan and it was welcomed with apathy and nonchalance, at least by Atrid. While everybody was celebrating, he considered it no more than an obligatory day off. He loathed the idea of wasting the time in such trifle matters.
The noise that was coming from the downstairs window commanded that the celebrations go as tradition had demanded for years, but that morning he was simply too exhausted to get up and give the drummers some change. It was three o’clock when he managed to put himself to sleep, of course after he had finished the bottle of wine and had translated some of his stories.
While he was drinking his disgusting herb tea, somewhere in the background, other than his screeching cough, you could hear Primavera from an old vinyl record player that he found while he tried cleaning his house.
His room was a mess, everything was embroiled into a big pile of wasted ink and paper from last nights failed attempts to write something. On his writing desk was placed an old radio. He found this radio collecting dust in one of the rooms upstairs while trying to free some space for his son’s annual visit. Ajant had skipped some visits because he was away for his post grad studies. It had been long since they saw each-other and Atrid was not going to dwindle his own expectation of this reunion. He was waiting forbearingly and with submission to make this day special. He was anxious to the point that he could scream. His hands were sweaty as he placed an ear to the door. He proceeded to repeat out loud everything he wanted to say when his son arrived.
The air had already become unbearable so he started drinking frantically inside the blue walls of his house. He was nervous, very dreadfully nervous. This was uncharacteristic of him.
He kept an ear to the door and was patiently waiting for the bell to ring.
The previous day he went shopping and bought enough to feed an army. He had some other things to do but he just sat there drinking a beer and staring at the painting that was placed where the TV used to be. This particular painting is called “The surrender of Breda” and it’s a memorial of unusual noble conduct. It is of course not an accurate description of what happened, but by taking away the gore and the bloodshed of the war, it flatters us into wishing that this was the case. It generates the idea of modern civilised wars.
He pondered some more, then found some old photos and placed them in the frames by the painting, just so his son could see he is not forgotten.
“This will give him a warm feeling of belonging” he said it outload with a chuckle.
Upon dawn there was a resounding knock on the door and Atrid hurried to open it. He turned the porch light on just to see who was knocking. Just when he was sure it was his son, he opened the door while trying to restrain his enthusiasm.
–Hi Atrid. Said Ajant without a flair of care or apathy in his voice.
–Happy Ramadan. How was the trip? Come inside, let me take the bags. I’ll put them in your room.
–I’m fine. Replied Ajant with the same tone.
–I have wine and rum, you can have whatever you want from the kitchen. The cake is in the fridge. I bought all the flavours, I couldn’t remember which one you liked.
This pathetic encounter ended when they poured themselves a glass of Jack, sat down quietly in the living room and continued to stare at the painting that had replaced the TV.
Atrid kept asking him about his studies and his life but all he got was a simple answer “Fine”, leaving him no room for deeper conversation.
–Did you visit Alice’s grave? I plan on going there a bit later.
–Didn’t have the chance, and you know i don’t go to graveyards. I don’t get along with the dead.
–Yeah, the dead.
–Don’t be like that, I am sure your mother would be very proud of you, as am I. Alice didn’t love anything but you.
Ajant in the other end, rolled his eyes and continued drinking.
It didn’t take a genius to figure it out that they weren’t so loving to each other.
“I don’t have the slightest clue why he abhors me, why he despises me. I had nothing to do with Alice’s death. That filthy drunken whore committed suicide. How is this my fault?
As I remember it was Ajant who found her body dangling from the chandelier of our old living room, but again I fail to see how is this my fault. This boy is dumber than his late mother. How pathetic!
As I recall he tried to untie the knot but his eight-year-old boyish hands weren’t a match for the thick rope that was choking her out. His hands were shaking like lonely leaves and he retired his attempts to save his mother. The police found him at her cold dead feet. He was calm, still and mutely was praying for someone to come to his rescue.
But this was a long time ago. Why did Alice’s anniversary have to fall on Ramadan’s day? All the fucked-up things happen to me. Urgh!
Flashbacks of that time are rushing into my head. I used to stay for a very short time at home, even when I did stay, I was very busy, too wearied out or too drunk to function or to spend time with them. After all, I wasn’t obligated to do so, we already had filed for divorce, and it was all her doing.
Most of my time I spent in Tirana where I would wait for my new girlfriend, who was almost ten years younger than me. Anyway, it seems like it doesn’t matter.”
These were the thoughts that were running through his head while he was avoiding eye contact with his son.
Atrid was done with his drink and went out to answer his phone when he saw five missed calls from his editor. He decided to call him back since writing was the most important thing in his life, it had always been. He promised Ajant that it wasn’t going to take long and went out to speak.
–Twenty minutes, not a second more. Said Atrid and went out.
Twenty minutes turned into an hour and Atrid kept talking till he lost the trace.
In the other room something was gabbling like the house had swallowed a ticking bomb, but Atrid’s clangourous chatter was getting all the attention. After a while, vexed and irritated, he ended the phone call. He was partially mortified when he opened the door.
Now the silence had isolated the room. A scary crippling silence reminded him of the void he could never escape. The walls were holding the door as if to prevent him from entering. The silence grew deeper, he could hear the wails of his ghosts screaming ‘Ajant’. Something bad had happened. The glass was untouched since Atrid had left, Primavera was still singing in the background. Everything looked normal except the note and the body dangling from the chandelier on an electricity cable. A real Déjà vu on his part! But this time he was the speechless young boy waiting for someone to help him.
The suicide note was dignified, smart and simple. It didn’t mention anyone and it didn’t blame anyone ether. This was written in the note:
“I’m fine!”
That’s it! No whys or hows or wheres, nothing. Just a simple note. On the other side of the note, almost similar to Ciorans writing there was another sentence. But since this paper was taken from Atrids notebook, he couldn’t figure our whose handwriting was this, and if the second sentence was intentional or not.
This was written in the back of that same note.
“I failed on being an optimist”
Atrid presided to read the second sentence while mumbling with anger and agitation: “Stupid boy. To think that even in his last moments he couldn’t grow some balls and finally become a man. Finally say his truth to me. This is disgraceful, this kind of shit doesn’t faze me at all. How pathetic!”
This he said, throw the paper away and continued drinking. He chuckled for a moment. “At least he didn’t use some cliché like ‘Goodbye cruel world’ because that would really piss me off.”
Because you know, nothing is more loathsome or odious than overly use clichés in a developing narrative.
A second later he called the police and they came by. He calmingly explained the situation and then retired to just watching like everybody else. He was irrationally calm and dispassionate. This unsuitable behaver made everybody suspicious: is he shocked, crazy or a religious zealot.
Three days later the authorities returned the body, after making sure there was no foul play. They organized a funeral and everybody came. It was an enchanting funeral. As enchanting as a funeral can be.
Atrid on the other hand was not sad at all. This tragic death had given him the freedom to hate all this ominous world. Freedom to hate to his heart’s content. Freedom from unconditional love.
Days later Atrid sold his house and bought a small apartment in the city where everything was at his palm. While he was removing his last books, he glimpsed and turned back to the place he had found the body. This was the first time he felt something, this moment also reminded him a poem from Elizabeth Bishop:
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident,
the art of losing’s not too hard to master,
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster
There will be :)