Nag Champa

The anemic sodium-light just above the rusted metal screen door flickered. Its weak light cast an eerie pall over the long dark narrow walkway to his door. A warm breeze blew past me as I stood there, summoning the courage to knock. My attention was drawn to a grey moth that pinged the large bulb in the fixture, over and over. I stared at the moth until my eyes burned. I drew a deep breath and knocked on the metal. The loud, sharp sound sent a jolt of electricity to my spine and I let out a violent shudder. I should never have come. I was growing uneasier, and that amplified my anxiety, making me jumpy. Just as I turned to walk away, the door opened slowly.

   “Yes?”

   “Hi Edward, it’s Sig.”

He looked at me through the bars in the screen door but couldn’t make me out in the weak light.

   “Sig?”

   “From class. You said I could swing by to pick up the syllabus.”

   “Ah, yes, Siegfried! From class. Come in; come in.”

He swung the door open and guided me inside with his hand on the small of my back. I immediately felt a hot pulse and walked in quickly to break his touch. The sounds of a sitar broke bottles in my ears as I stepped into his living room. His place was small and dark. The dingy walls were covered by ornate eastern tapestries; barely lit by orange and green lights that hung in every corner. A sheer dark blue veil was suspended just below the ceiling, spanning the room, making it feel even smaller. On the mantel of his faux fireplace stood a tall brass statue of Shiva holding a long sword in one of his many hands and two burning sticks of Nag Champa in another. The wispy clouds of smoke wrapped their thin hands around my constricting throat.  I hated the smell.

It was really unsettling, seeing him sitting two seats over from me in class at the learning center. I never thought I’d see him again. I thought he’d vanished decades before.  I wasn’t even sure it was him initially, but the ropey scar behind his left ear and those crystal blue eyes dispelled any doubt. They burned themselves into my memory like a firebrand. Though he seemed to have developed a pronounced lisp that I didn’t remember. Now, due to some miserable déjà vu, I stood in his living room.

  “Would you like some tea, Siegfried? I just put the kettle on before you came.”

   “No thanks.”

   “It’s quite lovely. Do have some. It’s herbal.”

   “No thank you.”

   “Well, I’ll fix myself one just the same, if you don’t mind.”

I nodded. He went into the slightly brighter kitchen and I heard the clang of a pot being moved around and the opening and closing of cupboard doors. Not wanting to sit down on any of his furniture I stood there in the middle of his living room. I began compulsively scratching my arms. He walked back in to the living room carrying two steaming cups and sipping from one.

   “Ah, that’s better. I brought one for you in case you change your mind.”

He placed the cup on a coffee table for me, where it sat untouched.

   “I noticed that you were looking at my old photographs on the bookshelf.”

In fact, I hadn’t. I hadn’t moved from the spot where I stood. He walked over and pulled down a framed picture and handed it to me.

   “That’s me… or was me in another life.”

It was a sepia-toned shot of a young man (about my age) with his chest and chin jutted out and wearing the cockiest of grins as he leaned on a cane. He wore a tall top hat and dark suit with a large medal pinned to the lapel and was flanked by two dark Indian men in white sherwanis (as he called them), with rifles strapped across their chests.

   “That was when I served in Bengal at Her Majesty’s request; during the Raj. I was the youngest regent in all of India at the time! Just after the second world war and just before the blighters kicked us out. It was the best of times, my boy; the best of times. Not soon forgotten… As you can see, it left quite a permanent impression on me.”

   “Hmm.”

He chuckled.

   “Those two buggers had their throats slit shortly after that picture was taken. And I got this souvenir.”

He pointed to his scar.

   “It wasn’t all sit-ins and salt marches. Don’t let those bloody history books tell you different… Would you like some tea, my boy?”

   “You’ve already offered.”

I pointed to the steaming cup on the table.

   “Ah. Drink up, drink up.”

   “No thank you. You said you had the syllabus?”

   “Syllabus?”

   “The syllabus for class.”

   “The syllabus for cla… Ah yes! My apologies. I’ve become quite forgetful in my old age. I’ve even forgotten that you were stopping by. I’ll get it now.”

He put his cup next to the other one on the table and walked back into the kitchen. Over the wailing of the sitar, I heard the sound of a file cabinet drawer opening and the rifling of papers.

   “It’s here somewhere, my boy. It’s here somewhere.”

Age had dulled his memory. He seemed to recall memories anchored two generations in the past with clarity, yet he appeared not to recognize me. Granted, my face has become more angular, I’ve grown another two and a half feet and my hair has grayed a bit, but my eyes remained the same. They always stay the same.

  “You know Edward, I used to live quite close to you as a small boy. In fact, you often came to my home and visited with my mother.”

The rifling of the papers stopped and he peered into the living room.

   “I did? Gracious. When was this?”

   “About twenty-five years ago. You were always accompanied by an old Persian woman.”

   “What was her name?”

   “Anais.”

   “The Persian woman?”

   “No, my mother.”

   “This was here?”

   “No. In Pasadena.”

Edward frowned and scratched his head.

   “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember. You say it was twenty-five years ago?”

   “Yes. You spoke mostly Arabic with her, as none of us spoke any English at the time.”

   “Ah. That must have been lovely, but I’m afraid that most of the noodle has turned to mush. I’m sorry that I don’t remember. You must have been a delightful boy.”

My fingers throbbed inside my clenched fists. He returned to the file cabinet and continued his search.

   “That is wonderful to know that we are old friends, Siegfried.”

The room felt like it was contracting and the smell of the Nag Champa was becoming unbearable. I felt sick; like I was about to vomit. I flew at the door and threw it open, startled by a young boy standing on the other side. I jumped. The unexpected fright threw him off balance and he fell back.

  “Here it is, Siegfried. I’ve found it.”

Edward walked back into the room waving the syllabus in front of him. He noticed the open door and the boy outside.

   “Funny, I didn’t hear the doorbell ring… Ah, Tomás. Bien-ve-nido a casa.”

Tomás got up slowly and walked into the living room, eyeing me fearfully. He was a timid, slight boy in a grey tank top and dusty blue shorts. He grabbed his elbows and hunched his shoulders close together. When I caught his gaze, he nervously looked down at his sandals.

   “This is my young friend, Tomás. His family lives on the other side of the building and his mother cleans my flat once a week. They moved here from Hermosillo, two months ago. Neither of his parents speaks English. I convinced them to let me teach him English before he enters school next year. Of course, they agreed.”

Edward grabbed Tomás’ chin and pulled his head off his chest. He leaned forward to look into his eyes, and tousled his hair. He closed the door with his right hand while he pointed to the sofa with his left.

   “Aqui.”

Tomás sat down dutifully. He wrapped his arms around his bare legs and rested his chin on his knees. He reminded me of a rolled up pill bug, hugging his legs. Edward handed me the notes.

   “Here you are my boy. I hope this helps.”

   “Why don’t you walk me to my car, Edward? I have a couple of questions about class.”

   “I really must start the lesson. I only have an hour with the boy, and every minute counts.”

   “It won’t take long.”

   “Really, I must get started.”

   “You’ll be back before he can escape.”

Edward squinted his eyes. Though he still smiled, his tone became curt.

   “I’ll see you in class, Siegfried.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and walked me to the door.

   “Thank you for stopping by. Good luck on the…”

I picked his hand up off my shoulder and began squeezing it. Edward winced and his mouth opened, but no sound came out.

   “Out!”

Tomás looked up, but was frozen to the sofa. His breathing grew rapid as he gripped the sofa cushions.

   “Out! Get out of here, kid! Go!”

I squeezed Edward’s hand until his knuckles cracked. He winced again and let out a pitiful squeak.

   “Go! God damnit! Go!”

I squeezed harder until I felt a snap in my hand. Edward howled.

Tomás’ eyes opened wide. His face went ashen as he shivered on the couch. A stream ran down his leg and pooled around his sandals. I threw the door open.

   “Get the fuck out!

Tomás bolted out the door and I slammed it behind him. I released Edward’s broken hand. He backed away from me, gingerly holding his broken hand across his chest. He opened his mouth to scream…

   “Hel…”

…but I punched him across his jaw; launching his dentures across the room in a spray of spittle and blood.

His shoulders slumped and he began crying, his lips sucked in over his gums.

   “Please. Please don’t hurt me. Just leave. I won’t make trouble if you just leave.”

I laughed.

   “It’ll be our little secret, hmm?”

I punched him in the face again. His nose crumpled under my fist, releasing a font of dark blood down his face and onto his shirt. He fell back against the bookshelf and collapsed on the floor; knocking his books and pictures down with a crash. As I approached him, he picked up one of the smashed picture frames and heaved it at my head. It ricocheted off my temple, opening a gash. The blood ran into my eye and burned.

   “No! No! Please, Siegfried. Please!”

I kicked him hard in his crotch and he doubled-over in pain. I snapped his head back with a kick to his head. He rolled onto his side and moaned, woefully.

I pulled him up to a sitting position by his hair. He slumped over, but I pulled him up again.

He blinked at me through two dark and swollen eyes, his split lips quivering.

I kneeled down and examined his battered face. He began sobbing.

   “Don’t cry, Edward. Don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry.”

I spat into his face and stood up. He slumped over again and continued sobbing.

I caught my reflection in a mirror as I walked to the door. A trail of blood ran down from my eyebrow to my chin and onto my shirt. I wiped it off on my sleeve, opened the door and walked out. The air was cooler outside. I drew in a deep breath and vomited all over the walkway.