Prelude I

The girl was dead alright, drenched almost unrecognizably in cardinal-crimson blood that poured in steady stream down a slouched naked arm onto my worn out Buchara.


Prelude I: The Black Notebook

* * *

17 hours ago

‘Lucio!’ she cried and placed her hand on his side rocking him to consciousness ‘Lucio wake up!’ he shrugged his shoulders, whispered an inaudible murmur and lowered his head into his neck. ‘Lucio c’mon!’ she cried again until his adrenal gland swelled and he shot upright with his eyes dilated. Silence overtook the room for a few seconds until the sounds of birds poured through cracks of the window panes and familiarity came back to him, like morning light that floods darkness, awareness began to pass over everything in the room; the walls, the shelves, the books and as soon as she swallowed, he recognized her face. He released the grip that had embraced her throat and withdrew his arm covered in cold sweat.

‘Lucio?’ She said slowly and fearfully with tears streaming down her red cheeks. He slid his legs with his knees together and sat on the ledge of the bed exposing to her the infected wound in his left shoulder around the cleft of his wife-beater. He laid his elbows on his thighs and rested his head against his palms and cupped his face. He coughed and clumsily reached for the nightstand knocking over a bottle of gin before he brought a cigarette to his mouth and began to smoke.

‘I’m sorry.’ he said calmly and apologetically as if he were accustomed to what happened.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said while she jumped out of bed and picked up her clothes that lay on the floor.

‘Just another dream’ he said as he reached to the floor, picked up her jacket and threw it at her. She caught it as she opened the door and dressed as she made her way out the small studio. She lingered in the doorway with her back turned to him ‘I can’t do this anymore’ she said, lifting her hand and wiping her face then closing the door. He didn’t react, he made his way to the window, lifted the pane and climbed out onto the balcony and stood with his forearms pressed to the railings of the seventh floor.

After thoughtlessly looking over the city for a few minutes he chucked his cigarette, turned around and pressed his back to where his arms were resting with perched elbows and starred into his room at the black notebook on the floor.

In the hallway outside the studio she walked towards the elevator and slid open the spring bound door, compressing the bars like an accordion player. As she took the lift down, she starred into the mirror and brushed her light brown hair away from her face and began to tie it up. She wasn’t familiar with herself right away, she was consumed by emotion and nothing else seemed real as a feeling of numbness came over her. Nothing was identifiable, not her nose, her eyes, or mouth and she leaned closer into the mirror and her image loomed forward where she observed explosions of red crimson freckles all over her face, as if some makeup artist used a piece of cotton dabbed in blood and water to bring life into her usual pale skin. She dug into her purse to find some concealer and dropped the round powder box as her hand came out of her purse. It rolled on the floor and fell on its flat side at the bottom of the door.She leaned down at the foot of the cage-door and grabbed it, but as she slowly lifted her back the ground floor filled up the other side of the metal bars and a figure emerged as the elevator came to a stop. She saw a man through the bars looking at her in a way that suggested he was expecting her. He was dressed in a white cotton suit with grey parallel lines running down his clothes. He had a green eye and a blue eye, a mustache and a fishhook shaped scar on his chin which remained hairless and boldly visible in contrast to his carelessly shaved jaw which tinted his face with black rust. His hair lay hidden beneath his panama hat and he stood there with impeccable posture in his alligator shoes. He stood there starring at her while she slid the door open. She glanced at him and politely smiled and quickly tried to walk around him, but he did not hint that he would move out of her way.

‘Sorry’ she said nervously

He looked at her and she looked at him, and all was suddenly spellbound, there was a misunderstanding hanging between them that she could not resolve. He stepped back and gave her way, but as she gave her back to him she heard her name in clear whisper ‘Sabrina.’ It sounded like it came from her own mind and before she could turn around to give the man another look, she felt a sharp blow to her head and everything turned to darkness.

Colours

Francesco Clemente, Fire 

“No, no, you just don’t get it.” He sent a couple of black locks flying back as he shook his heard shamelessly.    

“Well, enlighten me then.”

He blinked. She leaned forward, rounding her back, ready to place her hands softly on top of his – god they looked rugged and used – but he sat back wearily and seemed to measure the gap between his mouth and her ears, as if to carefully direct the flow of words that she could only miss. She sighed. She tried to swallow but her throat felt too dry. It’s that goddamn winter she thought, makes everything turn into sandpaper. She took a scathing look at the streets outside. That aimless cloud of fog had licked everything white – the clumsiness of mud puddles, the broken road beneath the broken feet, the stillness of those tall tower shadows.

She glanced back. He was staring and it startled her. His eyes focused, his lips parted ever so slightly and she waited anxiously for the first ring of a sound to come darting out. The tip of his tongue moved cautiously forward and quickly wet the chapped ring of his mouth. His teeth made a furious clicking sound.

“Listen. I don’t care who’s wrong or right. Let’s just forget about the whole business, alright?” He paused.

She lifted an eyebrow, waited. He twitched nervously.

“What d’you want me to tell you? That I feel sorry for them? Well there, there you go. I feel sorry. I feel sorry for those damn fuckers.”

He stopped. She breathed in that slim slither of silence, felt it slide by the sides of her rugged mind. Her chest lifted slowly and for one second, it amused her to contemplate the balanced, delicate movement of her own being. Up and down, up and down. Up, and sharp rays of light would suddenly bounce off the golden surface of her shirt button. Her eyes followed the sunshine outside. The fog had cleared somewhat. Jesus, she thought, where are the colours. Where are the bloody colours?

“I mean, talk about obscenity. How much more obscene can you get? How are you supposed to function – go on, you tell me – in a time and place…” he chewed his words to get a better taste of them “… in a time and place where you’ve got some dolled up babe with her arse hanging out strutting next to some old draped, dying soul? It just doesn’t make much sense. Even you gotta admit that.”

He sat up, his growing spine lifting his shoulders up.

“Fuck it. They deserve it you know. They deserve all of it.”

She nodded. What was there to do but nod? She managed to swallow, finally, and it gradually burned down, crawled down the surface of her inner self before nestling in the cradle of her gut to simmer silently. Did it even really matter?

It didn’t.

She’d just caught sight of a fleeting crimson flag. 

Chapter I. The Black Notebook

The girl was dead alright, drenched almost unrecognizably in cardinal-crimson blood that poured in steady stream down a slouched naked arm onto my worn out Buchara. I could not locate the source of the blood, which felt irrelevant and the position of her legs betrayed what I suspected. I placed my hand clumsily on her throat in search of a pulse then held it tight in remorse. In death she had an ever more youthful light in her eyes than I remembered. But maybe that was just the drink talking. I had no name to give her, just a incriminatingly empty wallet and a third and final strike I couldn’t afford. It was time to pack up my troubles and leave this devils island. For good.

My belongings didn’t amount to much. My books fit in the boot of my truck, a ’53 Ford that I had no love for and some torn three pieces to follow. My Vienna walnut-desk and the girl and some half empty bottles of whiskey where the only things of any value in my flat. The first two would have to stay behind.

I would need immediate shelter for a few nights while the heat blew over but with my qualities and virtues friends came few and far between. Especially those I could trust. I didn’t need to lock the flat door but I did. Somehow it concluded the frustrated and unnecessary end of yet another chapter. I ripped my brand new crown-band-brim Borsalino and my trench off the coat hanger by the front entrance with such nervous fury that my Moleskine flew out of my inner pocket. A black notebook with years of tear that held my life bound tight in elastic, thick with papers, business cards, addresses and numbers. Life.

My notebook knew where I needed to be. It always did. The spine was now covered in blood, it was my only ally in this world. The door opened out and in poured a Paris autumn dusk. It was going to get colder.

Three Black Books

Your eyes ease into focus and suddenly you find yourself in an elevator. Your mind is blank, swiped of all thought and memory, you don’t know how you got here and you don’t know who you are. Your mind is raw and your senses receptive to the most intricate detail, as if nerve endings enveloped everything around you, you stand there rooted in the same place looking at the elevator door woven in steel cables and spirals of oxidized brass forming the shapes of birds of prey. You feel a jolt ripple through your body while simultaneously the resounding echo of the elevator’s shuffling mechanics beats your head as it begins to move. You can feel the acceleration forcing your back to press its weight on your knees but in contradiction you also feel your stomach lifting in free fall as if you were descending. In its movement, an obscure radiance absorbs you from behind and you can see your shadow facing the massive vulture in the tall elevator door. It is bright inside and every side is made up of glass panels exuding white light, as if this glass cage were being suspended in a thick cloud on a sunny day—it is quiet. You look at the elevator panel and observe three depressed buttons, but they seem to be moving, as if the panel were on a conveyor belt, like an escalator, sliding down and into the floor and coming back from out of the ceiling—your heart rapidly pulsates from this oceanic feeling. Suddenly a soft muffled ring, your feet grasp its normal heaviness against the floor and the door opens. Someone comes in but you cannot make out their face, only long dark hair, and their bare arms. Traveling down the arms with your eyes you see hands clasped around a black book wrapped in a beaded lace with a cross—another muffled ring. The door opens and another empty face enters and she shuffles aside and makes room for the second person. He is covered in blood and nothing else is distinguishable except for the black book dribbling red liquid from between the pages in his hand. You look down and in your hand is another black book, the doors open and the final depressed button reverts back into place.