Page 170 of Two Marlboros

It was time. I cast one last glance at Nathan, before moving slowly to the other seat cushion. He was still talking to the man,who in the meantime seemed to be explaining to him what his association was, or whatever it was all about. I slipped a hand between the two cushions, without taking my eyes off Nathan, who was once again trying to put off the salesman, who seemed to have a fair amount of appeal: after all, the door had not yet been slammed in his face.

My hand snuck under the cushion where I had been sitting until just now. I slithered over the fabric frame and my fingers advanced like little tentacles to explore that portion of the sofa. Meanwhile, Nathan had fallen silent and, leaning on the doorframe with folded arms, listened to the newspaper vendor’s dirge. I then let my fingers walk for a while longer, until I felt a hard plastic object, rectangular in shape and, as I had perhaps expected, with what looked like a flap. I grabbed the object, without taking my eyes off the snake charmer in the doorway and pulled my hand away in a lightning burst. I lowered my eyes for a single, single moment, just enough to get confirmation of what I was looking for.

My sense of touch had not fooled me: the cell phone was right there in front of my eyes. The words “Ericsson T28” stood out above the screen and at the bottom, under the flap. With an equally feline snap, I put the phone back where I had found it, then returned my gaze to the two guys at the door, busy in a no-discount commercial fight.

The tug-of-war between the two went on for a good couple of minutes; finally, exasperated, Nathan began rummaging through his pockets and tossed out a coin. The boy grabbed it with a smile and professed several bows of thanks. Nathan greeted him by waving the paper, closed the door and began to read it.

He moved a few steps toward me, still with his head bowed, until an expression of disbelief appeared on his face.

“Hey, listen to this: ‘There is a spectre hovering over Europe: it is the spectre of Communism.’ So wrote Marx in the middle of the last century. But how much of his message has reached today’s America? Continues on page five’.”

Nathan huffed and his gaze shifted to another part of the front page.

“Oh, listen to this one, too: ‘Proletarians, power to the people! Harnessing pitchforks in the age of unbridled capitalism and outright liberalism: a view on today’s economy and the value of communist principles in the modern era. Continued on page eleven’. Nice stuff.”

“But the last century was the twentieth century, not the nineteenth. And by the way, this guy has a lot of nerve selling communist newspapers in the home of capitalism,” I noted.

He looked up at me while still holding the paper. A chuckle shook him, until he shook the papers as well. He closed it again, shook his head, and threw it at me. On my thighs ended the month’s copy of “Communist Proletarians,” issue XXXVII, number 309. Tiny letters, essential graphics, headline in plain view that took up half the page. I gave a quick glance at the table of contents a little further down, but almost immediately dropped the communist struggles. The truth was that I needed an excuse to leave.

I uncovered my wrist, rotated my watch, and pretended to look at the time.

“Are you leaving already?”

A pang of guilt tickled my conscience, but I pushed that nagging feeling back before it got too loud.

“Yes, sorry, I have an engagement. In fact, I’m already late.”

There was disappointment in his gaze, but it seemed devoid of the usual veiled victimhood that had always marked him. Perhaps his first thought had been that mine was just an excuse to defile me, except to recant because up to that point hehad always been focused on himself. I felt lousy about taking advantage of Nathan’s new role in this way, if it could be called that, but the oath I had taken must have been beyond all human feeling.

I said goodbye to him, looking one last time at that secondhand couch, the crumbled cookies on the coffee table placed in front of it, the cracks in the plaster, and the ketchup slick on the French doors. I turned one last glance at Nathan, deep inside still lost in thought, as he waved his hand to greet me. The feeling of being a worm accompanied me all the way home.

31

A day to remember

(?Human Drama - Mr. Storyteller)

There is a circle of hell for everyone, and it was clear from the start that mine was the waiting room of the police station. Clerks and policemen walked briskly past my little chair, on which I had sat waiting to be called. It was even more uncomfortable than the last time, and I spent a good part of the wait trying to find a position that wouldn’t pierce my bottom - besides dying of anxiety, of course.

Alan had not come to the raid on my apartment. Well, maybe “raid” was a bit of an exaggeration, but the cops - among whom was Ash - had come out of the house with a cell phone in hand and a look that had not let me sleep.

My anxiety proceeded with ups and downs for a good ten minutes. Finally, a guy stopped in front of me, and it was at that moment that I thought I could no longer breathe. The man motioned for me to follow him, and an icy breath froze my whole body. My legs moved on their own, as if in an automatic burst, as my brain began to dart through memories. The guy from the communist newspaper, so talkative-had he been an accident? He had kept me at the door for an endless period, and I, in all that time, had had my back to Alan.

What had happened while I couldn’t see?

Could it be that...?

“See you again, Mr. Hayworth.”

We had arrived in an interrogation room very similar to the one I had known before. I extended my hand toward Mr. Church, and he squeezed it tightly.

“Well, have a seat. My colleague Ashton Stoner will assist me during this chat.”

Chat. It was no laughing matter.

I took my seat, once again, in that chair too big for me, face to face with Mr. Church, with Ashton standing assisting him like a vulture and Alan visible beyond the glass and arms folded, staring at it all with a frown. Quite a clique.

The man in front of me began with a preamble about my rights and the tape recorder he had placed on the desk, then pulled out a small transparent bag, containing the cell phone they had seized from my house. He placed it on the table and barely stretched it out toward me.

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