The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  “Did you hear me, space man? I don’t know what issue you have,” she says and taps my head. “But you need to—“

  “Dalcia!” Fernando is calling from the basement. “Get us some diapers.”

  “Hold on,” she yells back, turning her head away from me. “He doesn’t like them.”

  “Bring them anyways.”

  “Okay,” she says and returns her eyes to my face and she seems to be searching for something, then her eyes stop darting and her face falls. And now her look isn’t searching, but rather knowing, and she’s thoroughly disappointed. In a way, it reminds me of Luis’ face as he was grilling me, and I want to smile, seeing this connection, instead I bite the inside of my cheek and try to keep down the smirk.

  Dalcia disappears and her smell remains. She was challenging me. I shouldn’t take it too seriously. She must care for her family. She must know that the law cares not for people as poor as her family when they come even a little close to crossing it.

  Dalcia flies by and heads down the stairs. I follow her. But right before I descend the stairs, I notice that there’s a crack in the curtain of the kitchen window. I see scores of people walking by. Sirens punctuate the air. I hold my breath. They soon dissipate. Perhaps I will have to leave this family. Perhaps I need to get out there and face my destiny. I can’t cower in a basement forever. And I remember some of the cannier men we tried to catch, and how they made sure not to sleep in any house two nights in a row. I also see a cell phone on the kitchen counter, pink with glitter all over, and I remember that they are all microphones for the men in charge. I’m not sure how efficient the algorithms are, but they must comb all cell phones in the world and see if my voice comes up.

  My throat tightens. I realize how precarious my time here on earth is. I mustn’t spend it cowering. I must think of a way to get out there. I think again on the under ground world. How will I find it? Or perhaps I’m losing my mind.

  I move away from the window and return to the kitchen, the sound of my hosts, and possibly Khalid discussing something in harsh whispers, drift through me. I stare at the cell phone. So what would happen if they could listen to this and somehow search for my voice pattern algorithmically? That would mean the noose is tightening. That I may feel comfortable, but like so many others just about to be captured men, boots were being moved to crack my skull.

  I smell something sweet and turn.

  Dalcia is staring at me, only a few feet away. She’s fuming.

  “Were you thinking of taking that?” she asks, her eyes shining with rage.

  Her anger and seeing her fists clenched snap me out of my thought-ridden daze and I belt out a laugh. “No,” I say, smiling broadly. I remember my station in life: it’s to be distrusted. But even that doesn’t keep me from smiling. I see that I’ve hurt her with my flippant reply. “Not that it’s not a nice phone,” I say.

  She brushes past me and grabs the phone. “You’d be lucky to have such a phone,” she says, almost caressing it.

  “Of course. Anyone would.” Again she stops to stare at me, her anger almost turning into a smirk. Again the room crackles with energy, though this time I’m not sure if it’s the air, her look, or the food I ate not agreeing with me. I rub my stomach. She gulps. I remember I was flippant and she is still a teen.

  “I didn’t mean anything about your phone.”

  No answer. She’s chewing gum. There’s a swell in my chest. Heart burn?

  “Luis okay?”

  Her anger tempers some. Her eyes fall to her shoes. “Yeah. That happens more and more now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” she snaps, her eyes back to parsing me.

  “No. I just mean, it sucks to... to deal with it.”

  “I can deal fine.”

  “Of course.” I don’t think that anything I say will help here.

  “But thank you for helping,” she says. “When our neighbors are over and it happens, they only leave quietly...” Running her hand through her hair, she shakes her head. “People are such...” She looks up, the sparkle in her eyes apparent. I don’t want her to be bitter about the imperfections of humanity. I want her to accept life with open arms—unlike me.

  “You shouldn’t be mad at them.” When the words come out of my mouth, I expect to hear another retort.

  “I know.” She shifts her weight, her shoulders droop.

  I’ve messed up. She shouldn’t feel sad either. I need to shut up.

  “They want to talk to you,” she says. “We should probably go down.”

  We head down were it appears that my hosts and Khalid are hunched over the table. They pull back, the air silent, and I know it’s me they’ve been talking about. Dalcia could be an innocent sent to calm my nerves. I need to watch these three.

  “Well?” I say, searching each of their eyes for a clue as to what they could have been conspiring about.

  “Nothing,” Khalid says.

  I stare him down and he returns my stare, in that forceful way of the Arabs. My past, floats back to the surface. Memories of Arabs I hated and I loved. Khalid is reminding me of the ones I hated. I feel a hand on the small of my back. It’s Dalcia. She’s looking all of us over like we’re a little slow.

  “Sit down,” she says. “This isn’t over.”

  All the men, including me fall quiet and we sit in our previous seats like children. We even have our hands on our knees. Me? I’m shocked at the queen-like aura that Dalcia is now giving off. I try not to look at her. Again I think on my wife, and how some of Dalcia’s movements remind me of her. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m missing my wife. Or feel spurned by what she said to me. No. It’s something more. Dalcia is amazing on several levels, and I know I haven’t seen anything yet, and that she’s going to have me wrapped around her finger.

  “There he goes again,” Dalcia says, and rolls her eyes. The other men chuckle, but she flashes me a smirk. My throat dry, I tongue the roof of my mouth.

  “So?” I say, happy my voice hasn’t cracked.

  “I want to thank you,” Luis says. His former stately persona is back.

  “Think nothing of it,” I say. “My grandma was the same.”

  Luis nods, shaking his head. “Your grandma, what she say about all this.” He points down to his groin area.

  “She didn’t like it. Well...” I don’t know what to add to that. She always thought such rings were a reminder of her death. That they were the end of whatever life she had. That they were a symbolism of her dependence on others. She hated that. Do I want to remind Luis that he’s old now? Of course not. It might bring him down into the morass of it all.

  “She here?”

  “She passed away a few years ago,” I say. Loved my grandma. Remember the stories she told me. And look at were I’ve ended up, she would not be happy. A tinge of guilt hits me.

  Luis clicks his tongue. “Damn shame getting old.”

  I wave my hand, hoping he will drop it.

  “That being said, I can’t have you bringing a troop full of testosterone filled men crashing through that door. They’ll put bullets in our brains and drugs on our hands.”

  I shift in my seat. All eyes on me. My skin starts to turn warm and I scratch my chin.

  “But that’s no need for us to grill you. Or kick you out,” Luis says, then looks over to Fernando.

  “You are welcome to stay the night. Of course. But you must leave after,” Fernando says.

  I note that they’re talking to me specifically. “All right. Of course. I’m only trying to head back to Manhattan. Find my wife.”

  They all nod, as if this is the only good in the world.

  A phone startles us all, and Fernando jumps over the table to pick up a cell phone on the table and when he sees the number, he runs upstairs to talk.

  “So why did you do it?” Luis asks as he turns up the stairs and out of earshot. There’s some concern in his voice.

  “I had nothing to do with the bombing,” I say.
r />   “And they had you...” he says.

  “I’m innocent,” I say, as bad as I know it sounds.

  Luis raises his hand, as if he’s had enough.

  “Did you kill anyone?” Dalcia asks.

  “No,” I blurt out. Funny how that question can mean something completely different when you’re back from a war—for then you’re doing it on behalf of everyone, the moral weight, at worst, falling upon the state—compared to when you’re doing it for another group than the one asking.

  She studies me. She doesn’t believe me. “Would you hurt anyone else?”

  “Now, Dalcia,” Luis starts to say. But something in the way she’s looking at me makes him stop.

  “Promise you won’t hurt anyone else,” she says.

  I stare into her eyes and the room darkens. “You know what that means?”

  “I do. Do you?”

  Is it as clear as she seems to make it?

  “You know I can’t promise that. What if someone’s life’s in danger?” I say.

  Her lips tighten, and she pulls back. “So you won’t?”

  I look over at Luis, who now has taken the role of the observer.

  I lean forward, my hands fidgeting. I can’t think of anything to say. “I—“

  “Guess what?” Fernando says with a wide smile, and the glint of metal in his teeth. “I got the job.”

  Dalcia squeals and jumps up to hug him. “That’s great!”

  Luis is happy and he pats his thigh. “Tonight we celebrate,” he says.

  Fernando nods and walks over to a cabinet. He pulls out some rum. Dalcia runs upstairs and comes down with a six pack of beer. The beer is handed out and Fernando looks at the bottle of rum and places it on the table. “Anyone?”

  Khalid raises both his hands. “I’ve been a bad Muslim in the past. I’m not going to be one again. At least not now.”

  “We’ve got a few Muslims in our school,” Dalcia chimes in. “They all drink.”

  Fernando dismisses this with the waive of his hand. “Those aren’t real Muslims. You’re talking about Fernandez’s kids?”

  “They are too,” Dalcia says, snapping. “They converted.”

  Fernando looks at me with a wary eye. “Lots of Latinos are converting these days.”

  Khalid raises his hand. I think he thinks he has to do so to speak. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Ours is a religion of peace. People see that.” Everyone nods solemnly. I decide to nod as well, just to help with the mood.

  “I saw a video online, of this guy who robs a convenience store. He tries to rob it with a bat,” Dalcia says, pausing for effect to look at us all. “Then the guy behind the counter, the owner I think, pulls out a shotgun.”

  Luis chuckles, then coughs. Fernando laughs too. I smirk. Only Khalid seems concerned.

  “Did he hurt him?” Khalid says.

  “No. The thief starts to beg because he’s stealing for his family, and the owner makes him promise not to steal again. He gives him money and tells him to leave. The thief converted to Islam on the spot. He gets a jobs and pays back the owner.”

  A silence falls and I see Luis and Fernando exchange looks. Khalid is nodding furiously. The story warms my heart. One of those moments when humanity, of whatever creed, can spark up hope.

  Dalcia doesn’t wait for a response. In a heartbeat reggaeton is blasting out of speakers. Luis starts to tap his feet, and Dalcia starts to dance. She invites Khalid, who declines, and then asks me. I allow myself to be pulled in. And as I start to dance, glee filling my heart to dance near someone as able as Dalcia, I feel my hip and knee joints popping. I remember the wife smiling when something gave off that cracking sound in the middle of sex, and I made a mental note to never do that position again. It’s the same for a lot of simple physical activities. You feel the call of the grave. You know that each action that you cut off is the forming of a prison that will sooner or later (living long might not be an issue for me) end with complete dependence on someone else.

  But I try to forget—oh that silly mind of mine—and my joints lubricate up and soon after Fernando, who has also joined us, we dance. I use the end of the song to have a drink of rum. Banging from the wall of the adjoining house forces Dalcia to turn down the music and Luis to roll his eyes. “We never complain when they celebrate.” She’s sweating. Fernando is too. I realize that I need a shower as I’m rank.

  I drink one more glass of rum. We’re standing and talking about the music. Mainly listening to Dalcia about the latest hits. Fernando seems to know a little, but he’s still talking about a few years ago. I realize that I’m completely removed from the zeitgeist of music. Yet Luis talks of older musicians. Of a different kind of music. Of women dressing up for the dance halls.

  “Space man is thinking about something else again,” Dalcia says and everyone laughs. I blush and smile. But oh, to dance and feel in touch with those baser joys. To do so in the presence of such beauty, such giving hearts. Oh, what an amazing relief!

  We dance a few more songs before Luis and Dalcia agree that Fernando needs his sleep. A job is nothing to mock.

  I’m not a mad man. Of that I’m sure. Usually. But there exists somewhere in this world that labyrinth. That place where all those things happened. I think, I’m sure that it’s somewhere underfoot. Somewhere in the tunnels under the subways there’s a way to get away from all this and be in a place where almost anything is possible. But it’s also a place of danger. A place in where I was caught. And for some reason, I know better than to tell anyone about this. To tell them about Behemoth, and the woman I saved and the walls of cages with people inside them. I’m not sure how I know this. These things exist in that underworld, and yet somehow I know that there is a connection between that world and ours.

  Khalid’s breathing grows heavier and soon slips into a snore. I can hear another snorer from somewhere upstairs and I wonder if it’s Luis. It’s dark down here. Not a single source of light. Even with my eyes adjusted it’s all dark. Not even the shapes that can show themselves in such a light.

  We’re sleeping on the floor, Khalid and I, and at least it’s warm here. The celebration, which consisted of the men drinking a couple beers and Dalcia watching us with a wry smile, was one of the more heartfelt get togethers I’ve ever been to. Or been to in a long time. One can tell the difference. When there’s no pressure to perform, or act foolish, or intelligent, depending on the crowd you’re with. It’s a beautiful thing to be able to drink in such light and freeing air.

  Khalid’s snoring ceases. It’s still dark. I wonder what time it is. My knees still ache from the enhanced sitting position. My ears ring. Silence seems to have fallen, which means that it must be early morning. I know where the bathroom is, as the smell of feces and ammonia-based cleaner make themselves known. I think there’s even the smell of intestines, though I can’t be absolutely certain about that.

  Khalid’s snoring starts back up, and I realize that I’m not going to sleep. My head burns with thought. I shimmy the blanket off me and stand. Khalid’s snores still rattle the air.

  Slowly, half bent over with my hands in front of me, I move towards what must be the stairs. The family sleeps up there. Hopefully I don’t awake them. Step by step I make my way to the stairs. My sense of space is all off, and I bump into the chairs and the wall. It’s only when I’m certain that I’m lost that I swing an arm and hit the banister for the stairs.

  I test my weight on the first set of steps and lean forward. It creaks, and Khalid stops snoring. When he returns to his deep slumber, and the snores fill the room, I step on up, making sure that my feet land on the edges of the steps. By the time I reach the top of the stairs and swing the door open, I’m almost tired.

  There’s more light up here, in the kitchen; it leaks in from the window and a possible streetlight outside. I close the basement door behind me and step to the front door. I shouldn’t go outside, but I need some air. My mind needs to see something other than the inside of a house.


  First I peer through the window. It’s late night and the street, with five storied buildings and porches on either side, winds to what has to be a freeway. There’s no one outside.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  I jump, closing the curtain and turn to see Dalcia in shorts and a t-shirt, sitting ton the table. “I can’t either,” she says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Things are pretty fucked.”

  She doesn’t elaborate. I sit up on a kitchen counter across from her. “Why’s that?” I ask. “Your grandfather?”

  “That.” She tilts her head sideways as if to indicate that there are many more other things on her mind.

  “At least Fernando got the job, right?” I say, though her immediate reaction doesn’t seem to be one of happiness.

  “Now we won’t be kicked out of our house.”

  I remember how me and my wife, or ex-wife, were on the cusp of being kicked out on the streets. It’s a tough thing to face. I can’t imagine it for someone as young as she. And especially when that’s met with taunts from peers about it being something you deserve.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But I used to believe that shit like that was progress.”

  Her eyes cut into me again. I feel her parsing me and I hold my breath.

  “You never really answered my grandpa,” she says.

  I know what she’s thinking. Is she that easily made into an enemy? “You mean why was I captured?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve never heard of innocents being captured?”

  Again there’s a tilt to her head as she moves it side to side to indicate that she’s weighing something. I watch, entranced.

  “I’ve seen that a lot of people here, in this neighborhood, are always making excuses for breaking the law. Then they’re surprised when they get caught. Like they know to scream that they’re innocent as soon as they’re caught. Sometimes they can get help that way.”

  “That happens.”