Cryptic Spaces

by Deen Ferrell

  Had Antonio, too, sensed the unusual silence of the early evening? Perhaps it was why he jabbered on so desperately, without even taking a pause. When he finished the soccer game report, he was off to a bit of gossip about the Palm Reader. He had heard the woman would begin reading the paws of canine clients She had approached the butcher, trying to get him to combine forces. He could provide treat-sized doggie wieners for a paw-reading package. “They will call it, ‘Meat after de Feet!’” he snorted, trying to keep a serious face. “Yes, my friend, the neighborhood is indeed going to the dogs.”

  Willoughby noted that the soft click of the scissors had fallen into a strange harmony with the drone of the barber’s deep voice. He turned his eyes toward the shop window to watch the darkening sky. The sun had set and the shadows had lengthened across the ghostly still street. He tried to calculate the subtle rate of this lengthening over the late afternoon.

  He liked numbers and their ability to package wonder, to capture the world around him in defined expressions. It was his way of saving the moments of his life, of keeping them from slipping away. When a moment is measured, calculated, and catalogued, it becomes accessible. The sum of life is caught in its patterns, and its patterns are defined by the geometry of its moments. Without stepping back and analyzing these patterns, these moments, it was easy to miss things.

  Take for instance Antonio’s shop. A quick look around would give one the impression that the building is old. When each bit of observation is analyzed, however, one discovers that green chips of paint hide new wood. Antique fittings have been carefully rusted. The pattern leads to a startling realization—this shop, which appears to be ancient, is actually new.

  Of course, Willoughby hadn’t needed observation skills to lead him to this realization. Easing his head forward so Antonio could trim his neck line, he thought of the day when he first noticed this space that was to become Antonio’s Corner Barber. He had been aimlessly exploring the Corridor. He did this often while he was waiting for his step-father to finish work. Klaas, his step-father, worked at a large engineering firm a few miles away. They commuted together on a train that serviced D.C.’s many bedroom communities. He had stopped in front of a crumbling building whose windows had been boarded-up. The floors above the shop appeared to have fire damage. He had sensed something about the building—no, not the building, but the space it occupied. He stood there, staring at it for a long moment. The feeling didn’t go away, so he decided to keep an eye on this building, this space.

  Barely a month later, a strange group of workers appeared on the scene and began demolishing the building. The process fascinated him. In less than a week, all three floors of the building had been reduced to rubble and a new building was already taking shape. The ground floor that eventually became Antonio’s Corner Barber was completed last. Willoughby paid particular attention as the workers painstakingly aged the shop to give it a carefully-crafted nostalgic feel. The work was so skillfully completed that an average on-looker would never know that the building did not actually belong with the older shops around it. He remembered thinking that the color, the style, everything about the shop felt right. It felt to him like these strange builders had calculated the appropriate solution to some odd equation.

  His interest became further piqued when the workers, all dressed in matching coveralls with an “O” on the front breast pocket, put Antonio’s stone symbol in place. The symbol was carved about an inch deep into the thin limestone. It combined both numbers and shapes. The numbers had no relevance to the building’s address, and the shapes had nothing to do with the stated function of the shop. It seemed almost a brazen mathematical puzzle, placed there just to tantalize and tease. Well, tantalize it did. Willoughby made it a point to visit the shop the moment it opened (which, by the way, occurred on a Thursday afternoon and not the typical Saturday or Sunday). From the beginning, nothing about Antonio and his shop were ordinary.

  Willoughby eased forward in the barber chair, causing Antonio to grunt. Had that really been almost two years ago? He frowned as a clump of hair rolled off his left cheek. There was sometimes a musicality to the clip, clip, clip of Antonio’s scissors, a comfortable precision. Not tonight. Antonio paused for a breath. His friend had to be fast approaching thirty, but he had a vigor that made him seem perpetually young. His thin, bony frame was off-set by jet black hair and a broad moustache. Dark chocolate eyes and a chiseled chin enhanced his movie-star quality. Sometimes, Antonio, too, would become thoughtful, staring out the grand window to comment on the changing light. Tonight, however, he seemed desperate for mindless conversation. Willoughby listened. There weren’t many people in his young life that he liked to talk to. This made Antonio unique.

  The barber stopped clipping. “Hello? Is anyone stirring down there? I would certainly not want to wake you, my most mathematical friend. Is there a problem you wish to speak about? Does the proud rooster have trouble with his flock?”

  Willoughby barked an unintentional laugh. “Flock?”

  Antonio paused a moment, considering. “You know, how do you say—with his chicks?”

  Willoughby peered up at Antonio through parted bangs. “Chicks?”

  “I give. What do they call the young ladies in your world?”

  “Let’s see—techno-glams, vampire slayers, warrior queens, tree-huggers…”

  “Ah!” Antonio smiled. “I do understand tree-hugger!”

  Willoughby cracked a smile. “In my day, Antonio, there’s no connection between poultry and romance.”

  “Lovers no longer ‘fly the coop?’ What a shame, oh, illustrious one. I have always felt that, when dogs and wieners fall flat, one can always rely on poultry!” Antonio raised an eyebrow. He often referred to Willoughby as illustrious. The word was defined as: highly distinguished; renowned; famous; glorious; bright. While the barber was a bit odd at times, he was a good judge of character.

  Willoughby glanced around the shop. “So, why am I always the only one in your shop, Antonio? Over the last three months, I’ve seen a total of, well, let me see… There was me, and, oh yeah, me! Do you actually have other customers?”

  Antonio launched into a series of grumbles about the challenges of attracting a good clientele. Willoughby let his eyes wander toward the shop window. What had those floating numbers meant? Was it his mind trying to help him uncover the secret of the shop, of the symbol? He thought of one of his personal heroes, James Glaisher. Antonio told him once that this mathematician, famous for founding the Royal Aeronautical Society and riding weather balloons to chart the troposphere, had reported that the sky was filled with numbers, floating equations that provide answers to all sorts of problems. People just need to learn how to see them.

  Almost as if on cue, with the words of James Glaisher on his mind, the light outside deepened to an odd dark blue and Willoughby’s life, once again, changed.

  The incessant buzzing of a fly had caught his attention and led his eyes toward the dusty sill of the front window. The fly careened through a forest of old coffee cups and lit, at last, on the highest stack of wrinkled magazines. Willoughby had the strangest impression that the fly was trying to tell him something. He squinted, staring hard at the spot where the fly had landed. A carefully cut-out bit of newsprint had been angled over the edge of the stack, highlighting a photograph from an article that appeared to be from the newpaper’s society column. A photograph accompanied the article. It was a striking image--a girl, about his age, holding a violin and staring out from a medieval cloak. There was something almost mystical about the article. It called to him, like a broken equation—like a shingle hanging from the edge of a rickety roof. He couldn’t help but be riveted. He was hopelessly drawn to things out of sync—and this photograph, for some reason, seemed to him out of order, out of alignment.

  Antonio stepped around him, momentarily blocking his gaze, but only briefly as he continued slowly around the side of the barb
er chair. Willoughby strained once he had moved, determined to discern some of the text of the article. The girl mesmerized him. She had captivating, dark eyes, and shimmering, black hair. Who was she?

  Antonio twisted the chair around, but Willoughby was undeterred, continuing to strain toward the article. The glare from the shop’s overhead lights made it hard to even make out the title of the article, much less the fine print. The title was two words; he couldn’t make out the first, but the second was “Shines.” A tuft of dark hair dropped unceremoniously to his cheek. He puffed it away, distracted for a moment.

  “I don’t usually see such big globs of hair. What are you doing up there?”

  “Oh, you noticed! It feels as if I am trying to tame a restless bull, attempting to excavate wild tangles while my client twists like a monkey on a hot roof! On the bright side, I think you will have no problems getting into the Navy.” Antonio held scissors in one hand and a thin comb in the other. His words spilled out rapidly, laced with a lilting Spanish accent. “By the way, if you move just as I cut, the cut goes badly. The cut tonight is going very badly, my friend. At the moment, you have a hole the size of a walnut over your most illustrious ear. If you can stay still, perhaps I can fix it. If not, I take no responsibility. You may yet walk out of here as a genuine, hack-headed zombie.”

  “Cool!” Willoughby grinned.

  “‘Cool?’”

  “Yeah—zombies are in.”

  “In what?”

  “In, you know—in! It’s as if zombies have taken the place of princes in the mind of modern females. Girls drool over hot vampires, roaring beasts, or kind-hearted zombies. The bloodthirsty alien with overactive hormones takes fourth place. As near as I can tell, girls today want to be frightened, bitten, and in some cases, possessed. It doesn’t matter what creepy thing is after them as long as they are the object of the chase.”

  The barber shrugged. “Well, some things don’t change.”

  Willoughby nodded. “I’m telling you, it’s not a world for the faint-hearted out there, Antonio. Maybe you should lock the shop door when I’m not around.”

  “Ah. Yes, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Willoughby tried to cheat a glance over at the article again. “It could even be a niche for you, though. Think of all the potential customers on Capitol Hill alone. Much of the Press is brainless and operating on Espresso or energy drinks, and then you have the unending pool of bloodthirsty politicians…”

  “I am awed at your insight,” Antonio said, narrowing his eyebrows. Willoughby tried again to angle his head to look at the newspaper clipping.

  “So, what can you tell me about the girl?”

  Antonio looked up. “What girl?”

  “The article! You left it there for me, didn’t you?” Willoughby nodded toward the magazine stack. “We’ve already established that you’re the only one in here besides me, so there aren’t a lot of other choices.”

  “Who said I left it for you?” Antonio fought a grin. “Forget about her. She’s out of your league.” He let Willoughby fume a moment before he continued. “All right, I will humor you. As you can tell from the article, her name is Ms. Senoya.”

  “And?”

  “She is close to your age. Her father is Japanese and her mother is Polynesian.” His long fingers worked the well-oiled scissors, click, click, clicking them like dragon teeth. “She is actually a friend of mine. I like that picture. It captures her, how to say—haunting look, would you not say?” He sent another coil of dark hair cascading to the floor.

  “You’re joking, right? You don’t really know her?”

  “Oh, I know her very well. I am a great fan of her music.” The barber straightened. His dark eyes sparkled as he brushed back his own slightly damp black hair. “I am also a fan of her…style.”

  “So, her name is Senoya? Is that her first name?” Willoughby pursed his lips.

  Antonio cocked his head. “Is it my imagination, or is your interest slightly more than academic? Perhaps you want to know the numbers of her measurements?”

  “Come on, Antonio—I asked for her name, not for the keys to her apartment.”

  “So, now you want keys to her apartment?”

  Willoughby groaned. “Okay,” he sighed, “just forget it.” Of course, his body language (especially the fact that kept twisting in the chair trying to get a better view of the article) made it obvious that he did not want to forget it.

  Antonio chuckled softly. “Her name is Sydney, my friend—Sydney Senoya. Like you, she is, hmm, gifted. No one in the world plays the violin like Ms. Senoya. She can make the Stradivarius sing like the heavens in chorus! Ah, you should see her, with her shiny, black hair flying, and her deep, penetrating eyes…She is famous, you know. I clipped the article from the London Times.”

  “You were in London?”

  Antonio guffawed; “In London? No, I was not in London. This time, you are kidding, right? The London Times is read all over the world—”

  “I don’t care about the publication!” Willoughby barked; “I want to know about the girl.”

  Antonio savored the silence for a moment. “As I was saying, the London Times is read all over the world, which tells you, my friend, that the girl is known all over the world. Many say they hear music just by looking at her face.”

  Willoughby turned away. “Okay, I can see that getting anything out of you is going to be hopeless tonight.” He turned back toward the photo. “She looks like a cross between Goth and anime.”

  Antonio raised an eyebrow; “Goth and anime? I will have to tell—”

  The barber’s voice was clipped off in mid-word. Willoughby’s senses immediately heightened. He felt more than saw a disturbance near the top left corner of the window. He thought of the glowing numbers he thought he had seen earlier. Something was happening—something that had to do with this place, with this night. Was the girl part of it? He spun, his senses seeking for the heart of the disturbance. Glowing numbers greeted him, highly visible this time, floating on nothing but air. The numbers strung together into equations, crawling slowly down from the top left corner of the window. The glowing strings were also reflected in a car window across the street. As Willoughby watched, he noted that the ghostly numbers seemed to be following an invisible line, spilling from the direction of the symbol to a point near the center of Antonio’s large window. The strings began to divide, seeming to spawn multiple smaller strings. They seemed to be growing brighter. He glanced up at Antonio.

  “Hey? Are you seeing this?”

  The barber stood frozen. His frame was perfectly still. His mouth hung open, poised in the act of forming a word. His eyes, his chest—nothing moved! It was as if he wasn’t even breathing. Willoughby felt a chill run down his spine. He jerked his eyes around the shop. Everything was frozen. There was no sense of sound, no buzz from the lights, nothing living in the room at all.

  “Antonio?” he whispered again. No answer.

  With alarm, he caught sight of the pesky fly he had watched earlier. It hung suspended and lifeless in the air only a few inches from his face. He turned back to the window. The blue lines of floating numbers had grown brighter, highlighting a jagged edge of light maybe ten feet from one end to the other. The line pulsed with bright fluctuation. The pulsing line seemed to suck the crawling number strings inward, and then in a single blinding flash, the air ripped down, letting light spill through. Willoughby shielded his eyes from the brilliance. What was he seeing? A different dimension? The light dimmed slightly and a gaunt face peered out of the jagged tear. As his eyes adjusted, he could see it was the face of a man, an older man with dark eyes and thin, wispy hair. The man wore what looked like a trench-coat, pulled tight around his shoulders and buttoned fully to his neck. At first, he peered up at the symbol, and then, as if sensing Willoughby’s gaze, his eyes slowly lowered to the shop. The dark, penetrating g
aze locked on him, and Willoughby found the brilliant light suddenly less blinding. The man seemed surprised, or at least confused. He nodded at Willoughby.

  Willoughby blinked and nodded back. He glanced up to see if Antonio and the fly were still frozen. In that instant, everything reverted to normal. The bluish light, the numbers, the man’s face—they all vanished in the blink of an eye. Antonio was speaking again and the ambiance of the room returned. The fly banged against the front glass of the window before buzzing back past Willoughby’s head.

  “—her. She would be amused. Anime? She might well turn it into a whole new show—”

  Willoughby tuned out Antonio’s words. What had just happened? He grasped for an explanation. Had he hallucinated the whole thing? Had he fallen into a trance and had some sort of daydream? Had the face been a ghost, a projection of some kind? Who had the man been? Why had he been wearing a trench coat, buttoned all the way to the neck?

  The image had vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. Willoughby started to say something, but stopped. Again, it was something out that window that attracted his attention—a quick movement from the shadows. Someone was watching the shop from an alley across the street. Willoughby narrowed his eyes. A huge bruiser of a man stepped out of the alley and walked to the dim glow of the book emporium. His bulging arms were heavily tattooed. In one hand, he carried a camera with a zoom lens. His eyes were transfixed on the carved symbol outside the shop. He raised the camera to his cheek and began to click. After a few pictures, he lowered the camera and seemed to focus on Antonio.

  “Hey,” Willoughby said, trying to steady his voice. He saw the iris in the zoom lens click. The man lowered the camera again. He was focusing right at him.