Raising Lazarus

by Aidan J. Reid

  Between two stalls a man, who had been silently watching the same faces flow by, suddenly sprang into action and approached two men on the outer edge of the moving line. Their darting eyes at the various goods and stalls as they passed did not go unnoticed, the younger of the two trailing slightly behind the priest who despite his discomfort in the hubbub continued cutting a path ahead.

  “Hey! Look at this. I think she likes you.”

  They both aimed stares at the speaker who stepped into their path. The man reached a gloved hand up to the brightly coloured green parrot on his shoulder. It hopped onto it and the parrot-keeper transferred it to the shoulder of the young man who didn’t have time to react. A swell of people behind the two men created a bottleneck, nudging their backs. The men pulled into the slip road of the traffic which sheltered them from the heat.

  “Beautiful. Suits you. You like that don’t you, Carmen?”

  The parrot squawked in the young man’s ear, too close for comfort and he could feel the talons, sharp and tight on his thin shoulder. The beak was inches from his ear and he tried to lean away from it, but its weight and grip were locked on like he was a small rodent about to be taken in flight.

  “Yes, you do. 55 dirhams for a photo. Chance of a lifetime. The jewel of the Caribbean. Look at her coat, silver blue and golden yellow.”

  “We can’t stay. We’re going somewhere,” the priest answered.

  The bird squawked again, this time so shrill that it hurt the younger man’s eardrum. His face was turned away from it, anticipating the razor-sharp beak slicing into the hollow of his cheek.

  “I know, Carmen. They drive a hard bargain. 40. Final offer. Keepsake photo for you and your family.”

  “Listen, we can’t.”

  The priest was gently pulling on the upper arm of his companion and the young man swivelled around slowly, shoulders hunched like he had no neck, head arched to one side. The parrot inched further along the shoulder and the plume of its tail brushed the ear of its reluctant host.

  “Father, just give him the money.”

  The priest saw the distress of his companion. When he looked back at the parrot owner the earlier cheery façade had now been disappeared, as easily as if he had simply removed a mask. He stared at the priest, cold eyes without humour, and held out an upturned white palm collecting the coins which dropped there.

  A shrill little whistle made the parrot leap back onto his shoulder as he slunk back into the cool groove of the concrete wall; he had already dismissed them, watching the crowd again.

  “You OK?” the priest asked.

  “Fine,” he said, and adjusted the shirt over his shoulder again, feeling the thin scrapes on the surface of his skin.

  They soon re-joined the flow of people, sticking to the centre aisle, crammed in on all sides by men who were weaving in and out of the traffic, looking to gain a yard, kicking heels, stepping on sandals, barging shoulders. Their journey was fixed. Their speed dictated. The air was thicker here, no longer with the scented spice or tropical fruit that greeted the entrance. Instead, as they ploughed deeper, the thick clot of sweat filled their noses, salted and dripped from the sky above, a raging sun which continued to beat down on them, the younger man’s hair hot to the touch. The priest’s face was covered by the rim of a hat, but it didn’t stop the sweat that continued to gather there; he wiped it off with a long finger like a windshield wiper. Briefly, they were separated, but the older man was easy to spot, side glances confirming the pale pink face against the darker shades. When the distance was closed between them, the younger man spoke first.

  “It’s hot. Can we pull in for a drink somewhere? Escape the heat for a minute?”

  The priest nodded his agreement and signalled over his shoulder to follow. After five more minutes, the crowd began to thin, and it was possible to walk unimpeded without touching another’s sweated slick skin.

  “Here.”

  The small tienda was bathed in darkness inside. A fenced gate was stretched across the counter and a little tray sat below it at waist height to exchange goods and money. The shopkeeper rose from his stool and looked away from the TV, which was showing a football game, and greeted the two men.

  The priest asked for a couple of soft drinks and the owner reached behind and opened the fridge; the suction of the doors stubborn as if in defiance of the raid on its contents. They paid for the drinks and sat down on the little porch of the shop on one side, the priest helped onto the stone floor carefully. Just bathed by the shade they looked up and watched the faces stare down as they walked past, looking first at the older man, then at the drink bottles in their hands which were drained half empty already, and beyond into the shop.

  “You ever get used to the heat?”

  “Five years now,” the priest said. “Doesn’t get any easier.”

  The younger man noticed that his neighbour had already finished the ice tea and offered his own, the priest shook his head. He was holding his finger along the length of the cool bottle surface.

  “Still sore?”

  “Getting better,” the priest answered, although his eyes suggested different. The coloured bruise had faded to purple.

  He saw the worried look of the younger man and wiped the condensation from his finger on his black shirt front, which was wet and clapped to his chest.

  “Come on. We’re nearly there.” The priest parked the bottle down on the tile below with finality and looked at his neighbour.

  The priest winced as he used the seated man’s shoulder to get back onto his feet, feeling the coarse doorway for additional support. When he was standing, he stepped out onto the street again and looked up and down, wafting the hat against his beetroot face. The sun seemed to redouble, its seeking rays finding his body a little riper than before, keen to extract the surplus moisture from any exposed area of his skin.

  “He should be about three blocks in that direction,” the priest said, pointing further along the direction they were headed. “Maximum fifteen more minutes. Just think of the lunch that’s waiting for us. That should quicken your-”

  The priest’s eyes were slanted against the overhead sun, but the movement was enough to attract them. The shopkeeper heard the cries above the TV and peeping out from over the counter was surprised to see the younger of the two men slide to one side, as if in slow motion like a tree falling, a loud crack as his head struck the wall. Suddenly, the body fell limp and the bottle fell from his hand, rolling off down the street, clinking off the sharp stones.

  The distress in the older man’s face made the shopkeeper accelerate his own step, unlocking the gated entrance and running over to the prostrate body. Blood curved from one nostril and down the cheek on a head that was in the priest’s lap, who was crying. The younger man was unresponsive. The eyes were shut, and the priest stroked a cheek which was much cooler than the shade they were under.

  TEN

  They cut through a group of American tourists who were huddled around the big plasma screen beside the door. A sea of football jerseys, three waves long were bent forward in prayer, cursing obscenities, tearing caps from heads, pulling on chair tops and locking heads in arms. They paid no notice of the couple who walked to the far end of the bar and found an open booth on the side, furthest away from the racket around the screen.

  “Jack’n ice.”

  “As in Jack Daniels?”

  “When you’ve known him for as long as I have, it’s Jack. Besides,” Lazarus said, “it’s the only thing now that’ll get the taste out of my mouth.”

  His face curdled, sticking out his tongue and shaking his head. Molly rose and walked to the bar. She looked at her mirrored reflection ahead where the name of the bar was branded. McSorley’s was an Irish bar by name, but so garish in its exhibitionism that only tourists lapped it up.

  Molly looked to the ceiling and saw the bright GAA jerseys weaved together into one great flag that covered the entire roof. On the fixtures, screens and hanging from shelves were little
leprechauns jangled in various guises ranging from happy-go-lucky to evil-pitchfork devils. Framed portraits hung on the walls – various sporting occasions and hurling sticks criss-crossing, signatures in marker on their surface. Other posters adorned the brick walls – some asking to be kissed, others extolling their fighting ability. A large tricolour flag hung proudly from one wall, the printed words Cead Mile Failte in Celtic lettering on its front. Barely there, above the din of the drunken rabble, U2 sang about a street that had no name.

  Molly looked along the counter, trying to signal a barman who was locked in conversation with an excitable man holding aloft a pint of Guinness, the cream moustache still on his lips. When the drinker saw the woman at the bar he pointed his head to her and the barman followed. Molly watched the drinker park the Guinness down on the counter, making a queasy face and shaking his head as if waking from a dream. His friends started laughing and slapped him on the back. Their own pints of Guinness had turned to black coffee, frothy white heads long since shrunken to a single coat of cream paint.

  When she ordered and collected the drinks, she returned to the table and sat opposite Lazarus, parking the two drinks down between them. He held the tumbler in his hand and sloshed the ice around, before taking a swallow of it.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He measured out a slow breath and she watched his shoulders slump and sink deeper into the upholstered green chairs. He rested his head back against the thick cubed window, closed his eyes and smiled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He opened his brown eyes and stared at her. He couldn’t help the giggle that escaped his mouth, leaning forward and wiping it from his face with another swallow which looked like it pained him. It did the trick as he was silenced again.

  “I’ve been a bit of a dick, haven’t I?”

  It was her turn to smile now and she nodded before lifting the drink to her lips. Hers was a cider, and she could taste the fizzing bubbles pop in her mouth, coating her tongue with apple.

  “You didn’t have to tell Roy that we were finished.”

  “I know.”

  “Why did you do it?” he asked and received a shrug of shoulders in response.

  “I suppose if I said we weren’t done then you might not have wanted to carry on and help me with the project.”

  “Still pressing ahead with it then?”

  “Yeah,” she said and took a deep breath. “Still plenty of time, but I’m getting nowhere. Starting to wonder if the topic’s too big for me.”

  There was a roar from the corner, cheers and the sound of clapping palms. A smashed glass in the middle of it all, punctured it for a moment but was doused by an even higher swell of noise and shouts. They waited for it to die down, patiently sipping on their drinks until order had been restored.

  “Listen. I’ll help you a bit. As a thanks for the whisky and for getting me out of there when you did. Not sure how much I can offer, but use and abuse me if you want. I’m used to it at this stage,” Lazarus said and smiled.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Molly said and, edging on a buttock, reached around and pulled the notepad from her back pocket.

  In the spiral loops was a little stubby pencil which she tipped over. It popped out, and she flicked the cover over until she found a fresh page.

  “Christ. I didn’t mean now! You carry that thing everywhere with you?”

  “You never know when inspiration will strike.”

  “Or haemorrhoids,” he replied. “OK, what do you want to know?”

  She studied his face as if to see what mood he was in and how far she could push. Reading her thoughts, he gave a little beckoning hand wave and nodded his head slowly. The pub had quietened considerably in the last few seconds – the drinkers had streamed out and the music had now been turned up, but it wasn’t loud enough to be obscene just yet.

  “How did you get involved in prostitution?”

  “Same way most people get into it. I needed the money,” Lazarus said with honesty, which prompted her to continue with her direct line of questioning.

  “Don’t you worry about the danger; STD’s or violence or getting into the wrong crowd?”

  “Not at all. I’ve been through all that and worse in my life. A lot worse.”

  Molly was jotting down the answers in shorthand. She flicked back to a previous page where she had already prepared stock questions for her visit to the prison.

  “Can you tell me a little bit about your background. Your parents? Where you’re from exactly? Who you really are?”

  There was a smile on his face as he looked down into the tumbler glass, rolling it between his finger and thumb.

  “That’s a lot of questions you just fired at me. You know I haven’t told anyone in a long, long time,” he said with a weak smile. “It doesn’t matter what you think about me. None of it really matters in the end. If there is an end.”

  He lifted the glass and poured the remainder of the whiskey into his throat, giving a delightful little wriggle as the heat trailed a blaze down through his body.

  “Try me.”

  “Very well.”

  He reached into the glass and pulling out an ice cube, popped it in his mouth, tossing it from cheek to cheek with his tongue before his teeth caught it, crunching down hard. She watched him swallow the lump of ice and take a deep breath.

  “I was born in Palestine in a small town now known as Al-Eizariya. That’s an ego stroke if ever you needed one.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It translates as ‘Place of Lazarus’, although it was called Bethany back in my day. My parents? My father was a fisherman. My mother was what you would call today, a full-time housewife.”

  “Are they still alive?”

  “No,” he said and laughed. “They died a long time ago.”

  “Did you have any other family? Brothers or sisters?”

  “Two sisters. We were close. Towards the end we lived together. Their names were Mary and Martha. And before you ask. Yes, they’re also dead.”

  “Can you tell me about your childhood? Was it a good one? Was there any history of-?”

  “Abuse?” he interjected, and Molly nodded. “That’s OK. You can say it. It’s not a dirty word. Nothing you can say will surprise or offend me. You have no worries there.”

  Molly’s pencil was hovered over her spiral notepad again and she was starting to wish she had brought the tape recorder along. It was still in the car.

  “My childhood, as much as I can remember of it, was good. Ordinary. You know,” he said. “It’s funny you talk about abuse.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah.” He gave a sardonic smile. “Abuse is a very relative term. You scold and slap a child if it runs across the street into traffic. Is that deserved? Depends on the parent. Is that abuse? Again, depends on the parent or their upbringing. Taken in isolation, you could say that it is. But, there’s a lesson there.”

  “Which is?”

  “To warn the child of the even greater danger, which is that they could get killed if they don’t take care when crossing the street. Now you could say that this slap, or physical abuse was warranted in this case. But,” Lazarus said, “it’s still a form of abuse no matter how great or well-meaning the intention is.”

  “And in your case?”

  “My case is a bit different. There was never any forward planning or thought of the consequences. I was never physically abused, but I suppose you could describe what happened to me as a form of mental abuse.”

  “You mean like name calling, bullying, blackmail and-”

  Lazarus shook his head and raised a hand to stop her trail of thought.

  “My sisters saw that I was very sick and in their infinite wisdom and foresight,” he said and gave a rueful smile, “decided that their precious brother, who had all but passed through and was closing death’s door behind him, should be brought back to life. Kicking and screaming.”

  “What did they do?” />
  Lazarus remained silent and studied her eyes. Her stare outlasted his own and he looked down at the table. She was about to speak, sensing that there was a line and that perhaps she had crossed it, but he broke the silence first.

  “They sought the help of a wandering preacher. A man I would come to know and even became friendly with at one point. But that was a long time ago. Back then, he was unknown. But slowly, word got around as his reputation grew. First, we’d hear whispers and rumours from roaming merchants who passed through town. They would say he had the ability to perform miracles, feats of magic that defied logic and cure even the worst of cases.”

  “But you were sceptical?”

  “I was dead. It didn’t matter whether I believed it or not.”

  “So, he was a doctor?”

  “Not quite. Something that you would probably call today, a psychic healer.”

  “What do you keep saying ‘today’ for?”

  “Well,” Lazarus said. “We had a different word for those people back then. You gotta remember, two thousand years is a long time.”

  ELEVEN

  The receptionist looked from the priest to the younger man and nodded softly. She confirmed the appointment in a logbook on her desk and motioned for them to take a seat in the waiting room. As they entered, they noticed the room was almost full. A couple of people looked away from the TV set and grumbled a response to the older man’s greeting. They walked to the far corner of the room, to the only remaining, available seats. The recycled fan air which tousled the hair of those nearest, flapping at shirt collars and magazine pages, barely reached them when they took up their seats.