Shadows & Tall Trees

by Shadows

  “I hope my glasses will be ready by tomorrow. Half-past eleven at the latest. I have an urgent meeting with my son before I fly back to Paris. At six in the evening.”

  How pressing is an engagement with a son who has been dead for thirty years? A son, briefly famous as the co-star of Desir, l’amour et la mort, who was supposed have taken his life in the state of Illinois nine months after he had made it plain that he would never speak to his father again. The auteur still has the private detective’s report in the bottom drawer of an escritoire in Paris. But now his niece has been saying that this was all lies: his son had bribed the detective.

  “You can be quite sure that everything will be arranged. Now can you see my middle finger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what you notice as I move it slowly towards you.”

  “There’s no nail facing me and the remaining three fingers and the thumb have been tucked into the palm of . . .”

  A silver crescent in the flesh, an old wound’s emblem. “I think I’ll leave now, if you don’t mind.”

  “If you could stay for a little longer, I’d be grateful. There are a few things I may need to attend to.”

  The man has moved round to the back of the chair. A cabinet rolling open followed by the reassuringly professional rustle of paper. The auteur sighs and tries to relax. To panic would be unbecoming. Even at the most difficult times on set, he always remained utterly unruffled. The scar could be anybody’s scar. As a writer he should know how the alert mind is always ready to find hidden words, however the alphabet is presented. And anyway his film had a French title.

  But now there is no sound from behind him. Although he has not heard the creak of the door, he knows the man is no longer in the room. Indeed, he can hear noises coming from the reception area. Furniture is being shifted. He is quite sure the display stands and the uncomfortable chairs are being manoeuvred onto the street. Voices; bottles are being opened. The murmur sounds civilized. Like the opening of an exhibition or a book launch. Then, very faintly, there’s a series of gentle chinks. At first he thinks it’s merely celebratory: glass glancing convivial glass. But soon the chink changes to a clink and a scrape. Then another clink and scrape. Something is being built. He remembers the bricks and the skip outside. He begins to struggle, and shout and scream, but he is being held fast in the treatment chair. He has never heard himself beg before.

  A bright light in the mirror; the test card reappears. For a moment, every vowel and consonant is quite still and he half expects a voice from behind asking him to read, but then the letters whirl and swirl around before finally reassembling themselves: Desir, l’amour et la mort. The screen is too narrow for his film, his greatest attempt to fix the permanence of his longings. There will be no images: it is his script. The opening scene is scrolling down. He can no longer see anything in the room except the mirror and its message. Only language moves in the dark. He will fade, walled in with his words.

  DEATH’S DOOR CAFÉ

  KAARON WARREN

  Theo thought of the pain in his veins as the clawing of bats, the smell in his nose their guano, the rawness of his throat torn by their smoke. It was this, the pain in breathing, that made him climb out of his car at last and walk a block to the Dusseldorf Café.

  The large purple door had a suburban brass knocker and a spy hole. A plaque beside the door read The Soldier. In larger text: b1922, d1946

  Up close he could see dark stains in the wood. He touched his fingers to the marks, feeling the door’s thick grain, wondering if he’d get a sense of ‘ending’, an understanding of the death it had once concealed.

  He knocked.

  When the waiter opened the door, Theo jumped back. He turned away, wanting to run, knowing he wasn’t able. Once, he could have been around the corner before the waiter even raised a hand. Now . . . he had no choice. Even walking one block from the car had sapped his strength.

  “Table for one?” said the waiter. “Did you have a booking?”

  Theo shook his head. The café wasn’t in the phonebook or online; he’d only found it by walking up and down the street.

  “That’ll be okay, we can squeeze you in. A cancellation, aren’t you lucky?”

  Theo stepped inside. The waiter led Theo across the room, saying, “There’s a great table over here in the corner. Right next to the magazines.” Theo stood close to him.

  “Who was The Soldier? If that’s not a rude question.”

  “It’s always the first thing people want to know: Who died behind the door?” The waiter’s face shifted, became serious. “The Soldier was back from war a year, and he was listening to some gloomy music, some sad sort of song, they say, when there was a knock on that door.” The waiter rapped loudly on the table and Theo jumped.

  The waiter handed him the menu.

  Theo hadn’t eaten solid food for more than a week. Even glancing at the Chef’s Specialities list, with its ‘South-Coast Swordfish’ and its ‘Hazelnut Chocolate Soufflé’, made him feel ill.

  “The super special today is a lamb tagine with blood plums. The chef tells me it’s very good,” the waiter said. “So the soldier opens the door, that very door you came through, and who is standing there but his old sergeant? And the sergeant says, ‘You’ve brought shame to an entire division,’ and he reaches in and slashes the soldier’s throat. The soldier bleeds to death so fast he’s gone by the time the killer reaches the front gate. They say the music was still playing two days later when the body was found. As if that poor dead soldier kept hitting replay.” The waiter shrugged. “So, what’ll it be?”

  Theo felt sick. “Could I just have a green salad?” he said. The waiter smiled.

  “We sell a lot of green salads. Chef does a very good one. Anything else for now? Some nice toast? We sell a lot of toast, too.”

  Theo nodded. Smiled. His dry lips cracked. He didn’t know what to say, how to ask for what he wanted.

  “Drinks?”

  Theo shook his head. “I’m not really drinking. I’m . . .” He hadn’t told anyone yet and he didn’t know what words to use. “I’m not well.”

  “Oh, you poor thing. How about I bring you one of our fabulous Virgin Marys? We leave out the vodka for sick people.” The waiter smiled. “We get a lot of your type in here.”

  The café was full, but remarkably quiet. Gentle music played, something with pan pipes and an ethereal female voice. The chair was comfortable; high-backed, soft-seated. Theo shifted back to give himself more room and there was no scraping sound, as if the legs were muffled. The walls were painted all around with a mural he took to depict Dusseldorf and the River Rhine. Along the banks, stylish people strolled, perfectly groomed, laughing, small dogs at their feet.

  There was nothing dark, no hint of death beyond the door he had walked through.

  Theo couldn’t eat his green salad when it arrived, but he drank his tomato juice. He watched to see what people did. He wanted a clue, didn’t want to mess up, miss out.

  An emaciated woman held a bread stick. She was dressed in hot pink as if to draw attention away from her pale face. Her companion, a red-cheeked woman with a high, far-reaching voice, did all the talking, frivolous stuff. She barely took a breath. Theo thought she was frightened the sick woman would speak. He understood this kind of avoidance.

  He had good hearing (Batboy, his mother called him, because he picked up everything) and didn’t have to strain to listen in.

  “They’ve got it in green, blue, brown, orange and red,” the healthy woman said. “But they don’t have all the sizes, you’d have to try them on to see. But first you’d decide if you wanted green, blue, brown, orange or red. I, me, I’d choose red or orange though I wouldn’t mind brown . . .” without a break, desperately filling each space.

  Finally the sick woman reached out a finger and touched the loud woman’s wrist. The loud woman stopped instantly.

  The
sick woman nodded.

  “Waiter! Waiter. We’re ready to see Jason now,” the loud woman said, waving the menu.

  Theo opened his menu. The owner’s name was there, in large, ornate type. “Your host, Jason Davies,” it said.

  Jason Davies came and sat at the table with the women. He was young, black hair, pale blue eyes. Theo saw the patrons in the room all watching him. Nobody spoke or moved; all focused on him.

  He talked with the sick woman for a while (“How did you hear about us? And is this a friend? A relative?” “I’ve answered all this,” she said. “I’ve told you.”) then led her through a door at the back of the café. She walked slowly, relying heavily on a cane.

  Theo swallowed. Winced.

  The friend stood by their table, clutching her handbag. She started towards the back door, but the waiter gently led her to walk towards the front.

  “Leave it with us, now.”

  “I need to give her a lift home. She can’t manage.”

  He smiled. “She’ll be fine.”

  He moved over to Theo. “Can we help you with anything else today, or just the bill?”

  “Could I see the owner? Jason? Can I talk to Jason?” he asked, wondering if he was being reckless, ruining his chances. The waiter stood by the table and looked at him.

  “Come back tomorrow.”

  “I can’t. I haven’t got the time,” and that meant a different thing to someone with cancer.

  “I’ll ask him,” the waiter said. “You may have to wait. What’s your name?”

  It was fifteen minutes before the waiter said, “He can’t see you today. Maybe next time.”

  “How many visits until you’re considered worthy?” Theo asked. He hoped he didn’t sound sarcastic. He meant the question.

  “It’s not so much worthiness. Often it’s persistence.”

  “How many times did that woman visit?”

  “I’m not sure. Many. Many times. Some of our regulars come for months.”

  “But I may not have months.”

  The waiter looked at him.

  “Jason will know.”

  Theo felt a ticking in his ears, sign that waves of pain were on their way. He paid. The waiter said, “Come back soon. Tomorrow’s special is French Onion Soup. It’s fantastic. If I had to choose a last meal, that would be it.”

  His direct gaze told Theo, I’m not joking and I’m not being cruel.

  He handed Theo a sheet of paper. Questionnaire, it said. “Bring it with you next time,” the waiter said, ushering Theo out. “Be as honest as you can. That’s what Jason always says.”

  In the car, Theo swallowed pain killers and waited for the nausea to pass before driving. His doctor had told him he shouldn’t be on the road, but that was advice he would ignore for as long as possible.

  He looked at the 20 page questionnaire. What do you fear, what do you love, what to do you miss most about childhood, where do you think you are going to, do you believe in God? Are you ever tongue-tied or lost for words? What will you do with the rest of your life? He laughed; he hadn’t answered such personal questions since a long-ago girlfriend had wanted to know everything about him before making a real commitment.

  That hadn’t worked out so well.

  Before he was five pages in, he was tired. He listened to podcasts: stuff about good eating habits, slow cooking, a bat cave near Denpasar Town, Bali where the bats are known to keep bad things at bay, and children’s theatre. He watched people come and go from the café, so many of them clearly ill. He liked watching them.

  Two hours passed.

  He had nowhere to go.

  Three hours.

  Then he saw the woman all in pink. She must have left via the back door. She seemed taller and she had no cane. She put out her hand for a taxi, then lowered her arm and walked to a bus stop. As Theo watched, she counted the money she held. Shook her head. Laughed.

  He started the car, drove alongside her and offered her a lift. “I was in the café,” he said. “Death’s Door Café.”

  “You were? I’m sorry. I noticed very little.”

  In the café, she had looked over fifty. Now, she seemed to be in her mid thirties. Her face glowed and she bounced on her feet as if full of energy.

  She leant into his car. Looked at him. Then climbed in.

  “Where do you want me to drop you?’

  She seemed a bit stunned by this. Lost for words. “To your friend’s house?”

  “No! No. To the airport. I’m, ahhh . . .”

  “Holiday?”

  “Holiday.” She looked at the money in her hand again.

  “You need money.”

  She shook her head. Then nodded. She laughed. “I’m not sure, actually.”

  Theo smiled. “I can buy you a ticket. Easy. Money’s just burning a hole in my pocket.”

  “What would you want in return?”

  “Nothing, really. Just to talk.”

  “I can’t tell you anything,”

  “You look fantastic.”

  “I do, don’t I? And I feel better than I have in maybe two decades.”

  “So what happened in there?”

  “I can’t say. I really can’t. Not even for a plane ticket.”

  “I’m going to buy you that anyway,” he said. It really did mean nothing to him. Even ten thousand dollars wouldn’t make a dent. “But . . . how do I get in? How do I get Jason to talk to me?”

  They approached the airport.

  He said, “Do you want me to give a message to your friend?”

  She stared at him for a moment. “Oh. No. No. Best not. Look, if you want to get in? Keep going back. And be honest. As honest as you can force yourself to be. And good luck.”

  She kissed his cheek, her lips warm, soft, alive.

  “Keep going back,” she said.

  Theo was not the only regular.

  Some had a constant companion, like the little boy and his mother. She carried him in, set him up with pillows. Ordered milkshake, chocolate cake, but that made the boy cry with frustration. He took a sip, but Theo could see that it rose straight away back into his mouth.

  They were invited through the door on the day the boy didn’t stir as the mother walked in with him.

  Some were always alone. These, like Theo, carried a book or magazine to read, or concentrated on phones, not wanting to look lonely or needy. They exchanged glances, sometimes sat together, but they didn’t talk. Theo wondered if amongst them were potential friends, or long-term partners. The mother of his child. But all they really had in common was illness.

  Some came in with a new companion every time, paid nurses. An elderly man who walked with a cane always had his nurse bring gifts; he owned a series of stores, Theo discovered. He never said anything, just smiled as the nurse handed out pens, notebooks, chocolates.

  A sort of camaraderie built amongst them. There were light cheers any time one was allowed through to the back.

  Jason Davies sometimes nodded at them. Sometimes he’d smile. The regulars would exchange looks when one of them was so blessed.

  Day after day, Theo drank carrot and ginger juice, ate dried yam chips. At times, the nausea would be too much and he would push through the beaded doorway, (Mountain Walker, the plaque beside it said, b1933, d1972), walk along the increasingly chilly hallway, open the dented back door (Teen Singer b1985, d2001), stumble every time over the rock which sat too close to the path, and enter the toilet, (Three Year Old b1998, d2001) which shared space with a laundry tub and what appeared to be rejected artwork from a teenage girl’s bedroom.

  He pretended to work at a variety of tables, taking his laptop in, using his phone. He spoke if spoken to, like the day when the elderly man sat at the next table with his eyes closed, humming softly. His nurse fussed over him, smiled around the room, stayed connected.

  “You’re a busy, busy
man,” she said to Theo. She was in her twenties and smelt faintly of cigarette smoke and breath mints. “What is it you do, busy all the time?”

  “I’ve got a sonar equipment company.” He handed her his business card.

  “Love the bat,” she said. Theo had drawn it himself; he had drawn bats from the age of five. “I love bats.”

  Theo was called Batman at school, because of the cave on his property. He didn’t mind at all; he’d take kids there in groups, let them throw bat poo at each other, tell them things they didn’t know.

  After all the bats were killed, though, he couldn’t bear to hear the name spoken. Each time was like a punch to the heart. He knew he deserved it, every hard hit, for not stopping the slaughter.

  He didn’t tell the nurse any of this. He might, he thought, if something happened between them. If she really loved bats, he could show her the cave, they could see it together and she’d cry with him, maybe.

  But she didn’t come again. Next time, the nurse was a man, bright faced and cheery, who made them all laugh.

  One morning, Jason appeared. There was silence as always. He surveyed the room. “Can you stay for a while, Theo? It would be good to have a chat.”

  Theo nodded.

  “Excellent,” Jason said. He walked over to the elderly man, placed his hand on the back of the chair, and leaned over to whisper in his ear.

  The elderly man gave a little shudder. “Me?” Theo heard him say.

  Jason led the elderly man though the door. The waiter (there were three of them, Theo knew, all kind, efficient, professional) said to the nurse, “You’re all done now. You’ll be paid for the month. And thanks.”

  The other regulars congratulated Theo. He still didn’t know what he was lucky about. No one discussed it. But it was a cure; they’d seen it. They knew it worked. Theo himself had seen six people go through the door and never return to the café. He’d seen three of them later, walking down the street, transformed. Flowers appeared in the café, with notes saying THANK YOU. Like flowers sent to nurses in hospital.