A Squire's Trial
Page 5
The next three days I tried to live as usual, but my concern after meeting the man was proven true: I now couldn’t help but see everything from his point of view, as I analyzed all I heard and saw through his points, reasoning, arguments and metaphors. Where I once viewed commercials on TV with a blank stare in anticipation of the program to continue, I grew irritated as I couldn’t help but think of how these ads appeal to nothing more than our egotism, self-interest, laziness, vanity and so much more. The news that I used to view as just information about events, now seemed to always have some kind of agenda to them that made it all unbearable to watch. I could barely tolerate my more obnoxious co-workers, whose complaints once rolled off me like water off a duck’s back as I’d nod and agree with them. Now, I needed to get away from them and their complaining as fast as possible.
I couldn’t really cope. What was my old life now, if not an illusion that I was awakened from by this chance encounter? But what could I do? Become a fascist myself? The thought still unsettled me, even though I’ve come to accept most everything we’ve talked about. These thoughts bothered me constantly, and I couldn’t relax for days.
On the fourth day since I met the man, I was eating lunch in the break room, when I suddenly caught, from the corner of my eye, the news on the TV. I turned around to face it. It was a report of an event that happened just yesterday in the capitol. The Toreros had been engaged in some attack on an immigrant group suspected of running a pedophile ring in the city! I watched the footage of masked men beating up foreign looking people, but it was largely a mess with the police being involved and some passers-by getting caught in the middle. At one point, I saw something that made me jump up and sit closer to the screen — though it all happened so fast, that by the time I sat down, it had already cut to other footage. I had to look this up and make sure that I wasn’t mistaken!
After having asked my co-worker if I could use his office computer for what was left of the lunch break, and him agreeing, I got straight to searching. As I was looking for the footage, I stumbled across a wide number of coverages of the event and commentary on it from various people, some claiming that the pedophile ring allegations were unconfirmed, others saying it was an outright lie to justify attacking immigrants, how Toreros were scum and fascist thugs and so on. Several of them were arrested, and the police was conducting an investigation into the allegations made. Finally, I found the footage and paused it at that moment. It was him. The man I met, the adventurer fascist was in the thick of it. They cut the footage to show him practically fly in from the side of the shot and kick a foreigner square on the chest, sending him tumbling back. I also noted something else — before he appeared on the screen, the immigrant was raising his leg to kick someone on the ground. It was a woman, a passerby in a white dress that got caught in the middle of it all. Maybe the immigrant thought she was another Torero, or he was too caught up in the fight, but the man appeared just in time to protect her. I found footage made by someone viewing from out their window overlooking the whole mob, and could see that at one point the woman in white was carried out of that mess by a man, who set her down and then rushed back into the fight. I was certain this was him again.
Leaning back in the chair, I thought about this until my co-worker walked in and told me the break was over and I needed to get out of his office and back to my own tasks. I walked back into the storage hanger and resumed my work, though my actions were mostly automated as I was thinking again of the man, the fight, the alleged pedophile ring. The allegations of such a group had existed for a while now — months, if not longer. I even remember that when I would hear about it, I’d voice how horrible this was if true, and then immediately for— get about it as my everyday concerns would take over. I seemed to be morally outraged at the time, but now I couldn’t think of it as anything more than complacency. That was not outrage. I had forgotten about this news piece until today, and what I felt now was real outrage, outrage that grew out of what the man would call a desire for Justice.
Then I stopped with a heavy crate in my hands and just stood there, looking into space, not really seeing anything in front of me. I felt my heart race and again thought back to the man and what he told me: “I will let my heart decide.” I dropped the crate and proceeded to walk out of the building. Nobody had really payed attention to me at that moment, so I left unobstructed. I should have walked to the boss, if he was even in his office, and told him that I quit, but it seemed rather a meager and pointless thing to do.
I drove straight home and began to pack an old backpack that I had, by no means suited for traveling, but it was all I had. I packed it only with some extra clothes and essentials, as well as all the money I had in the world, which wasn’t all that much. I left my home and drove into the city. Before leaving, I looked up some information on the Toreros and found out that they own a bar in the capitol. This was my destination.
Having parked outside the bar, I left the backpack in the car and got out. As I walked towards the door, doubt crept in, and I started second—guessing what I was doing. I all but stopped right at the entrance to the bar, when again I thought back to the man. There are no doubts if Truth is on your side — know yourself, and follow your heart. How was I to know what kind of man I am, if I did not face my fears? I breathed out, breathed in, and walked in.
The bartender was, of course, a Torero member. He didn’t really trust me as I told him that I want to find the man whose name I didn’t know, and more Toreros came up behind me listening to the conversation. So, I told the bartender of my chance encounter with the man and one of the Toreros piped up behind me: “Oh yeah, he spoke of you.” I was scared being surrounded by the wolves in their own den, but once that one verified my story, they all seemed to relax and sat at the bar with me as I told them of my meeting and everything the man told me and what an effect it had on me. They shared with me some stories of his time with them in return, which wasn’t just the event from yesterday — he helped them in a charity event where they gave away free food to homeless and out of work natives of our land, how they played some sports, shared dinner and how he even spent time babysitting the children of one of the men at the bar while he was out.
I could very well recognize in their stories the man I had met as they too talked of him in warm, respectful and comradely tones. I told them again how I wanted to see him, to which they replied that he had in fact left the city early this morning. To my luck, however, they did know which road he took and where he was heading. He was invited by another fascist group to their native island north of the continent, and the man was going to travel across our country and then through another one before he’d get a boat to take him to the island itself. If I were to leave right now, I could possibly catch up to him. They too did not know his true name, but only the name by which he preferred people refer to him: Don.
When I drove to the outskirts of the city on the road that the Toreros told me he had taken, I got out of my car for the last time, and grabbed my backpack. From here on in I was going to proceed on foot and catch up to him, and then we’ll finally be able to exchange our names, and I would join him in his adventures as he tells me what else there is to know.
Later that same day, he smiled brightly at me as he said:
“Well, it’s nice to finally have a name to go with your face, Sancho.”
“Eja Eja, Alala”