Chameleon (Days)

by Dean Serravalle

  The line had diminished to nothing. They remained in the comfortable lounge chairs, as if unable to rise.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  “I have a flight to catch.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was thinking of catching it the next time around if you want to go for a walk.”

  “I would like that yes.” She glanced out the curtain glass to the view of the harbour.

  He had left his bags without realizing he did so, or worried if anyone should steal them. The morning was warm on his face and the conversation was as natural and endless as the water was to the horizon. One engine planes floated softly onto the island, one after the other, and they simply watched them land gracefully.

  She was a teacher.

  He was a peacemaker.

  Their dreams were not so dissimilar.

  By the end of the morning, and after a rather awkward landing by a single engine plane, he had asked to marry her.

  DAY 33

  “You have gone from pornographic relationships to romantic ones, is that even possible in the same book,” questions The Man. He has returned to keep me company as I wait to see Dr. Risi, the psychiatrist. I scheduled the appointment in secret. I don’t want anyone close to me to know I feel separate from my body now. With no control, every movement I make is conscious, even the rhythm of my breaths, which I often count like they are ticks on a stopwatch descending to zero. I don’t even believe I picked up the phone to call. It was like the phone summoned me here instead, made the appointment time, and even chauffeured me to the medical center.

  Everyone around me is noticeably ill. Why does the psychiatrist, who promises absolute confidentiality, make you wait in a public cesspool of wandering, comparative eyes who spite others “not as sick” but better positioned to see the shift physician on duty. The mortared walls in this cavernous waiting area are ­painted sealant white. The magazines are colourful despite their germ-infested histories, or old news.

  My eyes scan the white ceramic tiled area. Old people and their frustrated adult children. A genderless baby burrowing into the chest of its worried mother. A perfectly healthy-looking teenager texting at record speed.

  The scent of alcohol hand cleanser sharpens the air between us like a breathable knife.

  The only consolation is that I am waiting in this area on a comfortable leather lounge chair. There is, indeed, something special about sitting in one of these chairs while people come and go through the tunneled subway of sick and healthy stops. Sitting still and peaceful and ignored sinks me further into the worn-out cushion, while others go about the routines of their daily lives. And just as Karen mentioned in the previous chapter, these chairs in public crossfires are very comfortable. Almost too comfortable for such a setting.

  “You’re obsessed with chairs now, on top of it all,” The Man attempts to provoke me once again. He is growing impatient with the story, I can tell, or maybe he feels slighted as my self-volunteered therapist. I believe he is fed up with my life’s digressions and how they disrupt the flow of the fictional narrative I am creating. I can’t help it. I need time away from the story to sweeten the juice when I return to it, anyway. And unlike him, I’m not one to draw strength from other people’s weaknesses.

  “There is no well of hope, or strength, just for your information,” he condescends.

  “You should try to take advantage of someone else one time. Everyone needs to feel above someone else. It’s good for the ego and whatever is good for the ego is good for the centric.”

  His humour has an edge to it as I sit and wait to see the psychiatrist. I wonder if he will advise medication and if so, if I will accept it. I had always considered medication as a last alternative, while fearing a serotonin dependency.

  “Happy pills, happy life,” is what I say.

  The Man’s jokes have fangs now. I am glad to see a nurse, dressed more as a temp or assistant, approach me. She crouches down and speaks to me rather closely, with a voice that resembles the artificial ocean on the sleeping sound machine in Alaia’s room.

  “The doctor is almost ready to see you. Would you like something soothing, like a warm cup of camomile.”

  Her offer seems to exclude the caffeine elephant in the room.

  “No, I am fine.”

  When she turns to walk away, I notice how her hourglass shape is the perfect temptation for a lonely doctor absorbing the lonely sins of his patients in the role of a sin eater.

  Before long, I hear a door opening but see no one holding it open. The nurse behind her desk nods for me to enter. When I pass her, I am pleased her fragrance is fruitier and less clinical than the scent of hand cleanser in the common waiting area.

  The room is warm, cosy and carpeted with a very soft under pad. My feet sink into it like footprints in sand.

  Dr. Risi removes his glasses and his sports jacket and with a flat, open palm, points to another comfortable looking sofa chair. I notice he is a rather large man with long arms and legs. His feet are enormously wide and heavy sunk.

  When he sits down, he reviews the sheet I filled out earlier.

  “You believe you are experiencing a nervous breakdown.”

  He doesn’t question me. He simply releases my writing from the page and into the air like he would a captive dove.

  I nod.

  “Physical symptoms, random pains, sleepless nights, panic attacks, hearing voices?”

  “You sold me out,” The Man speaks up from the doctor’s chair. He is swiveling around in it like a kid on the tilt-a-whirl.

  I nod again.

  “You are a teacher.”

  “Tell him,” The Man demands.

  “And a writer.”

  “Oh, you’ve published?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fiction, I assume.”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe these voices.”

  “Friendly at times, intrusive sometimes.”

  “On your normal train of thought.”

  “Yes.”

  He rubs his chin. He is cleanly shaven although his microphone voice, if you had your eyes closed, would indicate the ­filter of a grizzled beard.

  “You are having a nervous breakdown.”

  He leans in. No punches held.

  I didn’t expect him to diagnose me with such ease and temperament. I assumed he had more questions, more personal research to extract from the pocketed area behind my defence mechanisms. He doesn’t seem interested in me, though, which surprises and relieves me at the same time.

  There is an awkward pause. Does he expect me to say something? I nod again as if condoning an elaboration. He doesn’t expand. He retracts into his own thoughts, into the silence. He simply stares at me. His elbows are on his knees now and he is hunched into the huddle of our awkward conversation.

  “What is next?” I finally speak up.

  “There is nothing next. Only how you regard this space you have carved out for yourself.”

  “It is hurting me.”

  “How?”

  “I am always afraid. Of little things, like driving at night or out of town on my own. To bigger ones, like cancer scares and dying without notice.”

  His face absorbs my words and his cheeks appear as if they are chewing upon them. Even the Man is quiet during the conversation. Observant.

  “I know you are afraid, just as I know I am afraid. Fear is a tragic conspirator. I’m not going to insult your intelligence and say to get over it. To be thankful for what you have. To focus on the positive. Those solutions are temporary diversions. Your cousin died. He left a family, I presume. He died and his death stole something from you. Your son’s Down syndrome stole something from you. Your failures have stolen something from you. Are you aware what has been stolen from you?”

  “No. I don’t.”


  “Your ability to forgive yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your first marriage ended. You feel guilty about it, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are Catholic”—he reviews his notes to be certain—“and I presume you confessed your sins in this regard?”

  “Yes.”

  “You believe God forgives you, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you can’t forgive yourself.”

  “Why not?”

  His eyebrows lift to the center of his forehead. He knows I have the answer to this question, and so does he, but it is my duty to reveal which battleship has been hit first.

  “Because I want to be good.”

  He reclines into the chair with a deep breath.

  “Your desire to be good above your ability to forgive yourself for the bad is deluding you into thinking you are failing your destiny.”

  “Failing my destiny?”

  “Yes. Deep down you want to be greater than you are, and so you don’t value what makes you greater than what you are?”

  “My weaknesses.”

  “Precisely. They make you honest, empathetic, sincere, merciful, even heroic. Most of all, they allow you to hear voices. Those voices are speaking to you. They are asking to be heard from the dungeons you have buried them in for the sake of keeping your clean walls upright. Forgive yourself. You are human and your humanity is begging for you to listen above the lies of your dreams.”

  “This guy is pretty good. Didn’t expect him to be my murderer,” The Man says under his breath.

  As Dr. Risi whispers to his nurse, The Man is anxious to distract me from the session.

  “Quit your job, Dean. That’s the first step, trust me. The kids aren’t getting easier to entertain with all of their distractions. No man should work in the same place for thirty years. It kills his spirit.”

  I don’t answer him. The Man’s voice is panic stricken, desperate, unlike the doctor’s.

  “Let’s talk about your story while we wait,” advises The Man. “Okay, terrorist groups are taking their turns kidnapping Kashif and The Messenger and it appears as if they are heading to Nigeria, of all places. I’m assuming you are basing this on your research of the top five terrorist groups on the planet.”

  I really don’t feel like talking to The Man right now.

  “When will I re-enter the story?”

  “I don’t know yet. I may have a spot for you in a future scene.”

  “You sound like a director at an audition now, letting me down easy.”

  “Listen. There are parts of this story evolving on their own. I am creating it, but sometimes you hit a system and you have to rely on your instincts more than your preparation.”

  “Who are you kidding? You are an irresponsible creator.”

  He is upset and I do feel sorry for him. He has watched the story unfold and I believe he has become envious of my protagonist, who is earning his station.

  The Man has moved across the room, by the windows now.

  “This isn’t much of a view,” he says as he stares out onto a country road and parking lot. I can tell from the tone of his voice he is trying to discredit this new expert in my life.

  “Did you ever see yourself here, fifteen years ago, right after you graduated with your M.A. in English and Creative Writing. It’s a shame to have that degree on your wall, in your office. I look at it a lot and think what a shame it is.”

  The Man has resorted once again to insults. He is the personification of my inability to forgive myself. He is The Man responsible for populating my fears from within.

  Although, to some degree, I couldn’t agree with The Man more where it concerns my education. After I graduated with my degree, I thought I would live and breathe as a writer and as a writer only. Those lofty dreams floated away so fast after our last poetry reading at The Eclectic. I remember making the audience take notice that night. I felt ready to take on the world with stories only to realize that stories bear little fruit on the tree of life, although they do feed you lies about yourself.

  “I’ll try my best to get you back in,” I promise The Man.

  “If you have to force me in, don’t do it. It isn’t worth it. This may be the last story you ever write and I don’t want you to ruin it for me.”

  “Dean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have anything more to say?”

  Dr. Risi is sitting in front of me again. His voice is soft and dismissive.

  I feel like everyone is staring at me except there is only one other real person in the room with me.

  “How do I do it?”

  “Forgive yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “By accepting, deep down, that you are only you. No more, no less.”

  When I leave his office, all of the cars in the parking lot have disappeared. My mouth is dry. My muscles softened as if from a massage, or bruising. The Man has disappeared as well and I wonder if he has run away for good. He was always around when I felt most weak and I worry if this little visit to the doctor lessened his powers, like incidental kryptonite.

  On the drive home, I want to call my wife. I call and the phone rings to voicemail. She never picks up on the first call.

  DAY 34

  “We are going to a place of many stories,” Kashif explains on the plane. The engine is loud and the pilots are silent and armed.

  “How do you know where we are going?”

  “Don’t you? These men are Nigerian. They form one of the most powerful terror groups on the planet. Can’t you tell from the organization?”

  The Messenger feels like an idle student in this global classroom. He is familiar with Nigeria, in particular, its older language, which was seldom used at the U.N. He is also aware that English is the dominant language in Nigeria, used in schools and at the government level. The Messenger remembers the national motto of Nigeria, “Peace and Unity, Strength and Progress.”

  “There are deep jihadist roots in Nigeria,” Kashif exhales. His voice is not louder than the engines. It finds a communication silence in between the roar and rhythm of the propellers.

  “You will see no more death at this level. Only negotiation,” assures Kashif.

  Although The Messenger believes every word Kashif imparts to him, he spites him for holding secrets. Kashif doesn’t reveal until he feels the need to and The Messenger is at a loss, made to feel condescended to in this relationship. In an attempt to impress him as an adult, The Messenger recalls his education out loud.

  “Are you alluding to the Hausa states and the conversion of the Kanem-Bornu Empire to Islam in the eleventh century?”

  Kashif is stunned for a second.

  “You are insulted.”

  “I am not a child. I don’t need to be led.”

  “Believe me, I am not doing so to maintain power over you.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Information is best when it is timely, don’t you agree?”

  “No, I don’t. Information is best when you know it enough to use it.”

  “But we don’t know everything all at once. There needs to be a balance between our ignorance and knowledge for us to maintain curiosity, to stay sharp in the eyes of adversity.”

  He does his best not to show an agreeable face but The Messenger can’t help but agree with Kashif. His manner is persuasive. His words are also transformative, like his appearance. He is a fluid man who is constantly sculpting or moulding himself into another shape.

  “When you are colonized as many times as these people, you develop an appetite to fight. This is a dangerous, tribal group. They kill children in schools and innocent women without blinking an eye. Their statements are extreme. Their soil is softened by blood and war. They don’t eat with the
left hand.”

  Once again, Kashif mentions the metaphor of eating in the context of killing and war. This appetite he alludes to confuses The Messenger and it reminds him of the horrific story of Kashif’s recruitment as a young boy. This link to eating is something The Messenger can’t seem to get his head around. Why is it significant that they don’t eat with the left hand?

  The plane begins its descent and The Messenger can see that they are flying over an urban center. It appears as if they will land atop a building.

  “It is the ritual of signifying a celebration.”

  “What are they celebrating?”

  “More money.”

  Kashif is ashamed when he says this. He looks away from The Messenger to stare out the window. Civilians are waving at the planes flying low over the city centre. The Messenger finally understands what is happening now. Kashif is now the commodity, in the same way oil and petroleum is to Nigeria. Kashif is a tradable asset, which means this is not the last stop on their ­journey. This is the trading post, a place of acquisition and transaction. Kashif will be auctioned off to the highest bidder for a monetary amount and that highest bidder will have the child they are looking for.

  When the plane lands, The Messenger can hear music and the stomping of feet. The plane shakes, guns are fired into the sky, and there is Peace and Unity outside, Strength and Progress. Kashif takes a breath and transforms his face into a public persona, similar to a political figure visiting a place in his constituency for the first time to attain votes.

  The door of the plane opens and loud air enters the cabin like an announcement. The Messenger watches Kashif being led to the light at the door. When he is revealed within its frame, the noise increases to a point of nearly tipping the plane onto its side. The ground rumbles and The Messenger rises to stay close to him.

  DAY 35

  The Man of Many Wives has a baby face, smooth and silky, young and ageless, shiny and dark. He has four wives and they rotate around him like black angels in white sheets. Their eyes are yellow and they respect the space around their husband. This is the leader of the group. He approaches Kashif before the apparent forlorn prophet reaches the last step from the plane. He kneels, wipes away the sandy dirt with his right hand and kisses the ground before Kashif steps on it. The militant audience erupts with applause. The Man of Many Wives rises and kisses Kashif’s hand gently. His wives pull flower petals from underneath their garments to form a fragrant path for him. The Messenger feels uncomfortable, unnoticed in this ceremony, until Kashif stops. He waves him on and when The Messenger places his feet in his footsteps, Kashif offers him his hand. He holds his hand as a brother or lover would, as they follow The Man of Many Wives and his predestined path of flowers.