Chameleon (Days)

by Dean Serravalle

  “Help me,” he says out loud.

  It is then the boy becomes quiet. His slanted eyes become watery just as Kashif’s eyes do the same. The Messenger realizes the boy with Down syndrome is sensitive to Kashif’s weakness. When a tear drops from Kashif’s eyes, an ocean blankets the boy’s face. His nose sniffles. He reaches for Kashif’s much maligned face and with his awkwardly shaped fingers, which resemble fleshy claws, he pats him on the cheek. He then reaches for Kashif to embrace him again. Kashif lifts him off the bed. He is crying into the boy’s shoulders. He is squeezing him tightly, for life. The air in the room is heavy with silence but for the choppy exhale of breaths from the both of them. The Messenger can hear Kashif whispering in a singing voice to the boy.

  “Here I am, Lord. It is I, Lord. I have heard you calling in the night.”

  As if listening in on the song as well, one her father must have heard countless times as he hid amongst his Catholic enemies, her eyes open. They are glossy and black. She sees him with the boy. She recognizes the voice above the face or she is just watching the impenetrable embrace. She doesn’t signal awareness until she rises to the sitting position.

  Kashif doesn’t notice his daughter is awake until The Messenger forces his attention with his eyes.

  The boy talks. “Cookie now. Cookie now? All right. All right.”

  He chuckles to himself and doesn’t let Kashif see his daughter. Wherever Kashif’s face moves, so does the boy’s in this childish game. He wants assurance.

  “Yes. Yes. Cookie, yes.”

  The boy releases his grip and his weight collapses to the floor. There, he claps his claw like hands in glee. He repeats the words again.

  “Cookie. Cookie. Cookie. Yay!”

  It is then the space is interrupted by an intruder. I don’t see him coming. Neither does The Messenger, because he wouldn’t be able to recognize him. He enters the room nonetheless. It is The Man. I try my best to delete what I am about to write before I write it but my fingers hold the story now outside my brain and heart’s control of it.

  The Man is dressed in a brand new three piece suit—black. His silver pocket watch is exposed and glimmering. In the silence of the stare, the one between Kashif and his daughter—that one, permanent, recognizable stare—The Man walks up to Kashif, pulls a gun from behind his back and puts a bullet in his head.

  Kashif collapses to the floor as the child had. The sound of his weight dropping dull and dead.

  The Man stares at The Messenger and The Messenger is fully aware he will be shot next. He wasn’t allowed to see him in the first place. Now he can paint a description of the Man’s face. His skin is pocked and his chin is sharp and the man appears to be missing a part of his tongue.

  This Man is The Military Man from Kashif’s childhood story. The one who stole him from his home, made him kill his own brother. The one who trained his instincts, who hardened him against the world so he could break it into pieces one day with fear and terror. This is The Military Man who has returned to destroy his creation.

  The Man points the gun at The Messenger.

  The Child asks for more cookies.

  The Daughter believes she is in a dream.

  And his last words spill out.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Instead of firing, the Man buries the gun in his pocket, lifts the child from the floor and leaves through the door from which he came. On the child’s shoes is the blood of the murderer he could have saved if there was only enough faith in the room.

  Kashif’s daughter finally sees The Messenger in the room. She lies her head down on the pillow and closes her eyes.

  DAY 43

  AUTHOR’S AFTER( THE END OF THE WORLD )WORD

  I search for The Man everywhere. I try to find him in my imagination, in the walk-in closet. I listen for him in the silence after I make love to my wife, but he is long gone. He invaded my story at the very end when I was most vulnerable as a writer and creator and made me true to my word in The Author’s Preface.

  I promised to make you feel like you lost something at the end, like you were robbed of a sentimental possession, and then he let me set fire to a story that found baptism in a flame. Some ashes remain, of course, like the surviving Messenger and the relationship between Kashif and his daughter’s mother. They may rise again one day, or fade away. Or simply remind their author that he is alive and could write again.

  My wife will not appreciate this part of the story and perhaps my children may question it one day in their rebellious years. As I mentioned in my Preface, I stole the story.

  I was doing my M.A. in Windsor at the time when I met her. You see, when you are accepted into a Master’s Program you are provided the privilege of earning some of the tuition back with a teaching position. Each of the Master’s candidates is brought in to see the Dean of the Department, one on one.

  In my meeting, Dr. Q, a very skinny, angular faced academic with a slow voice, presented the truth to me. As I sat before her desk, she began with small talk.

  “How do you like The University of Windsor thus far?”

  “I am adjusting and enjoying my courses.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  She removed my transcript.

  “Your portfolio of writing must have been impressive.”

  “As I’m sure were all of the others.”

  “No, you see, they accepted you into the program despite your overall average in your final year of undergraduate work. It is below our cut off.”

  “Yeah, well my father had a major accident and I spent most of my final year in the hospital watching over him in a coma.”

  Her smile was strained and her nod forcefully understanding while she listened. Everything in her corner office was stained wood. Oxford stained wood.

  “Nonetheless, you do understand we don’t have a teaching fellowship for you. We only have twelve fellowships and you are thirteen.”

  I wasn’t stunned or even insulted at the time. I didn’t even know the fellowships were paying jobs, to be honest.

  “You can work part-time on the weekends in The Writing Development Center down the hall. We have some Visa students at the school, or English as Second Language students who will need help writing essays. It doesn’t pay as much as the fellowship.”

  She revealed all of this with iceberg white teeth and a heavy, lipstick smile.

  “That’s fine. I’ll work in the Writing Development Center.”

  My first student on an early Saturday morning couldn’t speak English. She was dressed and jewelled, perhaps overly so for so early a session. Her hair was shiny black straightened and her eyes the match with exquisitely ornate eyelashes. Her skin was flawless and painted expertly to complete the portrait. When she walked into the closet of a room I was more than captivated. I could hear my breathing.

  “Hello, and welcome.”

  She stared at me and raised her hand embarrassingly.

  “You don’t speak English?”

  She nodded no.

  My first student as a teacher and she knew nothing more than Hi and Bye.

  I recommended she watch soap operas. This was my out-of-the-box first lesson as an English teacher. I remembered how my grandmother couldn’t speak English, but she knew exactly what was happening on The Young and the Restless. The words matched the melodramatic expressions in soap operas. After a few weeks of this unorthodox therapy, Leia understood small talk. She learned how to write quickly and it made me believe I was a good teacher.

  I slept with her before the submission of her first essay. I was in love with her. I was in love with her simplicity and her miraculous beauty.

  I remember a night in particular when I chose to listen to her speak in her sleep. I marvelled that she spoke in English and not her native, Arabic tongue.

  She woke up and her face had changed once she realized I w
as there. Drool had escaped her bottom lip to wet the pillow and she was embarrassed. I could tell she considered it unladylike, the manners instinctive within her, embedded by a higher force beyond the reprimand of a parent or an overbearing school teacher.

  She stared at me with the assumption I had heard more of her confession.

  “My father was a notorious terrorist. He died so I could live here.”

  She placed her hand on my chest and in its softness I felt my world tremble.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  With so many voices functioning at the same time in this novel, I would be remise not to acknowledge all of the voices who inspired me during the process of creating this experiment. Some days I hear the voice of my grandfather, Albert, settling me down during a panic attack. My grandfather worked in a mine for $1 a day so that I could have the privilege to live and write freely in a young country. This lesson is never lost on me and it continues to motivate me to be better.

  Other days, I hear my mother’s wisdom through her ­parable-like stories, or my father’s razor sharp reason from his observations on life. Thank you Leonardo and Marcella Serravalle for showing me how to stand behind my words, and for constantly reminding me where I come from. I will continue to work to the bone to honour the sacrifices made for me.

  I would like to appreciate all of my students over the years whose bright-eyed faith in their teacher’s dreams is just as encouraging and necessary during spouts of doubt and second-guessing. I truly hope this assortment of words justifies the belief in language I defend on a daily basis in class. On a professional level, I would like to thank supportive writers like Lauren B. Davis, Joseph Boyden, Craig Davidson, Andrew Pyper, Mark Anthony Jarman, Michelle Berry, Douglas Gibson and many others who have offered me advice, consolation, and hope over the years. Once again, I am grateful for your generosity and time.

  I would like to single out Chris Needham for having the balls to publish this story. I admire your fight for art’s sake, and your faith in this experimental work, and in me as a writer, makes me feel like a younger brother who gains confidence in the shadow of an older brother who believes in him.

  On the brotherly note, I would be nowhere without the strongholds of Frank and Ryan Serravalle, who raise me up in esteem, but protect me from myself. Thank you for being close enough to reach whenever I am in need. I hope I have reciprocated the same over the years. And thank you for the joys of your families, Vanessa, Audrey, Sofia, Nicki, Leonardo and London. In the same familial breath my extended family, Linda (Ma), Rob, Cathryn, Gary and Margie are always there for me with concern, appreciation for my work, and care.

  To my lovely wife Lauren and four kids, Aidan, Oscar, Tobias and Alaia, I can only say how sacred it is to be surrounded by the blessings of your unconditional love. I apologize for losing myself in your presence when I write, and for not expressing enough how much I appreciate the beautiful noise you create to wake me from my distractions. All of you save me from day to day.

  Life comes full circle when you admit that you have become the very product of what inspired you to be in the first place. To all of the teachers who have found what I have said and written important enough to listen to and read, thank you sincerely. Ralph Serravalle, Maria Volante, Denise Rozman, Di Brandt, Mrs. Bidotchka, Mrs. Urquart, Mr. and Mrs. Prior, Mr. Hill, Dr. Reecer, Dr. Coggins, Dr. Crick, and so many more. It took me this long to realize that teaching and writing are actually the same thing—moving someone else with words of wisdom, love and passion.

  Finally, I am humbled by and grateful for the whispered ­conversations I have with my Saviour. Let me always be an instrument for your peace and love.