InkStains January

by John Urbancik

crackled. The blood in his veins, with reluctance, began to move.

  It didn’t come from outside, but upstairs.

  He left his apartment, climbed the stairs out of the basement, through the ground floor and up two more flights, following the sound to a door that stood slightly ajar. Inside, there was music but also laughter, conversation, the smells of roasting meats and cheese and drink.

  He was an old man now, he moved slowly and deliberately, but he had always been a god, and that’s how he entered the apartment.

  The party goers looked at him. The music stopped. All sounds ceased. There were ghosts among the kids – everyone was but a child by comparison, but the ghosts were as old as the god. They slipped between the children, the three musicians and all the others, whispering unintelligibly in their dead language.

  “What’s this?” he demanded, in the way of gods.

  “A celebration,” one of the ghosts said, though it used the voice of one of the modern bodies.

  But the god could see the bodies of today were in a state of fear.

  “Who are you?” the god asked.

  “Your ghosts.”

  “I’ve never dealt in ghosts and spirits.”

  “Yet we have dealt in you. Now dance and sing and drink and love while you can.”

  The music started up again. The old god lost himself in the rhythms and the ghosts and the memories. He knew he was finally dying. It deserved a celebration. The ghosts slipped in and out of the bodies, and his body, and the old god found himself slipping between bodies himself. He tasted young flesh and renewed passion and righteousness and naïveté and wonder and fear.

  He had no gifts left to give – not to the living and not to the dead – but he gave his last breath, and still, in the bodies of the young, he danced until he had exhausted them all.

  Then, with his ghosts, he slipped quietly away.

  23 January

  The map lies.

  Kenny relied on the map to get him here, to this little street that’s supposed to be here, but it’s not.

  There’s not even an alley.

  No, there are two buildings butted up against each other, bricks of a similar texture and slightly different shade.

  He asks a passerby, “Do you know where to find Stone Lane?”

  “Sorry, no, don’t know it.”

  He looks at the map again. There should be a Stone Lane right here leading to a cul-de-sac. It wouldn’t be big or wide or anything. It should hardly be noticeable. But it shouldn’t be invisible.

  The buildings are both apartments or offices – the ground floor lobbies are painfully non-revealing, bland, practically barren, each fronted by a glass door, a large vestibule leading to an elevator shaft. Each has a single lift on the wall opposite the wall that should border Stone Lane.

  According to the folded city map in his pocket, the road leads only to that cul-de-sac. It doesn’t continue later, or cross the street. It should just be here.

  He checks the map function on his phone. He says, “It should be right here.”

  “What should?” a woman on the street asks.

  Kenny barely looks hat her. He’s staring at the bricks. “Stone Lane.”

  “Ah,” she says, and she begins to walk away.

  “Wait, wait,” Kenny says, running after her. “What do you mean, Ah?”

  “What do you think I mean?”

  “I think I must be slightly wrong, and you could correct me.”

  “Are you asking me something?” she asks.

  “Yes,” Kenny says. “Please. Where can I find Stone Lane?”

  She smiles. She’s pretty, though he wouldn’t guess her age. She says, “On a map.”

  He whips the map out of his pocket. It shows Stone Lane right here. He points it out to her. He shows her the image on his phone.

  “Well,” she says. “Two maps say the same thing. They can’t be lying to you, can they?”

  “What?” Kenny asks. He blinks. “No, they can’t be lying to me.”

  The woman shakes her head. “Perhaps your faith is misplaced. Who was the mapmaker?”

  “I don’t know who made the maps,” Kenny admits.

  “Well,” she says, looking up from the map to stare at the wall. “I don’t see any Stone Lane here.”

  “Neither do I,” Kenny says. “Where is it?”

  She frowns. “Haven’t I answered that already?”

  “I’ve got to be close,” Kenny says.

  “Oh.” She shrugs. “Well, if you’ve got to be.” She’s still wearing the frown, but it’s false; she’s having fun at his expense.

  He stuffs the map back into his pocket. He glances at his watch.

  “Have you an appointment?” she asks.

  “I do.”

  “On Stone Lane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you late?”

  Kenny shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  “Well, how much time have you got?” the woman asks.

  “Maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Ah, a punctual type,” she says. “Maybe you’re too early. Maybe it’s a magic road that only appears at a specific time of day.”

  “Okay,” Kenny says. “Thanks.” He turns away.

  “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  “I doubt very much it’s a magic road,” Kenny says. A city bus stops near them, loudly, discharging passengers and picking up others.

  When it’s gone, the woman says, “That was my bus.”

  Kenny looks after it. “You missed it.”

  “I want to know if you find your missing street.”

  Kenny goes to the seam of bricks where the two buildings meet. He touches the wall. It feels just like brick.

  “Maybe it’s a trap street,” the woman suggests. “They put those on maps to discourage dishonest cartographers. Maybe there is no Stone Lane.”

  “ I have an appointment.”

  “Ah.”

  Kenny glances at his watch again. “In twelve minutes.”

  “So are you just going to stand here as the time winds down and wait for your non-magical street to suddenly appear?”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Kenny asks. He’s being sarcastic and mean, quite unnecessarily.

  “You could perhaps search for it.”

  It’s not an entirely stupid idea. She walks with him around the block, turning right then right then right again, but there are no other lanes or alleys or streets or roads or paths leading into this tightly packed block of buildings.

  “That was useless,” Kenny sighs – not a complaint about her suggestion but about the lost five minutes.

  “Not entirely,” she says. “You’ve determined, quite scientifically, it seems, that there’s no entrance to Stone Lane on the outside.”

  “The outside?” Kenny asks.

  She shrugs.

  Inside both buildings, through the glass doors, he sees unadorned walls adjoining the missing street.

  The glass doesn’t extend to that wall in either building; he can’t be sure they’re back to back, that there’s nothing between them. Could there be enough space for Stone Lane?

  Each of the glass doors is, however, locked.

  “Well,” the woman says, dangling her keys. “I happen to live right here.”

  She unlocks one of the glass doors. They enter the vestibule. There are no doors on that side, no hallways except the one they’re in. There’s an elevator and a set of stairs, behind a closed door, on the other side.

  “What floor are you on?” Kenny asks.

  “I’m not inviting you to my place,” she tells him. She returns the key to her purse.

  Kenny tries the stairs. At the first landing, there’s a hall. For whatever reason, the elevator doesn’t stop here, but there are restrooms and a water fountain and conference rooms on that wall. The inside wall, facing the next building, has a few framed photographs and one window sill. There’s no window. It’s been bricked up.

  “Maybe there is no
more Stone Lane,” the woman suggests. “Maybe they built over and through it.”

  Kenny glances at his watch. One minute to. “I have an appointment.”

  “Maybe you’d better call them.”

  “I can’t.”

  “No?”

  Kenny shakes his head. “I don’t have a number.”

  “You don’t have an appointment,” the woman says. “Not one you’re going to get to, at least.”

  “77 Stone Lane.”

  “Ah.”

  “There’s that Ah again,” Kenny says.

  “You’re right,” she says. “There it is.”

  “Maybe I can get at it from the other building.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t have a key.”

  They go back downstairs. As they pass the elevator, its door slides open. No one comes out. Kenny hesitates.

  “Go on,” the woman says. “Seems like an invitation to me.”

  She follows him into the elevator. He presses the button for the Basement. When the door opens again, it’s onto a poorly lit hallway. Here, the opposite wall has another bricked over window – but also a doorway.

  At first, it seems locked, but it’s merely wedged tight. Kenny pushes into a tiny vestibule and out through another door into a narrow alley, brick walls on three sides of him, a plaque stating Stone Lane.

  It’s narrow, and the bricks walls on all sides are tall. They’re not unbroken, but every window seems to have been closed up, some of the brickwork is chipped or faded, the ghostly images of words – Bostonian Cigars, for instance – showing what had once been written on the sides of these buildings. There are doorways a little further in, and a cul-de-sac that’s actually a courtyard, at the center of which grows a single, bare tree in a tiny plot of dirt. The woman sits on a wrought iron bench next to the tree.

  “Go on,” she says. “You’re late.”

  77 Stone Lane is a small green door with a small, fading window, through which nothing is visible.

  Kenny tells her, “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “That’s okay,” she says. “If I don’t wait, you can find me at number 75 Stone Lane.”

  24 January

  One day off per month.

  25 January

  She faces the mirror and, quite carefully, applies her make-up – a touch of color here, a shadow there, hints and suggestions. She’s brilliantly lit, perhaps harshly, by a border of lights surrounding the mirror. It’s for the stage, for the actress or chorus girl or showgirl or dancer. The light highlights every possible weakness in her armor until there are none. She works diligently to make sure of it. Though the lights can be garish, the application never is. She’s an expert. Despite the time she spends in the mirror, she creates neither a mask nor a façade. She accentuates and de-accentuates. She draws out her perfections, and her perfect imperfections. There’s no need to hide. She’s a star, even if only in her own life.

  She sits at a single table among many, a row of round bulbs surrounding rectangular mirrors, but hers alone are lit. The ceiling is high, the walls far off on every side, the stage an even wider, higher, more open place than any mountain or rooftop or city hall. The stage is huge enough to handle ballet or opera or a cast of hundreds. There are five thousand empty seats, on the ground, in the mezzanine, and in the balcony. The curtains are thick and red, the wood dark and highly polished. A single spotlight shines on the stage, lighting, as yet, nothing and no one, waiting for the arrival of its star, its target, its hope. A spotlight without a star is just a circle of light.

  There are no ushers, no tickets being sold, no one manning the concession stands. No one in the restroom will offer a hand towel or a fresh mint or a spray of cologne. The hall is dark. Outside, there are no posters, where once there had been posters, no promises of shows to come, no threat that you might miss something. The State Theatre’s majesty is cracked and faded, and there’s a wrecking ball in its future.

  But not tonight.

  The make-up must be powerful enough to reach the cheap seats. Everyone’s paid what they can; they should get what they paid for. The orchestra pit sinks empty and hollow. When she rises from her chair before the mirror, her heels echo brilliantly on the wood floor.

  It’s show time. The theatre is at absolute quiet except for the echo of her footfalls. She does not hurry. She steps out from behind the curtains, onto the stage, exposed for everyone to see. She walks with confidence to the mere circle of light and fills it. She feels the thrill of expectation, the depth of desire, the unmitigated anticipation. She takes a breath.

  She lets loose with the first note. It travels the length of the theatre, it reaches into the future and the past, it resonates and vibrates even as a second note is formed.

  The words are old, a foreign language, but no less powerful. Each note is perfect. She loses herself to the song, as she always has. The words don’t mean as much as the emotions, and the emotion is not built upon the song but expressed through it: a desperate yearning; wishes and dreams fulfilled, shattered, scattered; hope; sorrow; hopeful sorrow and sorrowful hope. The song is merely an instrument. The message is in the notes.

  When the song is over, her arms are outstretched and her head held high. She quivers. She perspires. She pants. She gave everything she had to give, and kept giving, and none of that effort was wasted.

  A heartbeat before the last echo of her final note fades, the crowd erupts into applause. She bows, to this side and that side, to the center; she accepts a bouquet of roses, and other flowers are tossed onto the stage. The audience came from all times and all places, ghosts of the deceased and the living and the unborn, drawn by the simple beauty, the inescapable elegance, the overwhelming effect of her final, aching solo, unaccompanied by other musicians, one last moment of shine and glitter.

  With an audible thud, the spotlight shuts down. She goes down with it, exhausted and spent, and dies with simple, undramatic quiet on the empty stage of a desolate theatre. The applause ceases, and the ghosts take their star.

  In the morning, the theatre’s new owner strides down the center aisle toward a stage littered by a carpet of dried flowers. His assistant follows dutifully.

  The owner reaches the stage and scans the flowers. He, perhaps, hears an echo of that final aria. He takes a breath. He sees a possibility he hadn’t seen before. “Cancel the wrecking ball,” he tells his assistant. “I have a better idea.”

  26 January

  It’s not much of a neighborhood, but you don’t exactly come here to see the sights. Killers walk these streets, and madmen, addicts that will stick you before they even know you’re there. Keep your eyes open on a street like this.

  It’s loud, music pouring out of every briefly opened door, the sounds of pleading, the ticking of an imaginary time bomb tied directly to your heart. I’m not happy to be here, but these are my streets, I haven’t got a choice, and like anybody else I’ve got my needs.

  There’s no needs this street can’t fulfill.

  Cassie greets me at the door. She calls me Joe. She might think it’s my name. I’ve never seen any reason to correct her.

  “Looking for some fun tonight, Joe, honey?”

  I’m always looking for something. She’s never really happy with my answer. She likes me, she really does, but she’ll still take a twenty for ten minutes in one of those things upstairs they call a room. “Later,” I promise, I’m always promising. One day, I’ll take her up on her offer. But not tonight.

  It’s a typical club, in that it’s too dark to describe with any accuracy. The clientele range from heavy hitters to college kids looking for a little something to fuel their ravenous cravings. They don’t have to dance well, they just throw themselves wantonly into it and pray they survive till dawn.

  The music’s gothic and industrial and blood metal red. Dave’s the DJ. He carts in five crates of vinyl every night. Guess he thinks it’s safe enough to risk the streets, but not worth the risk of leaving them overnight.
>
  There’s a fight in one of the backrooms. There’s always a fight. There’s a cage and no rules. Three minute rounds until someone’s laid out. No one submits. Maybe that’s a rule. Far as I know, no one dies – not in the ring. Out back, I wouldn’t be so sure.

  There’s a fight now, two guys I don’t know, already bloodied, the crowd jeering them. Money’s always on the line.

  Through the backroom is another. Bald guy named Derek lets me in. Knows me on sight. You might call him an insurance policy. Nothing ever goes wrong in this backroom. It’s all fair – or at least above board – or at least, you know what you’re here for. If the business was meant to go dirty, it wouldn’t be done here.

  Guy behind the desk calls himself Boss. He answers to someone. I don’t ask those kinds of questions. I pull an envelope from my jacket pocket and drop it on the desk. It’s filled with cash. Boss won’t ask where I got it and I won’t tell him. It’s not a game – it’s that kind of business.

  “Joe,” Boss says, opening up his hands in a mock embrace, using them to talk as if he’s Mafia. Far as I know, he’s not, but I don’t care.

  “Three grand,” I tell him.

  “Yes, of course. Exactly as expected. But you’re late.”

  “Couldn’t be helped.”

  He smiles. It’s big of him, that’s what he’s telling me. “What do I care, ain’t that right, Joey?” He laughs. “I’m having a scotch. You want one.”

  I’m anxious to get what I came for, but I take the drink. Only the best for the Boss and his guests. It’s tough to get the good stuff anymore. It’s expensive. It survived the shipping lanes. It’s also smooth. It burns my throat raw.

  “I could use you,” Boss says.

  “I like being independent.”

  “I know, Joe, I know. You come and go as you please. But we’ve all got our vices, Joey, and I can keep you – shall we say satisfied – far better from the inside.”

  “You don’t need a man with my particular skillset,” I remind him.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Joey.” Boss reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out three bottles. He sets them on the desk between us. “Here you are, Joey. This is what you paid for.”

  His hand’s still on the desk drawer. I have to lean forward to collect the black bottles. A grand each is the going price – if you can find it. You could rave for less.

  He slides the drawer open as I lean in, shows me rows of bottles, perhaps two dozen. “I can make it interesting,” Boss says.

  I must admit, he’s got my interest. Last time I saw that much ink in one place was before the war. I hesitate. You would, too. I probably lick my lips.

  Boss lowers his voice. “I know what you do to get the cash. I wouldn’t ask anything more from you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Well, aren’t you the best?”

  I am. I don’t have to tell him that.

  “Tell you what,” Boss says. “Keep your cash. Keep the ink. Keep all of it. Come back tomorrow night, have a go at Derek. He’ll tell you what he wants. Then you can do your thing to Cassie, too, and keep her for the night.”

  “And there’ll be others?” I ask.

  “There will always be others.”

  I’m done hesitating. I pocket the three ink bottles, and the cash. “I can keep the rest here somewhere?”

  “Already got you a room,” Boss says.

  I curse. I meant to keep it under my breath, but the Boss doesn’t mention it.

  I walk home. I don’t see Cassie on my way out. It’s cold, and a long,