Epiphany Jones (22 page)

M
-E-D-S. Seven points.

It’s half past three in the afternoon when I wake up. I saw Epiphany two more times last night – once at the kitchen table playing Scrabble with Emma. She was helping her spell ‘mifepristone’. Even with all the money in my pocket, I don’t have a chance at a normal life without my meds.

And I wonder, do they give you medicine in jail?

I get out of bed. I don’t even shower. If I do anything but go to the embassy, this will become something I’ll always do the day after tomorrow. I leave everything in the apartment – my clothes, my backpack, even the guidebook – I just rip the dog-earned page from it. The page with the address that starts the next chapter of the rest of my life.

I’m glad Paulo isn’t sitting outside. I’d use talking to him as an excuse to let this go another day. And in another day Epiphany could really be waiting for me in my apartment. I start up the hilly street, my mind as unstable as my ankles on the bellies of black cobblestones. I reach the bookstore and see Bela through the window. She looks frustrated with this old lady of a customer who has a big loaf of bread for hair. She’s arguing with Bela. Bela probably snapped at her like she tends to. Bela’s jabbing her finger into her palm in an attempt to convey some point to the old lady. I smile at the scene of it all. Part of me feels like I should go in and say hello, but I continue on. The embassy closes in an hour.

And maybe I’m not totally fucked. I’m turning myself in and that has to count for something. INTERPOL, they’ll question me and then they’ll bring me back to Chicago, where I’ll be handed over to the
detectives. I’ll stand trial for a murder I didn’t commit, but at least I’ll be safe from Epiphany. And anyway, don’t they have to prove I killed Roland beyond a reasonable doubt?

I can still tell the cops what happened – the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I can tell them about Epiphany and her abduction. I can tell them about how Matthew Mann rapes little girls. And the footage – there’s always the television footage from outside the museum. The footage that I saw Epiphany in real life on. I can have my lawyer play the footage in court and say, ‘That’s her. That’s the girl who really killed Roland.’ And won’t that be enough?

D-E-L-U-S-I-O-N-A-L. Eleven points plus fifty-point bonus for words of seven letters or longer. Sixty-one points.

I make my way up another steep hill towards a bell tower. The bell tower is at the opening of a large plaza. I scan the buildings. The embassy should be right here.

‘You’re going the wrong way, Jerry,’ Rachel says. She’s wearing this killer tank top that’s so thin you can see her perky nipples right through it. ‘You’re turned around. The embassy is back the other way.’

‘Shut up,’ I mumble. ‘You’re just trying to confuse me.’

‘Why would I confuse you? We’re one, remember?’

‘You don’t want me to go.’

‘That would mean
you
don’t want
you
to go,’ she smiles. ‘Turn around, you should have gone right at the bookstore.’

‘Of course I don’t want to go,’ I snap. ‘I didn’t want any of this. But this is the
only
way. I can’t be a fugitive any longer and I can’t wait around for Epiphany to find me or for Abdul to show up with his favourite rocket launcher. And even if neither of these things happen, I’ll still go crazy without my medicine. Case in point.’

‘No offence,’ I add.

‘Whatever,’ she says and starts her damn
la la laa
-ing again.

A group of college kids walk in my direction. Rachel’s singing is so loud I have to shout to hear myself when I ask if they know where the American Embassy’s at. They point me in the direction I came; the direction Rachel was telling me to go. They tell me I should have
made a right at the bookstore. On the bell tower’s clock it’s almost four-thirty.

I run back the way I’ve come, down a hilly street, and almost trip over a black cobblestone. I pause to catch my breath, but hear Rachel’s incessant singing, so I run again.

And maybe you think I’m a coward, but turning myself in is the bravest thing I’ve ever done. People in real life, when something bad happens, they don’t turn into action heroes or detectives, like they do in the movies. In real life you take the path of least resistance. You do the easiest thing that ensures your survival. It’s always about necessity. It’s why the starving steal food. Why the desperate resort to violence. And why the cowardly take money from the man they just killed.

‘Jerry?’ a voice calls. ‘Ola, Jerry. You exercise, no?’ I’ve reached the bookstore again. Bela is wearing glasses that give her a studious look.

Panting, I say, ‘What? No, I was just–’ And once again Rachel has vanished like she was never there. ‘I – I need to go to the embassy,’ I say. ‘Passport issue.’

‘OK,’ Bela says in her round way. Her head bobs a little. Either she didn’t understand what I’ve said or it doesn’t interest her in the least. ‘I am off my shift now, you see?’ And she waits for my acknowledgement.

‘Uh – I see.’

‘I am to meet my friend Kate. You will like to come, no?’

I’m not sure if that’s a question or an order.

‘I would,’ I say, ‘but I need to get to the embassy.’

And here she gets the word. ‘Ah!
Embassy
. Surely they are not open today, no?’

The thing about travelling is that days and dates blend into the background until you no longer notice them. I look at the torn guidebook page in my hand. Hours: Monday through Friday 8:30 – 17:00. Closed weekends.

‘What day is it?’

‘
Sabado
. Saturday.’

I’m a D-U-M-B-A-S-S. Twelve points plus fifty-point bonus. Sixty-two points.

‘So, you will come?’ Bela’s face is expectant.

‘I–’

‘It is because,’ she interrupts, letting out a little laugh like she’s confiding a dirty secret, ‘I do not like her, you see? She drink a lot and say stupid things. She speaks like she know everything all the time. But I promise Kate I go. And if you come, we can make excuse to leave if she get too stupid, no?’

And in the silence between us she waits for my answer. And well, that’s the thing: there
is
silence between us again. There is no more Rachel or humming or singing.

Look, we all use people, right? You may say you don’t, you might even believe it, but deep down you know you do. I’ve got to put jail off until Monday now and that means, provided Epiphany lets me live through the weekend, I’m going to have to deal with all these damn figments until I can get arrested and get my 486s back in the States. But until that happens – well this Bela girl – she’s like my own personal 486.

So I smile. ‘Sure. Where to?’

‘I
rish people love to travel. We love it. That’s why you’ll find an Irish pub in any country you go to. In Ireland I…’

Don’t shut the fuck up?
I think. This Kate girl has been rambling on for hours, telling one ‘me’ story after the next. She and her friends are in Portugal on a round-the-world trip paid for by Mommy and Daddy. In just an hour she’s managed to tell us her entire life story – an amazing feat considering she’s had seven beers.

‘Ay!’ Kate shouts to a group of people who’ve just come up the stairs. All four are Irish and for the next hour they all yap as much as she does. And I feel bad, for Bela. I can tell when she’s only pretending to follow one of their stories because they’re speaking too quickly for her. She laughs a little too loud at the jokes they tell and does so a moment after
everyone else laughs. The Irish are hard enough for me to understand, but for her they must be near impossible.

One of the Irishmen, a particularly short one with a bad comb-over, asks Bela if she’s ever been to Dublin. But Bela laughs, faking understanding, like the question is the punch line to a joke. There’s silence at the table as the Irish cast blatant smirks at one another. Then Bela’s face goes beet red. The Irish’s smirks turn into laughter. The comb-over leprechaun raises his eyebrows, ‘Speak English much?’

S-H-E-S-P-O-R-T-U-G-U-E-S-E. Seventy points.

‘Who needs a refill?’ I say, silencing them. Everyone at the table blurts out their orders and begins taking money from their pockets. ‘No, it’s on me,’ I say. I’m not being nice. These guys are all dicks. I just have more than nine thousand euros to burn through before I turn myself in Monday morning. ‘Except for you,’ and I pluck the five-euro note from the comb-over’s hand. I turn to Bela. ‘Want to help me?’ She slides out of the booth, her hair subtly draped in front of her face to hide her embarrassment.

‘Hey, Bela!’ Kate shouts after us, ‘Grab a game while you’re down there! Bela – a
game. G-A-M-E!’

I groan and Bela blushes and gives a weak smile. ‘I do,’ she says.

Downstairs the bartender sets the drinks on a tray. He says something in Portuguese. ‘Twenty-nine euro,’ Bela translates.

‘Glad you’re here,’ I say, giving her a little smile. ‘Or else I would have been here all night trying to guess what he was saying.’ She bobs her head up and down, afraid to answer. I give the bartender thirty euros and ask Bela if she’ll collect the change. ‘I’m going to pick out that game. Something that will distract them from talking so much,’ I wink.

Bela returns a self-conscious smile and nods. I’m not sure if she totally understood me. ‘OK. I bring these drinks up.’

‘Won’t be too heavy? I can help –’

‘I OK. I have,’ she says softly.

I walk across the bar to a table that has several board games: Monopoly. Guess Who? Trivial Pursuit. Jenga. Checkers. Ah, perfect–

I hurry to catch up with Bela, who’s near the top of the stairs, balancing the tray in her hands. ‘Look what I’ve got,’ I smile.

But then Bela, she snaps at me. Me, the one who did her a favour by coming here. Me, the only one who has been nice to her the whole night. ‘I do not want to play that game!’ she says.

I only grabbed it because I thought it would be the one that would require the most concentration from the leprechauns – so they’d all have to shut up and speak slower – so Bela could have a chance at understanding them.

‘It’s a fun game,’ I say defensively, my feelings hurt; my intentions missed.

‘No! I said I do not want to play that game,’ she snaps again.

My face flushes. ‘I just thought–’

‘No!’

When we return to the table I sit away from Bela. The way I feel – I was trying to do something nice, you know? And she rebuked me like I was a child.

As the night goes on the drunken Irishmen apparently think the object of Scrabble is to make as many lewd words as possible. I can only tolerate their annoying laughter so long. And Bela and I, we aren’t saying anything to each other anyway. I soon tell everyone I need to get some sleep. Even my figments are preferable to how I feel right now.

As I get up from the table the leprechauns shout their drunken goodbyes. And Bela, she furtively waves her hand. ‘Good-bye, Jerry,’ she says, timidly.

‘Bye,’ I reply sharply, without looking at her. And walking home, instead of worrying if Epiphany is around the next corner – instead of feeling fear – I feel something that stings much worse. Something I’ve felt all my life.

I feel A-N-G-R-Y.

I feel U-N-A-P-P-R-E-C-I-a-T-E-D.

I feel M-I-S-U-N-D-E-R-S-T-O-O-D. One hundred and eight points, triple-word score.

T
here’s a light rapping at my door. The clock on the nightstand says it’s 7:15.

I didn’t sleep much. After I left Bela at the bar Rachel walked me home. I had to put up with her and Ana Lucia all night.

‘You going to get that?’ Rachel says.

On the door, the rapping becomes louder.

‘I need my medicine. You aren’t–’

‘– real,’
Ana Lucia says. She’s showing Rachel soccer tricks. Bouncing the ball on her knees. ‘Yeah, we get it.’

The rapping on the door becomes an outright knock.

And for a moment I wonder if it could be Epiphany or Abdul. But then I think, Why would they knock?

‘You gonna get that or what?’ Ana Lucia says.

‘Shut up,’ I say, and the knocking on the door stops.

‘Whatever,’ Ana Lucia says, balancing the soccer ball on her forehead.

I scramble out of bed and crawl for my boxers, which lie on the floor. I open the door and light explodes from the hall skylight. I shut my eyes in defence.

‘Ola. Hello,’ a little round voice says sheepishly.

When I crack my eyelids I see Bela standing in front of me, her hand reaching into her blue-jeans pocket. She’s wearing a turquoise shirt that reads
‘Everyone Needs Music’
in an elfish-style font. Her eyes give me a once over and the edges of her nervous lips curl slightly.

‘Bela…?’ I say and glance back into the room. Rachel and Ana Lucia are gone.

Bela, she pulls a single euro from her pocket. ‘Your change. From drinks last night.’ And she holds the silver-and-gold coin in her extended arm. Her little feet in their black loafers fidget on the floor. ‘I forgot to give to you last night, you see?’

Her lips twitch ever so slightly and her eyes shift furtively as she waits for my reply.

And I take the coin.

Apology accepted.

Both of us, we stand in the doorway, each unsure of what to do. ‘What’s that?’ I finally say. She has a small, grey backpack stuffed full.

And Bela, she says with a smile, ‘We go to the mountain today. Today, we climb.’

T
he mountain she’s referring to is nothing more than a really steep hill. It’s been a winding, four-hour drive to get here. Bela owns this white, two-door Ford and drives it as if she doesn’t realise other cars use the roads too. More than once the vehicle in front of us pulled over to let Bela fly past.

As we drove out of the city we followed the river to the shore and then went north past the port where all the freighters dock. From my view in the passenger seat I saw Abdul’s boat cruising out to sea – its big ‘CAPRICE’ letters visible in the bright sun. It had been four days since I jumped ship and I guess that’s too long for someone who has illegal arms to get to mercenaries to wait around, even if Epiphany wants him to. If he was leaving maybe Epiphany has given up too and gone to Spain already. And as Bela turned the car to head inland I felt a bit of relief come over my body.

Bela held a perpetual smile on her face as her hair whipped back in the breeze as we raced though the countryside. The longer we drove the less traffic there was, which allowed me to concentrate on things besides images of flaming car wrecks and tangled metal. Seeing Abdul’s
boat go, knowing Epiphany’s minions weren’t following me anymore, felt like a reprieve. For the first time in weeks I didn’t think about the future and allowed myself to relax in the present.

‘We will conquer this mountain today, no?’ Bela said when we arrived and she drew her hand across the hill’s base as if she expected me to faint at the sight of it. I almost laughed, but the resolve on her face stopped me. This was important to her.

‘Shall we get started?’ I asked.

Bela smiled, a little unsure of what I’d said. I’d spoken too fast.

‘After you,’ I said and pointed the way.

‘Yes. After me,’ she said with determination.

We’ve been hiking for forty minutes now. Bela’s back is wet through her turquoise shirt. The sun is as high as it will be in the sky today and I notice that I’m sweating as well.

I watch her hips, the way one glute tightens while the other leg takes a step up. I see the way she pulls her hair to one side to let the breeze cool the back of her neck. And I can’t help but marvel at this peculiar girl who seems to be able to keep my figments away. Maybe the compounds in the 486s originated from the sweat dripping down the back of her neck? Maybe if I go to a pharmacy in Portugal, I’ll see little Bela-shaped pills in two rows of eight, sealed in foil packets?
Bela
™, the once-daily tablet from GlaxoSmithKline.

‘What?’ I say, suddenly realising Bela’s stopped walking and said something.

Oh, God. Did she see me staring at her ass?

My throat dries. ‘I mean, want me to carry the backpack?’

A slight grin breaks her lips. ‘I’m not a weak girl now,’ she says, turning back towards the summit. ‘I’m a climber. Come on, we climb.’

We reach the top in another twenty minutes.

The breeze blows in hard spurts up here. Bela drops her backpack on the ground; it lands with a muffled thud. Her shirt is stained with sweat marks that outline where the straps were. Just below her breasts there’s a little damp spot that saturates
‘Everyone Needs Music’
.

Looking back to where we’ve come from, I can see her point of
view more easily. From up here this hill does make you feel like you’ve climbed a mountain. Portugal stretches before us. Cattle graze on farmland in the distance. Brown mountains break the horizon.

Bela spins, taking in the views from every direction. Then she stops and places her small hand on my forearm. She squeezes and says, ‘Can you believe? I have climbed a mountain!’ And she says this almost with a child’s wonder and amazement – completing an easy task that they believe to be much harder than it is. ‘I am so proud of this accomplishment.’

‘That’s great,’ I say, and find I’m skimming the top of her hand with my thumb. I feel Bela’s body freeze for a moment before she removes her hand from my arm.

It takes Bela five minutes to spread out everything she’s brought. There are two bottles of red wine (
‘Port wine from Porto, you see? No?’
), a large loaf of bread, three different cheeses and a sausage. She’s even brought placemats (
‘Portuguese always eat with placemats’
). After we gorge ourselves, I lay back and watch the bright, puffy clouds float over our heads.

‘No nap yet,’ Bela says and slaps my leg playfully. She’s making an extra effort to keep her snapping under control. ‘We are here to work.’ Bela reaches into her bag and pulls out a notebook. Tucked inside is a single piece of A4 paper.

It’s written in English.

‘What’s this?’

‘It is my
rezoom
,’ she says.

I say, ‘Résumé?’

Bela blushes. ‘Yes. My res-oo-may. You help me with it, no?’

I shrug and begin to read it out loud. ‘Personal Information. Name: Anabela Filipa Oliveira. Address: R. Cedofeita–’

‘Not aloud,’ she says. ‘You will embarrass me.’ Her face has already flushed. As I scan the first line again I feel her eyes on me. She’s looking for any warning that I’ll laugh at what she’s written.

And now I get it: Scrabble – her reaction wasn’t random bitchiness. She snapped at me because she had already been embarrassed by her
English that night and didn’t need any more jokes at her expense for misspelling words. How did I not see that?

On her résumé her work experience lists two jobs, one in a call centre selling mobile phones, and the other in Livraria Lello, the bookstore.

‘Bad, no?’ she asks. Her eyes fidget. ‘It is first draft, you see? And I hope you will help me. I want to move to United States and hope to get into masters.’ Her eyes scuttle more, avoiding mine. ‘It is silly, no?’

‘It’s … perfect,’ I say, touching her hand. This time it remains still.

M
y eyes open. I’m on my back. The wind blows hard and the sky is a deep purple. Except for Bela, I’m all alone and the silence is wonderful. Bela is nuzzled at my side, her back towards me. Wisps of her hair blow in my face.

Why don’t I see my figments when I’m with you?

Before we lay down, Bela hadn’t taken my ‘perfect’ at face value and made me correct the mistakes on her résumé. She told me how she dreams of going to America to become a political journalist. She spoke
deeply of how words can change the world. How thoughts and ideas can have physical effects. Then, after more wine and bread, with full bellies we lay back on Bela’s mountain for some rest.

Now, as the blue-grey clouds move at a turtle’s pace in the purple dusk, as I feel Bela’s body rise and fall with each breath next to mine, I find it hard to believe I’m here after all the horrible places I’ve been in the last few weeks. In the breeze and fading sunlight the grass breathes and heaves like a living being. I get up as quietly as I can and stretch like a cat. Despite the lumpy ground, I haven’t felt this good after a rest in a long time. It’s the first time in days that I’ve slept without nightmares or woken to figments. I walk around our little summit and watch as the last remnants of the sun sink behind distant mountains. I turn to find Bela sitting up with her eyes closed and her hands folded.

‘My mother always taught us that when you fall to sleep and wake up in nature, to pray and give God thanks for not only your safety, but also for such a beautiful bed to begin with,’ she says when she opens her eyes.

I hear ‘God’ and I think ‘Epiphany’. I think ‘Nico’. I think ‘hell’. I think ‘eternal separation’.

Bela is waiting for me to say something.

‘I don’t think I believe in God.’

She smiles. ‘It doesn’t matter. He believe in you.’

Ordinarily if someone said this to me, I’d dismiss it as a bottled reply. But Bela – she says it in such a matter-of-fact way. She says it like one would say,
‘The sun has just set’
or,
‘We are on top of a large hill.’
It’s just a fact. It just is.

‘Well, if God is real, do you think he holds a grudge?’ I say, not so much to her, but to the hills and mountains surrounding us.

Bela stands and takes my hand. It’s small and warm. ‘People make mistakes. Look at me – my horrible res-oo-may,’ she laughs. ‘But people made big and small mistakes. It’s we who can’t forgive ourselves. We make our own hell. Not God. He will forgive us anything. Don’t listen to Bible or Pope or religion. God is only goodness.’

And she says this with a confidence that would make Jonathan
Edwards burn his theological writings. But I wonder, do dead little sisters forgive as easily?

Bela can see I’m lost in thought. She squeezes my hand and smiles warmly. ‘Come now,’ she says. ‘We have a long journey down our mountain.’