Epiphany Jones (25 page)

‘I will turn on the television, no? And we can lie and watch TV with the vegetables,’ she smiles.

I nod a ‘yes’ and fluff our pillows. Bela turns the knob on the little black-and-white TV. It looks like it’s from the early eighties – there’s a hardwired aerial sticking out. All the channels are blank but one. There’s an ad for diapers on. Bela climbs back into bed and nuzzles into my arms, stretching a leg across my torso.

On the television a little eight-year-old boy speaks in Portuguese to his mom. I think he’s telling her that his little sister needs changing.

Bela laughs a short little laugh. ‘It is great to be a child, no? They ask for what they want, directly, and expect to get it,’ she says. ‘We forget how to do that as we grow up.’

‘I want you,’ I say.

And she looks into my eyes and says, ‘You have me, alleegator,’ and pauses before adding, ‘and my vegetables.’ And she lets out a little squeak and squeezes her leg more tightly around my torso.

We lie in bed surrounded by burning vegetables and watch a movie I’ve never seen before. It’s definitely a B-movie, probably from the 1930s, and most likely from Britain. There are no recognisable stars. It’s dubbed in Portuguese and the plot, as far as I can tell from the bad sets and costumes, revolves around a race of Viking-like aliens trying to move into a forest inhabited by fairies. The Vikings are big and brutish and played by tall or fat actors. Small actors, mostly women but also some children, play the fairies.

Bela is engrossed in the story. I’m taking greater pleasure from watching her watch the movie than I am from the movie itself. ‘They are like veekings, no?’ Bela asks without taking her eyes from the TV. She hasn’t noticed I’m not really watching. Then in a serious voice she adds, ‘I hope the fairies win.’ And just as two big Viking-creatures have a group of fairies surrounded the movie is interrupted for a regularly scheduled commercial break. Bela squirms at this and kisses me on the chin. ‘Good, no?’

I smile and nod my head.

‘I hope to see a fairy one day,’ she says.

I playfully poke her in the stomach and begin to say, ‘I don’t think fairies exist–’ but she covers my mouth with her hand before I can finish.

Bela considers my face for a moment. Then her eyes go soft and she blushes before she even begins to speak. ‘I don’t want to be another person who stops believing in the small things,’ she says. ‘Gypsies, God, miracles and magic.’ She removes her hand from my mouth and kisses me. ‘And, as silly as it sounds – love.’ I squeeze her thigh when she says this.

‘My grandmother always said to me this,’ she continues as she places her hand on top of mine, ‘just because you do not see fairies dancing on the lawn does not mean they are not there.’ She pauses, giving me time to let this resonate. ‘And as silly as that may seem – even if it is wrong – what harm does it do to believe?’ She takes my face in her hands so we are eye to eye. The little green flecks in her beautiful blue eyes sparkle. ‘What good is one more unhappy person going to do for this world?’

And maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s because I love her and she loves me, but I believe her words are the truest ever spoken. I’m actually choked up. But Bela, she takes my lack of reply as disagreement. Her face blushes more as she begins to fear her thoughts might have turned into a lecture. ‘But I am being silly, no?’

‘No,’ I say as I roll on to her. I stroke her lips and I make sure I can see every little green fleck in her blue eyes before I speak again. ‘That’s not a silly thing to believe at all.’

Before the movie is over Bela is asleep in my arms. The movie ended, by the way, with the fairies and the Vikings moving in together and learning to live in peace. Bela will be happy to hear that.

In the bedroom a solitary green pepper remains lit. A little drool escapes Bela’s plump lips and collects on my chest. I feel our hearts beat in unison, as if with each beat they’re trying to reach the other.

Between the fright I had when I came home and Bela telling me she loves me, I didn’t have the energy left to bring it up. But now that she loves me –
me!
– I don’t doubt what Paulo said about her understanding. And as I hold Bela in my arms, as I watch the last flame in the green pepper extinguish, I think about what Bela said about believing and I wonder what she’ll say tomorrow when I tell her that I knew someone who thought she heard voices from God.

T
he TV plays an episode of
Mr Ed
. Wilbur and the talking horse are both in astronaut suits. And even dubbed in Portuguese, I know Mr Ed is trying to convince Wilbur that they can build a rocket ship to go to the moon. The clock on the nightstand reads 6:07 in its red stick digits. Some of the tomatoes have begun to turn to mush, but most of the other vegetables scattered around the room are holding up well. Their insides are charred, but their structure is sound. Instinctively, I rest my hand on Bela’s back, only to find she isn’t there.

‘Bela?’ I get out of bed and turn off the Portuguese
Mr Ed
. ‘Bela?’ I repeat.

‘In here,’ says a soft voice, sheepishly.

The bathroom door creaks open and Bela peeks her head out. Her long brunette hair dangles to the top of her breasts.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I am having woman problems,’ her face flushes.

Woman problems? Oh.
Woman problems.

‘I need a
tampao
,’ she says. ‘I will get dressed and go to pharmacy.’

I tell Bela there’s no need. I’ll run to the pharmacy and get her
tampao
. I dress as Bela throws on one of my T-shirts. It hangs to just below her hips. She walks me down the stairs and from the front door points to the street that I need to turn on to find the pharmacy. Then she wraps her arms around me and gives me a big crawl-into-you kiss.

‘Good morning, you two,’ Paulo says. He’s sitting in his usual captain’s chair, stogie in hand and the morning paper resting on the table.

‘Ola, Paulo,’ Bela smiles at him, a little embarrassed. Paulo gives me a quick wink. Bela flushes and gives a little mock shiver. ‘It is cold and I am half-naked, no?’ she giggles. ‘I go back inside.’ She kisses me quickly one more time and says
‘adeus’
to Paulo. Her bare feet pad up the stairs as the door closes.

‘Looks like you two are doing well.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, knowing the hardest part is still coming. When I return I’ll tell Bela everything. There’ll be no lies, no omissions – something that would have seemed impossible a few days ago. But now that I know she
loves
me…

‘Thanks for the talk yesterday,’ I say.

‘That’s what friends are for,’ Paulo nods, taking a big drag on his stogie and blowing out a swathe of smoke. ‘You know, I saw something interesting a couple of hours ago.’

‘At four in the morning?’ I give him a mock grin. ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’

‘From nine at night until three in the morning like every other old man.’ Paulo smiles. ‘But no, on Mondays my fish delivery arrives by five in the morning so I make it a point to get to the café early.’ Then he tells me that at slightly past four on his way to the café he saw a woman standing on the sidewalk across the street gazing at my apartment. He could have sworn she was talking to herself. ‘She had dark hair – black as the night. I think she was the girl that man was looking for the other day.’

‘I don’t know, I see a lot of drunk people around here late at night. Only the other night I saw two drunk girls in the alley behind me,’ I say, wanting more than anything to believe I’m right. ‘Where’d she go anyway?’

‘Not sure. One minute she was there, and then I turned around to unlock the door and when I turned back she was gone.’ Paulo takes a long drag from his stogie and some ash falls onto his newspaper. He wipes it off and the ash smears a headline that has the word ‘CANNES’ in it.

‘What’s that headline say?’

Paulo squints. ‘The Cannes Film Festival Starts Today.’ He takes another puff from his stogie. ‘You know, if you and Bela keep getting on like this you’re going to have to learn Portuguese, right?’

I nod; only this is the first time it’s occurred to me. Paulo offers me a coffee, but I decline. I want to get to the pharmacy and back as quickly as possible. The sooner I do, the sooner I can tell Bela everything and we can begin to get on with our lives.

W
hen I find the pharmacy it’s not even open yet. The hands of the plastic clock sign on the door point to seven o’clock. As I wait, my mind reels with what Paulo said. Even if it was Epiphany she obviously didn’t know I was just across the street; she would have confronted me if she had. Besides, the newspaper said the festival starts today. Epiphany’s got to either be in or on her way to Cannes. She’s not going to risk her daughter’s life to keep trying to get me to come with her.

After what seems like forever the green neon cross above the pharmacy flickers to life and a middle-aged man unlocks the doors. When I bring the tampons to the counter he gives me a sympathetic look that doesn’t require any translation.

But, I don’t know … a future of early-morning tampon runs and learning another language doesn’t seem bad at all. Not when the future’s got Bela in it.

Paulo is slumped in his chair when I return. His stogie is barely gripped between his two fingers and his mouth hangs open, a loud snore escaping it. I open the lower door leading to the stairs. On every other stair is one of Bela’s jack-o-lanterns. She’s relit all the candles in them. I follow the vegetables like they’re a treasure trail and step through the apartment door that’s held open by the cucumber with the wide smile.

In the bedroom the curtains are drawn and I almost slip on a mushy tomato that Bela’s placed on the floor. She’s lying on her side, her right
arm folded under her head. The cover drizzles her sleeping body. The halo of the relit pumpkin outlines the curve of her hips; the dip of her waist; the slope of her chest. I place the tampons on the dresser and gently sit on the bed beside her. She’s put perfume on. I softly kiss her ear, her neck, her shoulder. The taste of her skin is like a drug. My lips find hers and I kiss them. I kiss them as my tongue slips past her teeth and meets with hers.

But she doesn’t kiss back.

‘Bela?’ I place my hand on her shoulder.

I say her name again.

And again.

She doesn’t answer.

And this is where I notice the marks on her neck. The small bruises. The skin burn.

This is where I grab her shoulders and shake her.

This is where I scream her name.

And this, this is where my future dies.

T
his is the split second when you wake up. It’s the most perfect second of your day. It’s the second when your mind is absolutely free from any thought. During this second, you have no worries; you have no fears. This eye-blink of unconscious ignorance is absolute bliss.

And this is the second after that. This is the second when your mind boots up and you realise you’re living a nightmare. Pain, loss, agony, grief; they’re all waiting, ready and willing, to begin where they left off.

Before I open my eyes, I know he’s still here. I can smell his cigar. I’m crumpled on the bedroom floor. A pillow is under my head. If I look to my left, in the bed, I’ll see a sheet covering Bela’s body.

I was screaming but couldn’t hear a sound. Bela’s body – I shook it and shook it and shook it. I begged her to wake up. I screamed that I had so much to tell her, as if the dead would return if they knew they had conversations left to be had. Then someone was trying to pull me away from her. Their touch felt like the cold hands of the doctor clawing you from your mother’s womb.

‘Stop, Jerry. Stop,’ someone was saying. They reached under my arms and clasped tanned hands around my chest. My fingers felt like roots violently ripped from Bela’s flesh as those hands dragged me away.

Things happened so quickly then. My sister materialised and dematerialised in the corner of the room. Then Rachel did the same thing. And my father, too. And Ana Lucia. They all kept popping in and out of existence like electron bursts in a quantum field. The only constant was Paulo, holding me as I struggled in his arms.

I pick myself up. I’m at the kitchen table now. How I got there, if I
walked or floated or was carried, I don’t know. I feel like I’m moving through time in violent spurts – like jarring jump cuts from a Godard film. Paulo pours me a cup of tea that he’s made. The window is open. I wonder why he’s opened it. I feel like a ghost, not part of this world anymore.

Jump cut.

Maybe it’s a second later; maybe it’s an hour. I don’t know how long I’ve felt his eyes on me. A moment ago his cigar was almost full-length, now it’s reduced to half. Then the teacup in front of me sits empty, but I don’t remember drinking it.

‘I didn’t do it,’ I hear myself say. But those words, I don’t even believe them.

Jump cut.

If I had told Bela everything sooner … maybe she would have wanted to run with me. Maybe she would have left me. Maybe a million other things would have happened, but all the possibilities end with her being alive.

‘I know you didn’t,’ Paulo says, glancing towards the bedroom – the place my eyes fear to follow. ‘But who did?’

You’ll regret this!

Jump cut.

How long ago did he ask me who did it? ‘The devil,’ I mutter. ‘The girl you saw this morning.’

Paulo runs his hand through his thinning hair and takes a drag from his inch-long cigar. ‘I’ve got to call the police.’

Jump cut.

‘Jerry,’ a soft voice says suddenly.

‘Bela?’ I stir. A cold chill comes over my body as I catch my breath. Oh thank God for nightmares! They make waking all the more joyful. I look towards the bed but find Bela’s motionless form still covered by sheets. I settle back into my chair, hopes and dreams, fears and reality confusing my mind. Ten hours ago we were lying there beside each other. Happy. In love. Alive. I begin to cry. I want to crawl under the sheets and lie next to her; die there, with her.

Jump cut.

Paulo’s cigar is stubbed out on a plate. Both his hands are on my shoulders. ‘I will be back shortly, OK?’ he says. He pauses long as if I had the voice to reply. ‘Jerry. Listen to me. Jerry. Say your goodbyes, Jerry. It’s important to make peace. You understand?’ I shake my head but can’t bear to look at him. I’ll break if I do. Paulo, he releases my shoulders and … jump cut.

I don’t know how long I’ve stood in the bedroom’s doorway. A minute could be an hour. Paulo left years ago.

‘Bela?’

I wait for a reply. I wait and hope the sheets will rustle and she’ll get up and ask me why I’m crying. ‘I was just in a deep sleep,’ she’ll say. ‘Come to bed, lie with me.’

But the body beneath the sheet doesn’t move. It doesn’t say anything. It’s an empty vessel; no more a person now than the pumpkin that watches over it. And without removing the sheet I lie down by this vessel and ask a favour.

I say, ‘Please, God, please. It’s too much.’

Give me a stroke. Stop my lungs from taking in air. If you make the oven spark, so the apartment catches on fire, I swear, I’ll just lie here. I won’t even scream, I promise. Just please, if you do exist, do something. End me.

And I wait for a haemorrhage or the fire, but I get nothing.

I look at the pumpkin on the nightstand and recall the knife Bela used to carve it. A quick slit of the wrist would allow me to bleed to death. A small jab of the femoral artery would get me there quicker.

I pull the sheet from her face. The dead, they always look like they’re sleeping.

I say, ‘Don’t be mad at me.’ Silent tears stream from my eyes. ‘Please, baby, don’t be mad at me.’

And I tell Bela everything that I should have told her earlier. I tell her how I killed my sister and how my dad died and how I grew up stuffing my mind with television and movies and porn to block the pain. I tell her about my figments and about the woman who killed her.
I tell Bela that she was my first – ‘I was a virgin till I met you.’ And I tell her she’s only the second person in this entire shitty world who’s ever loved me. I drop tears on her face as I tell her no one regrets the things they’ve done as much as the things they didn’t do.

And I tremble as I tell her the last truth I have left to tell. ‘You’re dead because of me.’

I kiss her lips, but there’s no warmth in them. They feel like cold strips of steak fat that have been stretched over a mannequin’s mouth. ‘I love you, baby,’ I say and kiss her cheek one last time. But instead of the normal sweetness of her skin, I taste the bitterness of perfume applied too heavily.

‘I am sorry for interrupting,’ Paulo says, ‘but you need to get going.’ He’s standing in the living room, leaning heavily on his cane. I didn’t even hear him come in. He holds a paper bag in one hand. His eyes, I only begin to see now, burn with their own grief. He had told me he watched Bela grow up across the street from him. This must be like losing a daughter.

I look at Bela for the final time then pull the sheet that begins the eternity of our separation over her head. To not really anyone in the room, I say, ‘I’m going to kill myself.’

And then Paulo, he does the most unexpected thing. He hands the man who’s just said he’s going to kill himself a brown paper bag. Inside the bag is a revolver. ‘Why wait any longer?’ I expect him to say.

‘Jerry, forty years ago Portugal was ruled by a dictator. Every person hated it. Everyone complained behind closed doors. Publicly, fear kept us in line. But finally some people decided to do something about it. I was one of those people.’ Paulo glances at the brown bag. ‘I was in a militia that orchestrated guerrilla warfare. We hunted the PIDE – a kind of secret police that terrorised anyone who wanted political freedom. I
killed
people for what I believed in to make the future of my country better and safer for all.’

I don’t know if I’m hearing him right. Paulo killed people?

‘When I told my wife what I did, she was horrified,’ he shakes his head. ‘But she loved me anyway. She began working towards the
results I was trying to achieve, but her ways of achieving those results were different. She marched in Lisbon in what is now called the Carnation Revolution. One day she, along with many others, protested outside the PIDE headquarters. That’s the day PIDE officers went to the roof and started shooting into the crowd. Four people were killed, one of them my wife. We had only been married for seven months,’ Paulo pauses, his voice momentarily lost. ‘The world remembers the Carnation Revolution as a virtually bloodless coup. Our country was so happy to be free from dictatorship it didn’t even pursue the PIDE officers who shot into the crowd. Our new leaders
reasoned
it was time to move on. I couldn’t. I tracked two of them to Spain.’ He pauses, as if choosing his next words carefully. ‘Force
is
necessary when you can’t get justice any other way.’

‘I don’t know how to find her,’ I tremble. ‘I wish–’

‘You
find a way
to find her,’ Paulo says resolutely. ‘Wishing is futile. Every day I sit at my café and I think about my wife. I
wish
she were never taken from me. But nothing,
nothing
, can bring the dead back to us.’

I watch Paulo as he speaks. Everything seems just a little too far off, just a little out of reach, like I’ve been shoved into the wrong end of a giant telescope.

‘I need to call the police,’ he’s saying. He’s got one hand on his cane and the other on my shoulder. ‘Jerry, listen to me. It’s obvious you aren’t here legally. They aren’t going to look kindly on that. I’ve talked to Diana – my wife’s sister. I’ve told her everything. Let us deal with the police. You need to go, now. The longer you wait the less chance you have of finding her.’

I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. And as I leave Paulo and Bela and the apartment forever, I stroke the barrel of the gun. ‘Sometimes a death for a death
is
the right thing,’ a voice says in my head.

The only thing is, there’s no note, no sign, no indication of
who
should die for Bela’s death. Epiphany and I, we’re both her murderers.

T
he sun is too bright. A father walks with his beautiful daughter. Lovers make out under a tree across the avenue. Two grandparents swing their grandson by his arms. The whole street looks like one big pharmaceutical ad – everyone is happy, everything is perfect. The world shouldn’t look like this. Not today. Not after what’s happened.

I finger the gun in my khakis. Maybe if I do it in the middle of the road? Cars will be forced to stop. People will be forced to pay attention. If I take someone with me, I bet I’ll even get in the newspapers – maybe some magazines. If I clean out the whole street, I bet we’re talking TV movie. I could reach the widest audience possible then. My character could scream:
‘Why didn’t you hurt with me? Why didn’t you tell me how to stop the pain?’

Paulo, he told me to find her. But I’m just me. I don’t know how. There’s no sign pointing to Epiphany Jones.

And I hurt so much. I want it to stop.

I step off the curb when someone grabs my arm. A snap of air whips by as a little car spits past where I would have been walking. The man who stopped me, his eyes are big and black and proud. ‘Fuck you,’ I say. His long face becomes confused. ‘Fuck you!’ I scream. My saliva dots his skin.

The happy happy people on the happy happy street have all begun to stare. I’m acne on the complexion of their product-perfect day. The grandparents pull the grandkid close. An ice cream vendor is frozen mid-scoop. Across the road a group of beautiful young people furtively glance at me as they kiss and hug goodbye.

But when they part, a woman remains behind.

Her smile is kind, her frame small, her hair thin. And I know if I could see her eyes up close, they’d be blue with green flecks.

She waves me over.

I stumble across the street. Tears of joy flood my eyes.

‘Hello, alleegator.’

My entire body trembles with sublime weakness. I drop to my knees and wrap my arms around her waist. I press my face into her stomach. I say,
‘Bela.’

Her little giggle. Oh, I can hear it! My heart, it beats in these large, slow pulses. It rejoices in oxygen again.

I weep with relief and squeeze her thin legs hard. I kiss her waist. I bite her hip so I can feel she’s real. She strokes her fingers through my hair and purrs,
‘My little alleegator.’
And I look into her eyes. Blue with green flecks. She caresses my face and I lean my cheek into her soft hands just as she pressed her ear into my kiss on the day she was irritable with me for discovering her preparing the vegetables.

‘I don’t want to be another person who stops believing in the small things,’ she says. ‘Gypsies, God, miracles and magic.’ She smiles and pets my head. ‘And, as silly as it sounds, love.’

‘I know, baby,’ I say, my face smeared with tears, ‘We talked about this remember? It doesn’t matter.’ A tiny laugh escapes my mouth. It’s a laugh of relief; of joy; of a second chance at a new future. ‘You’re
here
.’ Salty tears slip into my mouth.

‘My grandmother always said to me this: just because you do not see fairies dancing on the lawn does not mean they aren’t there.’

And my heart takes a deep, slow beat, as if realising something in Bela’s words that my mind refuses to. I bury my face into her stomach and sob, ‘I remember.’

‘And as silly as that may seem – even if it is wrong –’ she continues, ‘what harm does it do to believe?’ She takes my chin in her hand so I’m looking into her eyes. ‘What good is one more unhappy person going to do for this world?’

‘I remember, baby,’ I say again as she smiles down on me. And her lips, they bellow briefly, in a round little way, the way they do before she begins her last words. My chest constricts as air is forced from my body.