The Last Stoic (20 page)

Sebastianus had already been
replaced.  There was an old man in the next cage.  White hair floated like
cloud fragments around his head and more coalesced below his chin.  Weathered
skin hung loosely from his lean, angular frame, pockets drooped under his eyes,
from the sharp points of his cheeks, along his chest and collarbones.  There
was no fat, no flesh, just sinew, tendon and bone, like he’d been embalmed. 
The man sat quietly in his cell, erect and motionless, his head bowed.  His
hands, a pair of big, bony clubs, held a small cylindrical object. 

A book. 

Marcus looked again.  Sure
enough, the prisoner cradled a small roll of parchment, no bigger than an
average sized belt buckle, in the cup of his palms, and he was reading it
intently. 

A book?
  In here?  He must have smuggled
it in.

“Excuse me,” Marcus whispered,
“hello.”

The man, engrossed in his book,
did not answer.

“Excuse me,” Marcus said, more
loudly.  “Hello, my name is Marcus.  Who are you?”

“Hello Marcus,” the man finally
answered without looking up from his book.  His voice was surprisingly strong. 
“Pleased to meet you.  I’m Sextus Condianus.”

Sextus Condianus?
The
Sextus Condianus?  Fugitive from the emperor Commodus, and every emperor
after?  Number one enemy of the empire?  This artifact?  Surely not.  Surely
he’s dead.  Or disappeared.  Or just a legend.
 
Or most likely, Marcus
concluded, this fellow here is demented.  Another madman. 

Several cages away Nasir launched
his ghostly wailing into the canopy of stars for the fifth time that day.

Mark awoke to Nasir’s wailing.
  And the shouting that
followed.  But the sounds were distant and mute.  He pinched his eyes and
squeezed his head.  He was no longer in the cage.  Roused in the middle of the
night, he had been frog-marched across the prison yard to a single pen, a miniature
stockade comprised of rough-hewn planks of wood formed into a stout box, wedged
into the dusty, scrabbled ground. 

“That’s the smoker,” the warder
said, “that’s where we barbecue the pork.”

At first, the squat enclosure was
a respite.  Built into the earth, it was cooler.  Mark found comfort in the
solid, wooden walls, nurturing the fantasy that the barrier was impenetrable. 
When Mark was in the cage, a soldier came by every couple of hours to prod him,
douse him, or yell him awake.  Now they beat on the outside of his box with
their batons and deep, restful sleep was a dream.  On this sunrise, when Nasir
began the first of his five daily exhortations, Mark had been dozing for thirty
delirious minutes.  He kicked at the walls of his box and cursed the Parthian
for doing the interrogator’s work. 

A seagull coasted lazily
overhead.  For a moment Mark spied himself from the gull’s perspective,
helpless and pathetic in a tiny wooden booth, exiled on a forgotten spit of
land, in a forsaken prison settlement, a thousand of miles from home.  Even in
the detention camp he was segregated, half-interred a hundred yards away from
anything.  The loneliness grew.  Nasir’s regular lamentations became less and
less annoying.  Mark began to anticipate them with a certain satisfaction. 
They marked out the periods of the day.  They linked him to something.

By mid-morning Mark understood
why it was called the smoker.  The equatorial sun continued its sizzling
ascent.  What he gained in shade from the continuous wooden walls he lost in
the absence of a breeze.  Hot, parched air collected in the confines of the box
like it was a convection oven.  He imagined himself a loaf of bread.  A
suckling pig.  Soldiers brought him a ladle full of water three times before
noon.  He begged for more. 

Thirst.  Heat.  Loneliness.  By
mid-afternoon Mark was scanning the interior of the cell for objects with which
he could take his life.  Not with any serious intent, but to be prepared, as a
thought experiment, a diversion. 
Having the means will help me endure. 
Self-starving would take too long.  Quick and painless is what I need. 

Mark started talking to himself,
inventing the society he craved.  He voiced random thoughts as they occurred. 
A disparate collection of thoughts and questions formed a tiny cyclone in his
mind, rushing at his consciousness, sweeping it away, only to return several
moments later. 

“What am I doing here?” Mark
asked out loud, startled at the ragged sound of his voice. 

They think I’ve plotted.  They
suspect me of treason.

“It’s not true!”  Mark shouted
skyward.  “Where am I?  Will I die here?” 

He digressed.

I love milkshakes.  God, I love
milkshakes.  I would fucking kill for a milkshake right now. 

He slammed one of his fists into
the timbers, repeatedly, until it bled. 

Does anyone know I’m here?  Mom? 
Dad?  Grandfather?

Trembling, he rocked gently back
and forth. 
Poor Mom, I miss her so much
.  He would have been horrified
to see how his behaviour had begun to mirror Sebastian’s.

Gus knows I’m here.  He and Paul
will get me out.  They’ll get word to my folks.

Sura!  Where is she now?  Mark
shied from wondering further. 

He smiled.  He pictured a cold
beer in a mug dripping with condensation, a messy hamburger next to a jumble of
fries, pungent with hot fat, the latest James Bond movie on TV, and a comfy
couch.  Again he pummeled his fists against the enclosure.  

“Remember that place we used to
go as kids?” he asked himself aloud. 

He conjured the memory, of his
mother and father, the aunts and uncles, and all the cousins.  The great midway
on the beach, and the penny arcade, and the rides, and the fun house, and the
mini-golf, and jumping into the big waves of the lake, and diving in the
swimming pool, and the showing-off for the grown-ups, and the shuffleboard, and
the Frisbee, and the sand castles, and the cards after dinner, and the
friendly, cousinly competitions, over anything, and the endless hours spent
reading comics, and the lemonade, and the lime soda, and the root beer, and the
chips, and the dry roasted peanuts, and the candy bars, and the smell of rum
and cola, and beer, and cigarette smoke, and marijuana smoke, and the heavy oil
from the diners, hamburger joints, and chip wagons, and the sweet fatty smell
of waffle cones and of the colourful, dripping, sticky ice creams, and the
ringing bell of the bicycle with the cooler in front, the kid hauling a bright
trove of popsicles, called ‘Rockets’ and ‘Firecrackers’, and the guitar hooks,
the pounding drums, the thumping bass, coming from the roller rink, and the
bowling alley, and the pool hall, and the bars, and the head shops, mysterious
and exciting, like something, anything could happen, and the sun, and the
breeze, and the pines, and the dunes. 

The cyclone, plumbing the depths
of his memory, regressing and starting from earliest remembrances, moved
forward and now presented Maria and Tiffany, the girls from the Superbowl
party.  Vivid images of their coupling in the living room rained down on Mark’s
overheated brain.  He imagined what it would be like to be in their arms again,
caressing cool, smooth skin, pliant bodies responding eagerly to his touch. 
Moist lips.  Urgent limbs.  Hands unclasping, unfolding, releasing, exploring
and testing. 

A soldier came by and hammered at
the walls with a baton. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A thousand miles away Patrick’s
own reverie was disturbed. 

He remained in Mark’s apartment
overnight.  When the rapping on the door started he was still dressed in Mark’s
old clothes, sitting in his armchair, eating his cereal.  CNN blared.  He
reminded himself twenty times that he should leave.  But he was too busy.  He
ate Subway sandwiches, drank rye and ginger, watched Apocalypse Now, and
listened to Coldplay. 

He dozed.  He worried. 

It occurred to him that Nasir and
Mark might have accomplices.  They might be looking for revenge.  Gus could
double cross him.  Eliminate him.  To ensure that Mark’s disappearance remained
a missing person case.  Or maybe it was Patrick Constantine Sr. at the door. 
Come down from New Ravenna to march him into the Army. 

Three movies and a half bottle of
rye led to boozy early morning nightmares.  He was lost behind enemy lines in a
nameless no-man’s land.  He slept little, a restless half hour here and there,
straying from the armchair only for the toilet and another drink.  The hand gun
he had salvaged from Mark’s car lay balanced on his lap, loaded with the safety
released.  He no longer had the inscribed knife, of course; that was now in the
hands of the authorities.  But the Glock would do fine.  He made himself a
promise.  He wouldn’t go quietly.  Now, at nine a.m., he was scrambled. 

The knocking at the door
continued.  Patrick didn’t move. 

A voice called out from the other
side of the door.

“Mark?  Mark?”

Patrick twitched. 
I’m here
.

The door knob rattled.  Patrick
slid the pistol into the large pocket next to his thigh.

“It’s open,” the voice said,
surprised. 

Paulina had called Mark’s
apartment, his workplace, the newspapers, major hospitals, and the police. 
She’d registered a missing person report with the city police detachment.  They
warned that it was not a crime for an adult to disappear.  Gus and Paul said it
was not like Mark to take time off work without first requesting it.  They were
stumped.  All inquiries had led to nothing. 

Patrick had neglected to re-lock
the door.  The door creaked open.  Vincent and Paulina entered the apartment
and stopped.  They were startled to find a stranger where they hoped to find their
boy. 

“Who are you?  Where is Mark?”

 “Be calm Paulina,” Vincent said
as he touched her shoulder.

“I’m here.  I’m right here,”
Patrick said, in a low tone. 

“Perhaps you should wait
outside,” Vincent said, now turned to Paulina, “back at the hotel.”

Paulina clenched her fists at her
sides and squeezed her feet together.

“I want to know who this man is
and why he’s in Mark’s apartment,” she said. “We should call the police.”

“That’s ok,” Vincent said,
raising his bony fingers in a wide span to show Patrick they meant him no
harm.  “I’m sure there is a simple explanation.”

Vincent studied Patrick for a
moment, penetrating his hazy scowl, saying nothing.  Patrick shifted.

“We’re looking for Mark,” Vincent
said finally, “my grandson.  He’s not much older than you, about your size. 
Have you seen him?”

“Oh!  Mark!”  Patrick returned to
himself.  “Yeah, I’ve been looking for him too.”

“So you know him?”

“Oh yeah, sure.  I haven’t seen
him in days.”  Patrick got up from the armchair and walked toward them.  Vincent
and Paulina stepped aside and backwards as he neared them and the doorway.

“I just came by myself to see if
he was back,” he continued.  “I wanted to borrow one of his…DVDs.  He wasn’t
here, obviously.  But the door was unlocked.  Funny hey?  I just let myself
in.”

Patrick was now in the doorway,
about to leave.

“And did you get it?” Vincent
asked.

“Did I get what?”

“The DVD.”

“Oh!  No!  He didn’t have the one
I wanted.  Oh well.  Please tell him I was by.  I’m sure he’ll be back soon,
probably just out fishing.”

“We certainly will.  And your
name?”

“Patrick.”

“Patrick…”

“Patrick Constantine…Junior.”

“Very good.  We’ll let him know.”

“Great, thanks.” 

Patrick took a step down the
stairs.  Vincent followed.

“Which one did you want?”

“Sorry?”

“Which DVD were you after?”

“Oh.  DVD!  Right.”  Patrick
paused.  “A Bridge Over the River Kwai”.

“I’m certain that Mark has that,
it’s one of his favourite movies.”

“No kidding?” Patrick was
surprised.  It was one of
his
favourite movies.

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere. 
We could bring it to you when we find it or when Mark returns.  Where can we
contact you?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,
please…”

“No, I insist,” Vincent said,
“we’re happy to help out a friend of Mark’s.”

Patrick met Vincent’s gaze and
could not look away. 

“Ok.  I appreciate it.  You can
find me at the Super Shepherd Ministries, room 142 in Dormitory A.”

“Excellent,” Vincent smiled. 
“Have a good afternoon Patrick.  We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure.”

“Yes, you too.  Thanks.” 

Patrick turned, descended the
stairs, exited the building and returned to the Ministry, puzzling over the odd
exchange. 

“Were those Mark’s trousers he
was wearing?” Paulina asked, after he had left.