Pastich (Apricot Soda) p. 0

“Who art though, then?”                       
“Part of that Power which eternally wills
evil and eternally works good.”            
                            Goethe—Faustus

 Chapter 0: The Next Stop

At the hour of sunset on a hot spring afternoon, the dark red velvet curtains were drawn, closing out the last cries of the sun. Inside, however, was a massive fireplace filled with a violent fire, lighting the dim room around it. The light danced around the curtains, the desk, and the floor, flickering and crackling. Two paintings of equally demure paled expressions hung on opposite sides of the wall. The rest of the walls were lined with bookshelves of the same dark oak that the furniture was made out of. The study, though crowded with several pieces of dark furniture and a pile of old, stained shirts and rags, was filled with space that seemed to stretch its dimensions; though it was particularly the smallest room in that London apartment, it appeared to have the capacity to fit even more. A giant richly patterned Persian carpet stretched out on the floor before the fire whose tongues of light licked the legs of a tall, lanky figure and the fauteuil he was sitting in. He was reading something he had probably pulled off the bookshelf through a pair of seemingly useless pince-nez with only one cracked lens. The book was one of the countless manuscripts that made up the millions of pages yellowed with age filling the shelves from one end to the other.

There was, however, one shelf, on the column of shelves nearest the fire, just about at eye-level on which the space that would’ve been filled with a thick volume was instead occupied by a white marble bookend. It was a small sculpture of a man who held the few books upright in such a manner that it appeared as if he were pushing them up a steep hill. His face was frozen in eternal frustration, while his muscles bulged in toil, and there was a detail of a sweat bead running down his temple as if he, too, felt the heat of the fireplace.

Two other figures were also in the room in the middle of a game of chess, one being much smaller and hairier than the other. But behind them, in the middle of the room was a vividly colored globe, appearing to have an atmosphere of its own.

Oh yes, we should probably note that this trio had just returned from some lovely adventures in the city, and all were now resting from the commotion in this toasty home that they had been borrowing. They did indeed need a break from all the ruckus and disorder, but they were quickly becoming bored.

While the lanky figure read the words of the manuscript under such dim light and through questionable lenses, the other two were heavily immersed in the large chessboard between them.  All eyes were glued and unblinking, each with the attitude that this round he would triumph in the battle. The black and white pieces, by this point in the match, were scattered across the checkered battleground. They were ornate, chiseled like marble sculpture, but not trapped in static poses like the bookend was; both queens remained standing on the board with keen awareness of the attacks being planned against her own king, while a few pawns remained faithful to protect the hierarchy above them even when it meant sacrificing their lives for another more valuable move. The one opponent’s different colored eyes did not see the black pawn hidden behind the shadow of its queen. Deceived, he went for the faulty move; the white knight galloped into ready position, intending to remove the queen from her vantage point and steal the game’s outcome from there. But, as the horse reached the square of choice, the shadows moved to reveal the pawn; it was too late for that courageous knight, so taken aback by the pawn’s ruthless attack fed by loyalty to his mistress, that he was removed mercilessly and without a fight.

Suddenly, discordant music projected from the globe, but the two chess players didn’t hear it. Perhaps only the most sensitive ears could hear it because the sound was not loud and blaring, only high-pitched and ringing, very faint but still unpleasant. Of course, the one at the fireplace heard the dissonant sounds breaking the rhythm of the air, but he continued, trying to read louder in his head to drown that terrible sound. In somewhat of a crescendo he read, “The mind is its own place And In Itself / Can Make A Heaven OF HELL, A HELL OF HEAVEN.” At this time, his mind seemed to be a hell: the cringing-inducing “music” interrupted the rhymeless yet rhythmful lines with its near painful sound.

Heaving the book into the fireplace out of impulse and frustration, he jerked his gaze toward the globe to see the usual: many lights and glowing areas about the surface of the globe. Stomping toward the middle of the room, he bent over a tiny white light on a large peninsula and listened closely to hear “I would give my soul to the devil to…” Though extremely interested in the completion of that evocation, he knew the awful noise was coming from elsewhere and proceeded to find out where. Scanning the surface of the globe, running his eyes over mountain ranges, placid bodies of water and lights of varying intensity, his eyes stopped and noticed a single blinking red light coming from the globe. It was on the side of the globe facing away from the chessboard on a large mass of land half surrounded by water half bordered inland. Looking closer, he saw the land expand, as clouds passed, a river became bigger, and trees became more definite in shape; the trees around grew taller, as did the buildings bordering the pond, which also expanded. Three adjacent benches along a sidewalk became two, then one on which sat two men. One, older than the other, was wearing a gray summer suit and had a thinning head of dark hair revealed by the hat not on his head but in his hands. The other of the two was more casually dressed and much younger in age and probably younger in outlook as well. The dissonant noise was evidently coming from their mouths; they were probably having a blind, ignorant conversation creating crooked, bent sound waves that travelled oh so unwieldily. The one who was seeing and hearing the two men leaned in even closer bending at his right oblique so that his ear nearly touched those treetops in order to hear the cacophonous sound of disbelief.

“Messire, I think we’ve found our next stop.”

The less hairy of the chess players whipped his head up and instantly looked away from the chessboard toward the lit globe; he raised his eyebrows in surprise, almost embarrassed that he hadn’t noticed the overt flashing of alarmingly red light on his globe, but his ears were still not keen enough to pick up the dissonant chords like that other pair of ears did. Grabbing the black cane that was leaning against the arm of his chair, he sauntered over toward the globe. He squinted to see past the cirrus clouds, while his uneven footsteps took him closer.

His opponent took this distraction as an opportunity to make an illegal move and finally gain the upper hand. He had just pushed his valuable bishop out of harm’s way, when without even turning, the other one said, “Nice move there. Very impressive.” He nodded and then in a more sly tone said, “Oh yes, but you forgot about my rook.”

“What roo…" The square to which he had moved the bishop for safety was in the direct path of the white rook across the board. There went his precious black bishop and the safety of his other pieces along with the chance of winning against his all-too-clever rival. He froze, appalled at what had just happened, for after he removed a hefty amount of valuable white pieces, he thought this game was surely his. Unable to answer his own questions, he resorted to blaming his set of black pieces and thought about claiming the white ones for the next match.

Meanwhile, the man with the cane made his way over to the middle of the room; he peered in at that blinking red light: land, clouds, river, buildings, trees, benches, bench. The two unalike characters on that bench were simply enjoying their sit and their philosophizing on the cool afternoon. He then scanned around the nearby area, not really finding anything interesting, just a few too many people, but that could easily be taken care of. He noted the brightly colored drink stand, and the sun which was setting, while the park slowly cleared out. All of a sudden, a yellow hue caught his eye; a sizable bottle of sunflower oil was travelling across the train station platform toward the turnstiles right next to the track. He grinned.

The second chess player, curious and now accepting of his defeat, sat on the nearby chair for a closer glimpse. He, however, was shorter than the other two and was unintentionally looking at the wrong spot on the globe. His cat-like eyes zoomed in to a vast land surrounded by water, past the clouds, while the river shriveled away and the green patches rose to become the plane of leaves on the horizontal-prone trees; the plains rose and he now saw the detailed texture of the grasslands. He was puzzled by what he was looking at. What was he looking at? He then felt a firm tap at the back of his head and looked up. His two eyes met a green one and a black one, which exuded the attitude of irritation. Those differently colored eyes then threw their glance toward the bottle of sunflower oil, as if to point to it. Now understanding, the confused one nodded in response.

Then the one with the unusual pair of eyes handed the tall one a needle.

“Messire eternal, thine is to decree,” he said bowing slightly. Then, he pocketed the needle and began to take leave.

[1] John Milton, Paradise Lost, (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2005), 10.