Trust Me

Killing mockingbirds had never really been an option for Octavia Philarmonica - nor killing any other birds, for that matter; but she would not turn down a nice anti-bird shotgun on the fine morning that she was spending in the garden, enjoying fresh fruit straight from the tree that was a little to the left of her, and the fazend-ish table at which she was consuming the third glass of wine for the morning, while Mister Tummers, opposite her, still could not finish off his first one.

“I’ve got it, Mister Tummers,” Octavia said finally, grabbing the bear’s glass. “I’ve made up the Threesome Scheme!” she announced grandly. Mister Tummers did not seem to care in the slightest, sitting on the table in a tiny Hawaiian shirt made of green pestral fabric. “You see, since Vinyl does not like men, and I really want to sex them both…” Here, she used deliberately the verb Vinyl had coined. “Well, all we need to do is maintain such a position that I get some of the penis variety and the Vinyl Vag, and-” Suddenly, she stopped, looking at the plush bear. “You know what. You are still too young to listen to things like that.” Octavia finished the glass rather clumsily. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

She yawned and closed her eyes. The smells did not come to her this morning; she heard the tint of the songbirds and the warrup of the waves and the shusting of the leaves on the ferrous trees. It was the sound of creaking dust and rolling gravel, of bookpages far ahead and the inexistent Italy, the battered-smiling Serbia, the hardworking Bosnia, the lost Croatia, the shore-bound Germany, the kissing France, the rotting England, the frowning Russia, the shivering Finland, the huffy Norway, the roaming Dutchland, and the Freemanland, and the Northern Freemanland, only with hockey; and, finally, she opened her eyes and took a deep breath. Time for a call.

Belatedly, she realised that neither Vinyl nor she had turned on their phones upon landing. Peace and quiet. The pleasant aloneness. Solitude? Lonesomebility. Lonesolitude. Lonesomethingability. Lonesittitude. The attitude of loneliness. The one that’s with you. Salut.

That beginning never worked well. Why? For one, it began with a reference, a bad reference. It carried on with the old, abused joke on a cute plush bear, and then moved on to blatant discussion of sex. It would not work well with a thinking reader. Like you. It would work well with a working-class drunk coming home to read something to forget his toil and strife. I pity him, and I feel sorry for him. I think he should have better living conditions. But that does not mean I promote his lifestyle or his deliberate limiting of ken. We are not communists, after all. Remember The Godfather? From 1972?

You are confused; you are afraid; that’s okay. You aren’t used to words in the story talking to you. I swear, this will be easy. I’ll be your guide. Together, we’ll brave this difficult (and final) part of the story. I’ll lead you through. I’ll explain things. You will be cradled in care. You can just enjoy the reading.

So, what happens instead? Octavia sits there - no, a little to the left, by the white, gorgeously white, unspoilt garden chair that the owner had bought at half-price (180 European dollars, my friends, that’s what an old dog can get a nice fine old chair for, Fleur!) - you must forgive me, I am setting up the stage here - and then, then, the phone rings.

Actually, no, no. It doesn’t ring. What happens instead is:

Octavia wants to call FredericBecause she feels guilty and maybe a little at unease for not keeping contactShe goes up the stairsScratches her chin on the waySeventeen stepsShe countedThe sofa she hit her shin on was soft thoughUp the stairs to the bedroomVinyl does have a cute snoreMaybe kiss the lovely DJ?She kisses the lovely DJMaybe kiss her on the neck?She kisses her on the neckThinksUhuhMaybe?..No, that’d wake her upTakes up her phoneOf course it would be offTakes up the chargerGoes down with the chargerConsiders plugging the phone inThe phone still has a little battery leftNo wonder:It was off since the flightAndIt is actually an old NokiaOctavia muses on FinlandSpeculates about its paper industryGoes outside with the phoneThirty-four unanswered callsThe phone ringsAnd now the paper-The phone rings.They used to have this-The phone rings!She picks up the phoneContinues thinkingIt’s FredericHello FredericEt ceteraWhat?What what what?UhuhNo I…I get it.I.Of course!Dammit, Freddie, of course I will!Beep beep beepMy GodAnd she doesn’t know… yetIII have to…Why should I have to?I must tell herShould I wake her up?The majestic figure of Vinyl Scratch - time has passed, we’ll carry on from here - appears

“Vinyl, we need to talk.”

Vinyl Scratch descended the stone steps with a smile, inhaling with full breast the smell of growing fruit and the salty sea, and the tricotite water in the pool, and the grains of sand, and the age of the stone. Her ears rested in perfect silence. With a smile, she approached her cellist.

“Sure, Tavi, what’s-” Vinyl froze upon seeing Octavia’s solemn, scared expression. Her cellist seemed dismayed, and, despite the suggestion (demand?) to talk, wasn’t about to speak. “Oh my God.” The spinner sat down heavily, her heart jumping to her throat. Oh my God. Jesus. I knew it. I knew that, sooner or later- “Please don’t break up with me,” Vinyl begged. “I won’t be able to live without you.” Octavia’s mouth fell agape. “Is this because I didn’t want to take Sir Morning Glory in the ass last night?” There were tears in Vinyl’s eyes now. “I can-”

“WHAT?!” Octavia shouted, gaping her mouth at the heated-up spinner. “What in- What the- What the WHAT?!” The cellist blinked a few times, trying to form some semblance of thought. Time to change the record. “What what WHAT?!” Devil Octavia observed, drinking tea with Angel Octavia on the left shoulder: It’s not very effective.

Now it was Vinyl’s turn to blush and blink. “You mean, you are not-” Suddenly, the spinner felt ridiculous and stupid. “You are not-!” Now, she wanted to cry in relief. Devil Vinyl emerged sleepily from the divine bedroom, followed by a very red Angel Vinyl. I don’t wanna know. Vinyl blinked at her shoulder. Uh. Angels and devils can’t really..? Devil Vinyl narrowed her brows: Racist. Homophobic racist.

“Of course I am not breaking up with you!” Octavia managed finally. “Vinyl, I’ll never break up with you!” she exclaimed heatedly. Devil Octavia put her arm boldly around Angel Octavia’s shoulders. “How could you even consider that?!”

“I don’t know!” Vinyl screamed apologetically. “I mean, I come here, and I see that look on your face, and, and-” The spinner broke down sobbing in her palms. Octavia reached across the table diagonally, the tips of her fingers brushing the spinner’s cheek.

“Love,” Octavia said mildly. “I am not breaking up with you, but I have unpleasant news.”

Vinyl froze a little, her heart running laps in her chest. “What. What’s wrong. Tavi, tell me now. Please,” she added.

“Your brother.” Octavia shut her eyes. It’s. All. My...f-f-

“What about him?” Vinyl demanded angrily. “If he’s trying to bring me back or-”

Octavia opened her eyes, and there were fresh tears in them. “He tried to commit suicide.”

***

What happens next? Well, to give your eyes a rest from the italics, let’s just say that, indeed, there was much shock; and Vinyl did cry, and tremble, and there was much soothing, and Octavia even almost offered wine but withdrew her hand knowing that if Vinyl were to begin drinking at such a state she would become an alcoholic and of course Octavia mused if she herself was an alcoholic, but there was no time: eventually, Vinyl calmed down enough to understand that Neon was alive, he was unhurt, Frederic caught him, Frederic the Saviour, oh my God, Tavi, I will pray for him every day, I didn’t, I, you know, one time, I thought he, shh, it’s okay Vinyl, please, we have to book the earliest ticket and leave, go to him, go to your brother, yes, yes, go to my brother.

The plane flew at the proper altitude. The snacks were not delicious; but they were free. The choice given was between fish and beef. There was no vegetarian option. However, each portion included a side dish of roast vegetables (lettuce, not roast; carrots, roast; small cherry-tomatoes; roast, surprisingly), in addition to two types of bread (wheat and rye) and butter and salt (10G) and pepper (5G). There was no ketchup.

The reason why there was no ketchup: the woman who was responsible for packing supplies down on earth had had a quarrel with her boyfriend. It was a deeply personal matter, which will not be printed. However, that resulted in her being bitchy the whole day and forgetful, too; and we can only be thankful that she was in charge of packing food and not an aviadispatcher.

Not everyone took a meal on that flight: Vinyl had fish. Octavia had managed to fall asleep so she ate nothing. The pilot ate nothing either. He was busy.

How he became a pilot: he was a black teenager when he first read Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Hocus Pocus, which he enjoyed very much. His favourite line from it was: “See the nigger fly the airplane!” It was meant to be deep. But the black teenager decided that it was literal. He became one of the first niggers to fly the airplane outside the United States or Africa. He was damn proud of himself. He was a bloody good pilot at that. He liked to mouth, every time he landed, for good luck: “See the nigger fly the airplane.” He thought it was good luck. It might well have been.

All in all, only twenty-six (26) people took a meal. Twenty (20) of them took beef. Six (6) of them took fish. Out of the twenty (20) people who took beef, seventeen (17) did not finish the meal. Out of the six (6) people who took fish, two (2) chose not to eat it at all, instead munching on the bread. Vinyl was among those two. She had wheat bread. It was not tasty. Her mind was roaming elsewhere.

Who else ordered fish: The reverend Salmon Toothbrush, PhD in Feeble Technology; Frenzy McCormac, a bus driver who accidentally killed a cat as a kid - that event would haunt him for the rest of his life; Marina Shopogolik, a mistress of a wealthy Russian businessman; Kerzoko Mariashi, a sound engineer whose income, after tax, is 2579 dollars per month - not that bad for a sound engineer; and Anna the flight attendant who liked to be called a stewardess.

When the plane landed, it took exactly 17 minutes for the two women to get out. It took them forty-nine steps to reach the airport. It took them twenty minutes waiting in the queue for passport control.

Why it took them so long to get to the passport control: the officer who checked passports for validity had recently broken up with his girlfriend, because he knew very well a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work. His girlfriend had forgotten to pack ketchup because of that. If he’d known that, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Ketchup wasn’t that important to him. He preferred mustard. His irritation made him triple-check every passport. Every time he glanced up to look at the face of the holder, he saw the face of his ex.

Upon picking up their luggage, the two women took a taxi and rode to Octavia’s flat.

Why they rode to Octavia’s flat: Octavia had been sleeping all the way on the plane, and she did not want to brave the dirty WC of the airport; so, with her bladder calling out to her (copious amounts of alcohol before flight didn’t exactly help with that), she needed a release. Besides, they could not really go to the hospital with luggage, could they? No they couldn’t; so they also dropped by Vinyl’s flat to leave her luggage because well, they weren’t exactly living together as of yet, and the nigger driver who never flew an aeroplane brought them to the doors of the hospital. Octavia paid him the necessary fee, which will be a secret. The women proceeded to the hospital, inside. It took them fourteen steps to do so. The security did not want to let Octavia’s through because she wasn’t Neon’s relative but the cellist made a scene, pretending to be Neon’s fiancee, so they were let through.

The ward 19. The mental institution. Decober 45th, 3045.

Should we be precise or eloquent in describing the heartbreaking happening that took place in the ward upon the women’s arrival? Should we, o fair reader, delve deep with utmost attention, into the matters internal, or, should we say, lest we be thrown stones at, matters eternal? Should we, then, give a decent enough description of the way the two lovers entered the ward, side by side, mano a mano? Should we, then, transcribe the exchange of pleasantries between the women and Frederic Horoshevski, who had spent Lord knows how many hours awake, by the side of his trusted friend Nigel, who refused to say a word either to him or to the crying sister of his, the fair maiden whose beauty was shaded by the tears she had to shed because of her fair brother’s illness? Should we paint with black the lunacy of the Lord Brother, who refused, quite stubbornly, if we be allowed this frivolity, to speak to his kin? And should we mark the darkest phrase the maiden’s lover uttered, no doubt due to the excessive dismay of the situation, the eight-tentacled octopus of fear of flight, the general emotional strain? Should we, then, quote her precise remark that had to do with Nigel’s self-inflicted insanity, in addition to a rather disgusted, ill-concealed anger on the brother’s endangering his sister to a life of solitude? Should we note with content fulfilment of expectation the reaction of the sister, who, with open eyes, stood up from her brother’s bed, ready and eager to defend him. Should we, ashamed, write out the lover’s words: “At least Vinyl has me. But what if she didn’t?” quoth the lover! Should we put to parchment the effect these poisonous words had on the maiden? Should we paint with blood the still picture in dynamic, of the aforementioned fair maiden pummeling at her lover with her tiny fists, nay, the Dragonslayer, the fabled blade! How dare she speak, how dare she utter such nonsense, how dare she claim-! Away, away! Be gone, dragon, be gone, seductress, be gone! And never come again! For I have my brother, and my family is all I need to have, and naught, nay, naught will ever replace that, and definitely not you, Octavia!

Should we mention the tears? Should we mention the cries? Should we mention Frederic taking Octavia away to “calm down”, that is, drink - for mead is the answer of Gods to all problems?

Should we-?

***

If we set the stage, let it be a sports bar, in a dark, lightless district of the city. It is clean. It is underground. The set of stairs is pseudomarble. The floor is pseudowood. The tables are pseudometal. The patrons are pseudodrunk.

Here, let me depict the dialogue that occurred between Octavia Philarmonica and Frederic Horoshevski in the aforementioned bar, twenty minutes upon their arrival (drinks and small talk preceded the argument; words had grown heated; I am plunging you into the middle of the quarrel, so hold tight. I’ll be there to help):

Frederic: It feels like you are living in a Candyland, where the skies are always blue and the sun is always shining! Well, let me tell you something: it is not Candyland. It’s real life.

He is sitting opposite Octavia at the table. Both remember - albeit subconsciously - that sitting at the bar counter always ends up badly. Octavia’s habit is very deep.

Octavia: Yeah, well, what if- what if I am living in Candyland? I don’t want to wallow in misery. I don’t want to focus on tragedy.

When Octavia is drunk, her inner bitch activates with more fervour. Sometimes, she will say heated words, realising immediately upon that she didn’t believe those herself. But the trap is sprung and she has to carry on in order not to risk losing face. You’ve all been here. You have been here before. I have been here before. We have been here before. It’s -that- bar. You remember.

Frederic: You cannot just disregard tragedy!

Very ironic. It was Frederic who had taught Octavia to disregard tragedy. It was Frederic the Healer who believed in priests and never in psychoanalysis. What Octavia told Vinyl, back then, was Frederic’s words dropping from her lips. She had just forgotten it.

Octavia: Why not? I’m in ‘Candyland’!

Frederic is getting irritated. No, more. Angry. Angrier. No, show me some goddamn anger here! ...There. Frederic is furious. He is drunk and he hates his words being used against him.

Frederic: Octavia, you heartless fuck! You know what happened to Candyland? Django burned it down! That crazy black fucker just blew it up - and did right, and did a fucking good job at that!

People start casting looks. Frederic doesn’t notice. Octavia sulks. She didn’t believe the words she said, but she believes in Frederic’s words. Frederic doesn’t believe in the words he says, but he believed in Octavia’s words. Somehow.

Frederic: People try to help you, but you just take their help, wear them out, and offer nothing in return. You don’t like anyone, Octavia, but you expect everyone to understand you and like you and help you!

Octavia is getting on the defence. Frederic is dancing around the ring.

Octavia: Frederic, that’s not true! Please… don’t. You’re hurting me!

He is. Two jabs. Both hit home.

Frederic: Oh, and you aren’t hurting anyone, are you, Octavia? You aren’t the one who drove Neon to do what he did? You aren’t the one who dragged his sister away and tried to poison her mind against-

The referee has to interrupt. Frederic is making a bloody mess out of his opponent. Fine? Octavia, are you fine? No? Carry on with the fight!

Octavia: I didn’t!

It’s Freddie’s day today. Oh yes, it is! Look at the audience! The spectators are roaring wild with excitement! He’ll hold that belt. Oh yes, he will!

Frederic: Shut the fuck up! You don’t have a right to speak. Remember this. I spent my life for you. I thought… I thought I truly loved you. And we were such good friends. But you ruin everything you lay your hands on. It is your fault that Neon… Hope you’re happy.

Knock-down. Octavia gets up, panting heavily.

Octavia: Freddie, please!

Frederic: Octavia, remember when you told me you were afraid of becoming your father - a manipulative bastard who only cared about his own happiness?

Knock-down. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Octavia opens her eyes. Six. Seven. Ei- Can you see me? Do you understand me, Octavia? Can you fight? No? Not any more? Okay then. Carry on with the fight!

Octavia: Freddie,  please… don’t. I beg you, don’t…

Uppercut:

Frederic: Congratulations, Octavia. [Uppercut] You’ve become your father.

...Knock-out.