Trust Me

I never wanted to kill my father.

I guess that’s the whole problem. Normal kids want to kill their father on occasion. It’s fine. It’s healthy. It’s psychology. I never wanted to kill my father. I never even hated him. If I’d known anything about psychology, I would have tried to hate my father at least twice a day, before morning and evening prayer. But, as things had turned out ever since, I never hated my father; so there you have it.

I did - and do - hate many things. I hate it when it snows heavily, when you can’t see the road ahead of you, stumbling and sneezing from the cold. I hate it when I have to wake up in the middle of the night to pee. I hate it when it is raining outside and I have practice and have to brave the muddy streets on foot with a cello case. I hate Harpo when he makes his stupid bawdy jokes. I hate Bea when she giggles like an idiot. I hate Frederic when he’s being all bossy and commanding. I hate those vomit-inducing dirty workers who always build something on Sunday, when I’m supposed to be resting. I hate those fat-cats that waste their money on useless things when the planet is dying. I hate environmentalists. I hate polluters. I hate corporations. I hate communists. I hate my neighbours. I hate cold coffee and hot tea. I hate liberals and conservatives. I hate autumn and spring. I hate synthetic blankets and woollen plaids. They itch. They itch so fucking much.

It is harder to say what I love. Or, rather, it was harder to say that. When Vinyl appeared… Let’s say, I was living behind a huge curtain, peeking out at the world from a stage. I believed in the stage. There’s nothing wrong in believing in the stage. Shakespeare believed in the stage. Gatsby believed in the green light. Hunter Thompson believed in cocaine. Ghandi believed in peace. I believed in the stage. But then she… she just came up to me, took my hand, and delivered me from this madness. She said, “There’s no stage, love. There’s me. Only me.” And I looked around and I saw: there was no stage. The floor sweeper was gone, and the actors never existed. The producer was long past gone, and I was my own playwright. I could outshine the orchestra, and no conductor could tell me how to sing. And I didn’t need to sing any more. I had her. It was her, just her. Only her. And there wasn’t anything else to add.

Yes, please. A double espresso.

Was it higher love? Was there ever higher love? Is it higher love if I forgot everything but her? Is it higher love if there was no praise in the world but her praise, and no hurt but her hurtful words, the truth she spoke then? Is it higher love that I ran away, to go away forever, like her brother, but-

Thank you. Yes, some sugar, please.

-but I returned. For her. And, if she won’t have me…

Thank you.

If she won’t have me… I won’t do anything stupid. I’ll just walk away, and burn all the bridges behind me. She’s shown me too much of the beauty of life for me to ever give it up.

Just let me finish my coffee.

***

You really thought I would leave you? No, this, now, is a very important part. How could I leave you without guidance here? After all, the story is coming to its end. It does not have an end, as you’re used to; but it does not loop or form a cycle so I guess we could call it an ending of some sort.

You must have realised what’s going on by now. The story has been a modernist piece all along. It was well-hidden. I didn’t know that. I’ve learnt that along with you - maybe a few seconds earlier. You were sure this would be a good, ordinary story. You were deceived. It is unpleasant, I know. Misleading is so human. You get used to it. It also makes the title of the story oh so ironic. Let me reiterate myself: Sometimes, irony is just too bitter.

But let’s return to the story, because it’s getting complicated. Here, we should understand - and you, clever reader, you have understood it already - the general theme of each part. Part One was Uncertainty. Read it again: I’m sure it was Uncertainty. Part Two was Anxiety. Read it again: I can calmly assure you that it was Anxiety. Part Three was Tranquillity. Read it again: I’m anxious to say, but I think, rushing to and fro in a nervous lane, that it was Tranquillity. This is Exhaustion. You must have noticed it. With each chapter, the story becomes more nocturnal. The language exhausts itself. The words become tired. The descriptions fade. The narrative shifts.

Returning to the narrative:

Octavia returns, reluctantly. Her finger follows the precise trajectory to the bell. The bell rings, obeying the law of physics. The sound attracts the attention of one Vinyl Scratch, who opens the door without looking: she is too exhausted. Octavia falls on her knees and embraces Vinyl’s knees, perfectly resembling the famous painting of the Prodigal Son. The Prodigal Daughter has returned. My mind conjures a play again:

Octavia: Vinyl, love, Vinyl, Vinyl. Vinyl.

Vinyl: …

Octavia: Vinyl. My Vinyl. Vinyl.

Vinyl: Octavia?..

Octavia: (cries) Vinyl. Love. Vinyl.

Vinyl: (uncertain) Are you for real?

Octavia: (cries) Vinyl. Vinyl.

Vinyl: (uncertain) Are you drunk?

Octavia: (sniffs) Vinyl. I love you, Vinyl.

Vinyl: You… You left me?

Octavia: (starts crying again): No, no, Vinyl, love, there’s been a mistake. I love you, I love you, I love. You.

Vinyl: Tavi… (meekly) Get off the floor.

Octavia gets off the floor and enters the familiar flat. They sit. On the couch. They talk. Octavia tells everything. It sounds crazy. Vinyl listens. It sounds crazy to her too. They talk. They sit. Vinyl thinks hard. It all seems surreal. Big Sur. She doesn’t even know what’s real. She has this crazy notion that she’s a character in someone’s novel. She’s goddamn right, by the way. There’s only one thing she knows to counter this insanity. She asks Octavia to go on a ride with her. Octavia is afraid. She agrees. They go to the car. The air is crispy and cold. Vinyl inserts the key. She starts the engine. The car roars. Octavia is afraid. She holds on to her seatbelt. She has a notion that Vinyl is going insane. She is wrong, by the way.

They drive off.

Let me now give you the courtesy of being driven into the midst of their ride. I’ll leave you there. Don’t worry. You’ll manage. If you’ve managed to get through the previous chapters, you’ll manage this one. I believe in you. (I honestly don’t.)

“Where are we going?”

Vinyl drove carefully past the city limits, guiding the car along the narrow road, wincing every time a stray pebble jumped up from the slowly rotating wheels. “I want to show you something.”

Octavia gulped. I really hope it won’t be a Romeo-and-Juliet kind of thing. “Vinyl, love, you are creeping me out,” she tried to reason gently, her fingers running up and down the belt, sweat forming on her forehead.

“You vanished without a word, and now you’re here, confessing your love for me,” Vinyl replied, not taking her eyes off the road. “I need to know if it’s true.”

Damn. Octavia gulped. It is going to be one of those Romeo-and-Juliet things, isn’t it. God have mercy on my soul. Angel Octavia looked on sternly from the shoulder. Oh really? With how much you’ve sinned, you expect mercy? Hopefully, Octavia looked at the other shoulder. Devil Octavia gleefully took out a contract for one (1) soul of Octavia Philarmonica, the cellist with the exceptional nasal skill who woke ever so often to the smell of brewing Colombian coffee. I hope I can have a cup. If Vinyl doesn’t throw us both off a cliff. Oh well.

And the car firked and furked towards the edge of town, and way past it, and back to it, and along it - for the driver was not a good one, nor was her memory that perfect - but she remembered that place - way back she was a kid and she and her brother - and there was much apple juice and they had a picnic - and F… D…

….

…..

……

………….

…

They couldn’t go into there, anyway, okay, for a REASON - and there it was, the perfect round natural cavity, by which she’d parked her car and came out and Octavia had no way but to folow her and marvel at the nature.

Was it, was it, is it, Octavia asked. I mean, is it. Natural, Vinyl replied. Yes it is natural. Maybe they say. You know. There was this meteorite. Oh, come on love, Octavia said, It can’t be?

…

That’s the sound. Listen to it. It is called silence.

...

Why did you run away? You hurt me. Didn’t you hurt me? I’m sorry, Vinyl, I don’t, love, I don’t know what- I know. What? Fear of flight, fear of my losing Nini, fear of losing me. Fear of losing you.

They stand side by side. It is almost an edge. Almost a brink. Octavia is still afraid.

Octavia, I. I don’t even know anymore. Know what, love? You know. Anything. Can’t we just erase this, all of this? Pretend this never happened? You know we can’t. WE changed, Tavi, didn’t we? WE? As in, separately, and, well. Vinyl, listen to me. Hmm. Listen to me, love. I know I’m not supposed to be the voice of reason here- Hehe. But can we just. Accept. Accept? Accept life as it is. Accept it and move on. Neon will be cured. We’ll… We’ll what? You can live with him, if you want. I want it. ...I. Okay. You what? You expected me to say no? He is my brother, Tavi. No, I. I love you. I accept whatever you impose on me. For you, I can. I can. Can what? If you decide to live with Neon, I will accept it. I will just. If you’ll just have me, again… We could go on dates and, and restaurants? I could drop by and cuddle, if. If. If? And if you won’t have me, like we used to be, that is. That is? If you won’t have me, I won’t bother you ever again. I will just… live. Live my life. But I will… look after you. Not stalk you… Just. Learn your movements. That… does sound a lot like stalking, actually. Hm. What I mean is- if you ever get in danger - God forbid - or if Neon does - God forbid - I will be there. I will come to help. And then, then. Disappear. Vanish. And, maybe. Maybe I’ll just wait. Wait for you to accept me, if ever. And if I don’t? Then I’ll wait till the day I die. You are the only one in the world worth dying for.

A kiss.

Curtain.

***

Now that was just horrible, wasn’t it? So sappy. And that remark about stalking? And Vinyl’s reiteration? What’s she have - echolalia? Psh. A load of crap, I’m telling you. Sorry for making you read this. It doesn’t work this way with books? Who will honestly believe that two characters would act like that?

What?

Would real people-?

Woah. Wait a minute. We’re talking about real people here? Huh. Then it’s all right. It’s all real. Real people would definitely act this way. What exactly seems surreal to you? The way Octavia’s father- oh, please. It all happened, okay. We’ve been over this. The way Neon acted? I knew a guy who went a little crazy over an arranged marriage. He is fine now and lives in California. His bride is still here in Moscow. Hey ho. The way Octavia-? Jesus Christ, you are supposed to be a smart reader here, okay? There are people - and I knew such a case - who disappear for another town or country when in dismay, and yes, carry knives with murderous intent. Such a return? What exactly was Vinyl -supposed to- do, in your view? She acted as a human being. If she were a character, there’d be some pacing. Some waiting. She’d agree to begin again, maybe, in time. She’d live separately from Octavia for a while. They’d work on restoring their relationship while Neon healed, for, say, sixty chapters. As many as I wanted to. If they paid me for this, I’d drag this for eternity. Proust would cry salty tears with his lost time. (I haven’t actually finished the whole huge novel-thing.) But they don’t pay me for this so I’ll let - make - allow - whatever - my characters to act as human beings, if just for fun.

Because if they acted as characters are supposed to act, they’d come home to have a passionate night of love-making. Instead, they came to Vinyl’s flat, only to receive a call - on Vinyl’s phone - from the mental facility - let’s call it that, for political correctness; even though I’ve been at one, and I wouldn’t call it that - telling them that Neon is gone, he’s escaped, he’s nowhere to be found. That isn’t what was supposed to be in the novel. But this happened in the novel. So there you have it.

Now? Now’s time to write a nice scene. Imagine it as a still picture.

In the foreground we can see a certain cellist, sitting on a sofa, a half-empty bottle of wine in her lap. On the small table in front of her there is a bottle of water, full. To the left the picture blurs into the hallway. To the right it shrinks towards a wardrobe, diagonally. In the background a certain DJ is pacing back and forth - frozen in mid-step, a phone in her hand. There’s a window. A certain plush bear before the window.

See? I wanted to give you a different scene. Not related to the story directly. You were afraid of that. But I didn’t. You are relieved. The picture was a row of seats on which three men sit, two of them holding unlit cigarettes. A drummer is laying a beat in the corner on the right. Students are being congratulated in the background. There’s an empty stage. But I didn’t give that scene to you. It’s mine to keep, I suppose. I wanted to give it in Russian, even. You were afraid of that. You shouldn’t be, any more. Here, let me finish this chapter for you.

Time passes. It always passes. A still picture cannot remain still for long.

So, time passed. What’s next? Now, a powerful phrase to finish this thing. Or, rather:

Octavia gulped down the wine, her eyes fixed on the wall before her. Vinyl’s heart was leaping in bounds, the woman shaking, about to faint from stress and pressure. On the TV screen there was a screensaver of the sun setting over a seaside resort. So, on the window,

Here, the powerful phrase:

Contentedly, Mister Tummers watched the sunset.

There. Time to relax. Only one chapter left. You’ll manage this. It’s home straight from now on. The Sun is finally setting over the British Empire. And hey, I promise the next one will end better. It’ll be nice, romantic, and fun. Oh, it’ll be loads of fun. You’ll roll on the floor with laughter. It will not make you think. It will not be scary. You can relax now. It’s over, baby. It’s almost over. The bad doctor will just look at your toothie here. Ouch! What was that? The doctor had to take the toothie away, love. The doctor is a metaphor for life, sweetie. Life just takes things away. And all that is left is hurt and void.

Oh well.