There
weren’t enough chairs for everyone to sit, but most of the crew found places to
lean against the walls or simply sat on the floor. They would have to stay here
until the storm passed. Inside the smell was less offensive, but the stench of
tobacco compensated. The bitter man, as Tartin had come to think of him, was
sitting on a metal-framed chair, his arms resting on the kitchen table, in
front of him was a mug of coffee, a pack of cigarettes, and an ashtray.
Because
it was a kitchen, probably. There was an electric ice-box that hummed loudly,
and a sink. On the counter there was a percolator. The smell of the coffee was
nearly as strong as the tobacco. Unfortunately, Tartin could tell just by the
smell that it was the worst coffee in the world.
He
rolled the mug around his hand. The coffee was pitch-black. He had never
refused food or drink from a host before. It was one of the first things they’d
taught you when you joined the Exploratory Commission. The sharing of food is a
fundamental human bonding technique, and to refuse it when offered… well, there
would probably have been fewer wars if people would just shut up and eat.
“Cheers,”
he said, and then drank. The coffee was the most bitter thing he had ever
tasted. As he swallowed it, his mouth felt raw and burnt. He hoped his disgust
was not apparent.
Nascine
watched in horror as the bitter man poured another mug and offered it to her.
She smiled – too wide – and took a sip. Her eyes were open very wide. She set
the mug on the table. “Thank you very much for your hospitality. We did not
expect to encounter such a violent storm out here in the desert, especially in
the summer.”
The
bitter man nodded and finished his coffee. He stood and slowly walked to the
percolator to pour himself another cup. “The storms aren’t from here. None of
this is, none of this should be here, you understand?”
“I’m
not sure that I do,” said Tartin.
“One
day, and that day is going to come sooner than you’d think, the white one is
going to cross the gap. That’s why they came here, to pave the way.”
“Who
are they? The ones you were talking about? You said they didn’t have faces?”
“It’s
worse than that. They don’t have… I can’t really say it. It’s not a question of
not wanting to. I don’t have the words. They aren’t really… well, they aren’t.
That’s the whole point.”
“How
did you come here?”
The
bitter man sat up at this. “How did I…?” He shook his head. “Never thought
about that. It was a long time ago, I know that for sure. Been here, watching,
waiting. They… no, this time I really shouldn’t tell.”
Nascine
shot a glance over at Tartin. It was a familiar glance. It was the “abandon
ship” glance. Tartin was tempted, but the rain out there was too intense. It
had only grown stronger. Franklin was keeping watch on the camels. The tarps
they had thrown over their backs were growing splotchy white, bleached by the
storm.
The
bitter man seemed to have forgotten about them. He was staring deep into his
coffee. Nascine leaned over. “We should go.”
Tartin
whispered, looking to see if the bitter man was listening. “We can’t go while
that storm is still out there. Let me talk to him, see if we can find out…
well, what the hell is going on.”
He
cleared his throat. The bitter man looked up. “Oh, how long was I sitting
there?”
“Only
a couple minutes.”
“Good.
I lost track once.”
“Does
someone come here to bring you food? Do you have a way of getting to town?”
“They
give me all I need here.”
Tartin
sighed. “We haven’t seen anyone else here. Faceless or not.”
“Oh,
they’re there. I can assure you of that. How else would I get my coffee?”
Tartin
felt himself about to retch. The coffee felt like it was burning a hole in his
stomach. “Who are they?”
The
man set down his coffee and sighed with exasperation. “I’ve told you. They’re
not. They aren’t whos. They aren’t whats, either. They’re not from here.”
“Where
are they from?”
“The
Space Between. But you and I both know there is no space between. I tried to
leave once, but they turned me around. Don’t know why they keep me here. They
do give me coffee, though, so I guess they can’t be all bad. And I do have my
privacy.” He picked up the pack of cigarettes from the table and pulled one
out. He tapped it against the case and raised it to his mouth, but then
stopped, lowering it. “Say, does one of you have a gun?”
Tartin
set his mug down. “Why do you ask?”
“I
was thinking I’d blow my brains out.”
Everyone
was speechless. The bitter man shrugged and put the cigarette in his mouth. He
pulled a matchbook from his pocket and struck it. The glow of it was surprisingly
intense. Tartin wondered why it looked so bright. True, the light here was low,
but the flame seemed so great, like a tiny star.
“Gil,
are you ok?” asked Nascine.
Tartin
shut his eyes against the light. “I’m fine, I just… Oh!”
Two
of them were standing there, flanking the bitter man. They both stood about six
feet tall
Exactly six feet…
and
they were both wearing crisp white shirts and black suits with black ties. And
neither had a face. Where there should have been a face was just skin – or rather
the mockery of skin, a rubbery, shiny facsimile, stretched taut over a
rib-like pattern that made Tartin
think of an old carbon microphone. Tartin’s shock was such that he fell
backward out of his chair. He scrambled to his feet and ran out the door.
The
rain was still coming down, and hard. He could feel it burning his skin, but he
didn’t care. His heart was racing, and he could hardly breathe. And then he
stopped. Because he now realized there were far more than two of them.
Out
of every window, in every building, there were hundreds, and hundreds of them,
all looking, seeing him without eyes, watching him without faces. There had to
be thousands, all looking down on him from the windows.
He
sank to his knees. The rain had turned black.
(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)
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