Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

“Thank you, Gabriela.” I hang up. In a minute, a guy brings the screwdriver and leaves. I pull up a chair, go into the bathroom, step up on the chair, unscrew the four screws of the small vent on the ceiling and unhook the fan’s wires. Now I can spend some time here without feeling like airplanes are constantly flying over my head. I throw my soiled clothes in the garbage, strip off whatever else I have on, and jump into the shower. I close my eyes, standing still for a long time. Then I open my eyes and start observing how water behaves. I see how the drops hit the tiles, turning into small streaks, intertwining, continuing on down, making unexpected turns, and running into bigger streams. Enchanting.

I feel much better after the shower. Still undressed, I lie on the bed and study the ceiling for a long, long time. I can’t remember ever doing that. I’ve always thought that was just a cliché for depressed types, but I was wrong. No ceiling is just a ceiling if you have the eyes to see. A gallery, a film, a book, a concert, a bas-relief. . To me, it is now an etching of Dante’s Inferno with all its demons, suffering, and torture.

Stella, Stella, Lama Sabachthani!

I have no idea how long I spend like this, but at some point I realize that there’s nothing above me to look at anymore, because it’s completely dark outside. I have to get up. I put on a pair of jeans and go to the car. I drag the bag into the room. I go back and get the lemons. Are there enough? Well, there better be. I pick up the phone and dial 0 again.

“Hi, Mr. Kara-ba. .” The familiar voice starts energetically and stumbles on the third syllable again. They all do. “Hi.”

“Gabriela, how are you?” I say.

“I’m OK, thank you, Mr. . ”

“Zack.”

“Zack.”

“Gabriela.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you for the screwdriver. I needed it.”

“I’m glad. What else can I do for you, Zack?”

“Gabriela.”

“Yes?”

“I need a knife.”

“A knife?”

“A knife.”

“A set of utensils?”

“No. Just a kitchen knife. A sharp one.” A pause at the other end.

“A sharp knife?”

“Yes, very sharp.”

“May I ask. .”

“I’m thinking about slitting my wrists.”

“Oh!”

“I’m kidding, Gabriela,” I say. “I’m kidding. I need it for something else.”

“Of course, sir.” She sighs with relief. “I’ll send somebody over in a minute.”

“Gabriela?” Hesitantly.

“Yes, sir?” Somewhat warmer.

“Did I scare you?” Reluctantly.

“Yes.” Serious.

“I’m sorry.” Quietly.

“It’s OK.” More quietly.

“Have a nice evening.” Even more quietly.

“You, too. . Zack.” Whispering. Very carefully and slowly, I hang up the receiver. There — I can still awaken someone’s emotions! Not all is lost. Perhaps not.

Somebody bangs on the door — a plump Mexican woman in a blue uniform with a huge knife in her hand. She silently gives it to me. I read the badge pinned to her enormous checkered bosom — Juanita. The knife’s blade flashes, and for a split second I see in it Juanita in her home village somewhere in Mexico, a knife in one hand, a chicken in the other, walking confidently toward a stump. Dust, cackling, feathers, blood. .

Why don’t you chop off my head, too, Juanita? Slaughter me, Juanita.

I am a dead man already, but I’ll bleed.

I thank her, give her a few bucks, take the knife, shut the door behind her, lock it, double lock it, fasten the chain, check the windows, and fully close the curtains. I untie the bag. This is the second time I’ve done so since it fell in my hands. And this time I’m sober and relatively calm. Until this moment, somewhere in me the thought was alive that perhaps all of this is just some mind-trick. Some kind of half-dream and half who-knows-what. Deep inside, I guess I’ve hoped that this isn’t happening. Too bad, because it is. The first thing the fucking scent of the marijuana does is land me in a meadow in my childhood. I’m about five and I’m rolling down a hill flecked with wild flowers. Before my eyes, a tall, blonde girl with a wreath on her head and a dark, long-haired man with a beard emerge and disappear. She’s running, laughing and waving her long straight hair, he’s reaching out, trying to catch her, and a German shepherd jumps around them with its tongue sticking out. From time to time, the man catches the girl and they both tumble into the tall grass; the dog bounces around them, nudging them with his wet nose, then runs toward me. I scream and roll down the hill even faster. This is the first time I’ve seen people kissing. It attracts me and appalls me at the same time. So I shut my eyes while they do it. The dog’s name is Smoke. The man and the woman are Christo and Teresa. He’s my father’s cousin, and she’s Polish. Christo goes to Warsaw for a month. They meet there and fall in love. They find that puppy by a dumpster and take him in. Then they return to Bulgaria. They had taken me with them for a walk in the woods that day and they were kissing, picking wild flowers, and weaving wreaths as I was running with Smoke. There must have been some kind of wild cannabis plant in that meadow.

I take a lemon, I thrust the blade into its thick skin and it squirts me straight in the eye. I rub it for a long time, then open my eyes and wait for the circles to fade.

Christo and Teresa got married in the cafeteria of the machinery plant where he worked. Teresa became a seamstress in a factory. She gave birth to a boy and a girl within a few years and her face faded to gray. One winter evening in the middle of the seventies, Christo came home from work and found the girl crying alone in the empty apartment. Neighbors had seen Teresa with a suitcase and the young boy at the bus station early in the morning. It must have been November. They must have been wearing overcoats.

Christo went to Poland many times to look for Teresa. He couldn’t find her, or so he said. He never remarried. He raised the girl she left behind and the girl was more beautiful than a children’s fairytale.

There was no sadder father than Christo in the whole world. He started drinking. The girl grew up and turned into a very attractive sales associate at a lingerie boutique, and after that — people say — into a prostitute. Maybe they said such things just out of spite. But maybe they were right. You never know with people.

*

— hey

— you’re hey

— hey

— what?

— i want you to write a book about me, zack

— i will

— promise?

— lean toward me a little, like th-a-a-t, look at the camera

— do you promise to write a book about me?

*

I start peeling the lemons into small, martini-ready lemon twists. Then I drop them into the bag and shake it. I should have bought more. On the other hand though, the weed seems fresh, moist, and it should stay like that for quite some time. This bag contains thousands of joints. God willing, in a few days I’ll be in New York and it should still be as fresh as it is now. I just have to get my act together if I want to finally turn the tide. It’s about time. It is time. It has been for a long time now.

“Hello, Gabriela.”

“Yes. . sir.”

“Thanks for the sharp knife.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You can send Juanita over.”

“She’s already off. You can leave it in your room. Housekeeping will take care of it tomorrow.”

“A knife in my room? I don’t know, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Gabriela.” I say. “Who knows what I might do. .”

“Of course, sir.” She stiffens up immediately.

“I am joking, Gabriela! I’m joking. I’m calling for something else, though.”