Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

The same thing goes for the second servant as well. But then comes the third one, who says: “Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not winnow; so I was afraid, and went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.”

How does the master treat his faithful servant who did not want to take a risk?

“You wicked and slothful servant!. . You ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest.”

And he punishes the servant. But why does he give five talents to one servant and less to the others in the first place? Why doesn’t he give them equal amounts? The one with the five talents worked with them. But I guess it’s easy to take a risk when you have five talents. You can afford to lose one and then win it back. The pastor on the radio this morning explained that one talent is about ten thousand dollars. So, even if you lose ten grand, there’s a chance you’ll be alright, because you are still left with forty. Now, the other guy with the two talents seems braver. He risks more: fifty-fifty. Definitely braver. But the third servant? The third one. Just one talent: now what? If he loses it, he’s toast. That’s why he doesn’t risk it. Why should he? Yet the master sees his caution as laziness.

And what is it then, if not laziness?

I don’t know, I have to think.

What is there to think about?

I have to think about it.

Wicked servant, you anger me!

I’m sorry.

What is it then, if not laziness?

What?

Don’t pretend to be stupider than you are, sly one! Don’t you put on an act with me!

I’m not putting on an act.

You are putting on an act.

I’m not. Who are you anyway?

It doesn’t matter.

What do you want?

Why didn’t you try to do something with the talent I gave you?

What talent?

What talent?! Now you really are pushing it, wicked one!

Oh.

Tell me why.

Because. .

Yes?

Because. .

I’m listening.

Because I was. .

What?

Afraid? Is that you want to hear? I was afraid to lose what I had.

What you have is not yours, stupid! You have nothing. . Nothing! Understand that and go out into the world, before you anger me so much that I take back everything you think you have. It’s not yours. It’s mine! I’ve given it to you to use. Not to bury it in the ground, you ungrateful one. Get out. Out!

Please don’t be mad. I have one little question.

I’m not mad. This is how I talk. What do you want to ask?

Isn’t there at least one servant in the parable, maybe a fourth one, who is not mentioned, who might have tried to do something with his talents but lost them? Between the first servant with the five talents and the second one with two, there might have been two more — with three and four talents, respectively, I think.

You’re thinking too much!

Please tell me what happened to the fourth servant.

What do you want to know?

What happened to him?

How should I know? I don’t keep track of those who lose, but of those who don’t win!

How about the losers?

There are no losers! The talents are mine!

I wake up. My heart pounds in my throat. The voice still echoes in my head. I don’t remember ever hearing it more clearly. Five talents — fifty thousand dollars. Two talents — twenty thousand. Danny said that the grass is worth between twenty and fifty.

God, which one of those servants am I?

*

The smell of the previous owners never left the house despite our efforts, including changing the carpet, repainting, and countless attempts with professional-strength cleaning products. The odor was most repulsive in the studio, where it smelled like rotting vegetables, perhaps garlic. Stella didn’t even bother taking her easel in there. For a while, she tried painting outside in the yard, but she said the sun was too bright. She didn’t like painting outdoors. She felt like she was being watched from all sides. She couldn’t get in the right mood. It didn’t work, it just did not work. . She couldn’t stand the traffic on her way to work, she didn’t like the neighborhood with our invisible neighbors, and she detested the house even more than that repulsive flat in Bulgaria with the noisy planes flying over it. Stella was not happy in our new home.

*

I wake up to a slamming door. Startled, I jump. My heart races wildly. There’s no one in the room. I get up and look out through the blinds. A man in the parking lot slams the trunk of a huge Lincoln, gets in, and drives off, screeching his tires. Strange. Even stranger than that is the light. I look at the clock. Eight in the morning. Outside however, it seems to be a different time. It’s dusk. Sunset. Orange. Golden twilight. A strong wind is bending the palm trees around the little pool. I decide that the clock is broken and I’ve slept through the entire day. I go outside. The smell of smoke hits my nostrils, and I see the flying bits of ash. The air really is golden-orange. All of a sudden I realize what scares me the most — the silence. It’s silent. Silent almost as if in a dream. In the parking lot there is only one car, mine. My first instinct is to run to the reception desk, but instead I grab my camera and load a roll of color film, the most light-sensitive I have. I take pictures of the empty parking lot, the bending palm trees, the orange horizon, the American flag reflected in the orange windows of the motel. . I feel like I am in the quiet belly of an orange balloon, which will burst any moment now, and I will see the world in the colors I remember. I take a few more shots, not knowing — and not even wanting to know — whether I’m dreaming or whether a nuclear war has actually started.

I load my belongings in the car calmly, shove the sack of marijuana in the trunk, and open a Toblerone. I bite off two triangles, and, with Juanita’s knife in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other, I head off toward the reception desk. War or no war, one must remember what needs to be returned and to whom. Then I see the fire trucks. And the police cars. A man in uniform, Sergeant Somebody, blocks my way. His glance is fixed on the big knife in my hand. I explain that I have to return it to the receptionist and pay for my stay in the motel. This area, he says, is an evacuation zone and you have to leave immediately. That damned Santa Ana has blown the wild fires all the way here. But. . I have to return this. You have to leave immediately! I promised to return. . Next time — the sergeant interrupts me. We are just a few miles shy of the most severe fires in California. Don’t you watch TV?!? He tells me that I can use this road and that road before they are shut down. I-8 is blocked, 63 South is jammed. A state of emergency has been declared.

I finish up my Toblerone in the car, put the knife under the driver’s seat, and take off.

*

I must have made the decision to buy that house subconsciously, hoping that its fireplace would warm up our relationship. At first, Stella was totally against the whole idea of buying a house, but then she gave in and let me do whatever I wanted. I regretted this. I had allowed the real estate propaganda to lure me in, cash out its commission, and then ditch me in this frigid house.

One of the reasons we didn’t sell it right away, once we realized that we couldn’t live there, was that we would have lost a load of money — the real estate market was growing bitterer by the minute. The other reason was the canyon next to the house. A creek bubbled through it and, depending on the year, it would reach the ocean, or disappear amidst the rocks a few miles down. Birds chirped in the bushes and trees, and cicadas buzzed incessantly in the grass. At night, the soundtrack was taken over by choirs of squalling frogs. The proximity to this amazing oasis, even though it was surrounded by dull, identical suburbs, made us inclined to keep the house a bit longer.