Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

People who have lost their homes call the radio stations.

An out-of-breath, raspy voice: “. . the Devil’s wind, the Devil’s wind came. . Not Santa Ana, it’s Satana! ”

A calm voice: “. . have no idea where I’ll spend the night. I have to be in court tomorrow morning, but all of my suits are gone.”

A high-pitched voice, a little crazy sounding: “. . the most important thing is that we managed to save Becky. . Becky, say ‘Hi,’ say ‘Hi,’ Becky, say. . ruff, ruff . . Good girl!”

*

What happened between Stella and me in France was as sudden as love at first sight. We spent the second night in Paris avoiding each other’s glances and behaving matter-of-factly like accountants who have worked together at the same company for a long time. On our way back to the States, at the airport, we read magazines. I was secretly spying on her over the pages to make sure that I wasn’t imagining things. She was staring at an article that she was either reading for the tenth time or hadn’t started at all. Her face was impenetrable. We boarded the Boeing. I remember I was looking at the small green airplane on the screen before me, swallowing hard on the airplane food. While we were climbing above Paris, everything still seemed as serious as if it were make-believe. As if we were playing some kind of a game for grownups. And if one of us had started laughing, the other one would have immediately joined in, as had always happened during all of our years together.

This time, however, neither she nor I would give in. We both felt that this time, it was different.

While the little plane on the screen was over England, we still seemed to have a chance to avoid everything that would follow.

I tried to take a little nap over the Atlantic.

I woke up over Iceland, only to find her staring at the back of the seat in front of her.

Over Greenland, the suspicion that things had irrevocably changed settled silently between us.

Over Canada, I knew for certain that down below a cold and alien continent was waiting for me.

After all those hours in the air, we landed in California like two strangers who merely helped each other with their luggage.

*

On an adjacent dirt road, against the background of some distant bluish mountains, I notice a dense swirl of smoke with a motorcycle flying in front of it. This fascinates me for some strange reason. I pull over on the shoulder abruptly, hit the brakes, and jump out of the car with the camera. A cloud of dust engulfs me. I snap three or four shots and run out of film. I reach in my pocket for more.

*

— have you ever been unsure about whether a memory, story, or dream belongs to you or me?

— no

— yesterday, i started telling something and suddenly i hesitated. i wasn’t sure whether it had actually happened to me or if i’d heard it from you

— darling, i know my memories

— mine seem like memories of memories. ghosts. as if i’m made out of ghosts

— stella?

— yes

— i’m in love with you

— you’re in love with my ghost, silly

— you just can’t be a ghost with these goose-bumped boobs, this long, tousled hair, these lips, and these blue eyes. you are sweet as milk and honey. there are no such ghosts

— there aren’t?

— no

*

After our return to America, Stella fell into something of a fever. She spent the first twenty-four hours in her studio, didn’t come home at all, and finished eleven paintings. She painted during every single minute of her free time. She came home exhausted, spattered with paint, and distant. At night, she stayed up late in front of the computer, writing. She withdrew, disappeared into her inner self, and, without giving off any negativity whatsoever, she began leaving me and everyone else around us. I noticed that she started walking straighter somehow. Her skin, despite the sleeplessness, was firm. Her face radiated softness — an unaddressed, different softness. Her eyes were both lively and cold at the same time. Stella explained nothing and wanted nothing. She painted. She didn’t talk. I, on the other hand, tried to find peace on my business trips. I monitored clinics that were recently visited and found reasons to conduct more and more site visits. I took up extra work and started moonlighting as a private consultant for another firm, thus violating my work contract with ICONIQ. I zealously chose to go to more and more distant and dull clinics. I spent hours and hours at airports, staring at TV screens, tuned in to the compulsory CNN. The same old news from the Near East. The same old dark stringy arms holding AK-47s above their heads. The same old white men getting off airplanes, wearing expensive suits. The same old explosions, same old anger, same old analyses, same old real estate problems, same old stock markets, same old natural disasters, same old advertisements of the same old companies that made sure everything was the same old same old.

When two people turn their backs on each other, one usually looks ahead and the other — to the past. I was staring at CNN.

*

“There must be better places to photograph than this wasteland!” A low male voice startles me. Right behind my car, a big, black, shiny police motorcycle has pulled up. No! I’ll just never wise up. “There must be better places, huh?” Behind the uniformed giant’s mirrored aviators, there are probably irises, a retina, a cornea, optic nerves, humanity. . I don’t see any of that. The cop is on his motorcycle, inches away from a big bag of marijuana and three yards away from a jackass with a camera.

“Uh-h. .” Nothing comes out of my mouth.

“You didn’t signal before you pulled off the main road.” The cop stirs in his seat. He keeps staring at me. He pulls off one of his gloves and moves his fingers. Should I start running? Should I. . “This is illegal, you know.” Every American cop loves uttering the word “illegal.” “It’s illegal.” I want to murder him. A man unwittingly starts behaving like a criminal simply because he is driving with a load of marijuana in the trunk.

“I’m sorry, sir!” I mumble, while the cop takes off his other glove. Is he going to give me a ticket or what? “I’m sorry!” Cops like to see that you are sorry, that you are very sorry. “I’m very sorry.” And that you respect them. “I respect the law, sir. I’m sorry.” You can save yourself all sorts of trouble if you just keep your head down.

“Me, too. Drivers license and registration, please.” Maniac. This one’s a maniac. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” In moments like this I understand why you need an unregistered gun in the glove compartment. I take out the documents and approach him.

“Are you from the newspaper?” There we go. Am I from the paper? What’s the right answer? To be or not to be from the paper? There was a trace of friendliness in his tone. Perhaps even more? Perhaps. What if he is on very good terms with the local media? What if he is the local hero in the battle against human and drug trafficking? Has he been on the front page?

“No, sir. I’m not from the paper.”

“That’s what I thought.” The cop turns away slightly and pulls out a bottle of water. He unscrews the cap carefully and takes a long sip without shifting his sunglasses from me. My nose itches. I scratch it with the hand holding the car insurance policy slip. Stella’s name flashes before my eyes. “That’s what I thought.” The cop takes off his glasses, pulls out a small white handkerchief from his top pocket, and starts wiping them carefully without even glancing at the papers in my hand. Gestapo blue eyes, nothing human. “Take your pictures and drive safely. It’s a danger zone out here. The fires. Have a nice day.” The cop puts his shades on and starts his engine. My legs are shaking. “Next time, signal when you pull over!”