Night - 1
Notes about sleeping in a foreign bed:
- The right position always feels one turn away.
- Clean linen is a different type of clean than at home. Back home, it smells of sea salt and citrus. In the North, it carries the scent of pine, lavender, and primrose.
- The first night will seem spotty, restless. At some point, you'll blink awake to a 3 am black. Across the room, through the darkness, you can make out the stiff arms, and the pale face of an ancient grandmother clock. It reveals a right angle. The second hand, slight, uncertain, fidgets but doesn't budge from its position. On the near side of the room, a dim source of light emanates from the window across the street. For a moment, you might relax, inhale. Then, you wonder, why is someone awake? Leaning back, brow furrowed with panic, you'll angle your skull against the headboard and peer at the adjacent window. Hands push against the sheets like a swimmer with their back against a current. The breeze will swell, and the sheer, white curtains will dance over the street. A whip of lightning cracks across the ocean of slick, zinc-plated roofs. Emerging beneath the curtains, an amorphous shape slowly unveils itself. Dark, specter-like, it floats toward the window, until it's right beneath the sill. Paralyzed as the figure draws near, a crack inches in between the folds of fabric. One and two, through the slit pop glimmering circles into plain view. Lenses, binoculars point directly at you, pinning you like the rush of cold steel on warm flesh.
Another whip of lightning awakens me, for real, this time. The rush of awakening from a nightmare, I suddenly knew it was one. Everything tingled. The dim remnants of sleep slowly retreated from each corner of my body. Thunder roared across the sky; rain patted on our roof; water trickled down the gutter. From the West, a draft punched through the feeble window. I felt sweat underneath me, the pillowy mattress, the sturdy wooden frame.
To confirm that it was only a dream, a surveillance nightmare, I had to confront reality and look at the far window. I had to confront that this was my life now. And this place reeked of opulence and death.
Before the arduous move, I told myself I'd have one sweet memory that would act as a shelter. If life became too difficult, I'd close my lids and return, eyes on the sea.
In my memory, nothing but your face blocked the blue horizon. Your frizzy, salt-sprayed hair fell over your cheeks. You'd tucked it behind an ear with one hand. A useless gesture, as with the slightest breeze, it would persist until you'd decided to tie it back. Turning away, I'd see the thin, uncertain coastline. We sat in a fisherboat, two lovers with nets, picks, and a cooler. I like to remember us spending the entire summer like that, although the reality was probably more like a few weeks.
By routine, we'd row off the coastline, dive, and surface with fish in hand. We'd pierce a thin needle through their skull. It was the most humane way, you'd said, blinding yet instant. Then we'd row back to shore to smoke our findings.
"Let's go again?" You'd said. Your hand clasped around the net, and you dove in backward, an elegant show of your confidence and athleticism. A tanned figure slipped in the waves. It took training, precision, natural rhythm, while I flopped over the side, mouth full of salt water. I was happy there, in the deep with you. The deeper you go, the less light reaches you, and the further you enter the unknown.
Until I could fill in all the blanks, I played the scene backward and forward. I probably fabricated more details than were true; the way you looked away while tying your hair, a slight scrunch of an annoyed face, or did I hold it back while you tied it? The sun floated overhead, or was it behind me? Late afternoon, we'd head back to the fire by then. Did I kiss you or did we simply lie there?
A knock at the door.
"Onu, there's breakfast for you downstairs." It was Charles.
I looked from the closed door toward the window across the street. Dim, the curtains were drawn over a scene that was devoid of movement, life.
"I'll be down in a moment," I said and thanked him.
The dream had felt like a real moment, an experience that existed in my life, like something I'd actually lived through rather than a series of fleeting images conjured by my subconscious. I shook my head and stood up, smoothed the linens, and removed a button-up shirt from my half-unpacked bag. In a vanity mirror, I made myself presentable, scrunching my curls into a neater alignment. Then, I grabbed my bag, a suit jacket, and exited the room.
I was staying on the upper floor of Charles', my host family's apartment. Shadows tumbled down the herringbone corridor. Light leaked from the two other bedrooms. The door stood ajar to the tiled bathroom. I broke my gaze and walked down the narrow stairwell.
In the living room, Charles and his sister Phoebe sat at the table. The dim space had the faint whisper of an overcast dawn. Scattered candles lit the far corners.
"Good morning," Charles said.
"Morning."
"Are you feeling a bit better?"
"Sleep helped. It was only a 48-hour illness, I guess."
Charles's face tilted down, while his eyes glanced up at me. "Oh, are you in a rush?"
"Yes, I have an orientation this morning to meet some of the staff."
"So you're sort of a teacher, as well as a student?"
"Mostly a student, but I have a class that I give every other week."
My fingers rested on the table, I crouched into the seat. At the table, a red apple rested on an off-white porcelain plate. Next to it, an olive-colored bowl sat, full of oats steeped in steaming water.
Long blond curls and round eyes, Charles' face was innocent and circular like someone who, with age, would never gain the appearance of an adult. The corners of his mouth rose in a slight grin, even in a neutral state. His sister, Phoebe, sat at the far side of the table. She had darker hair. A bang descended along her profile, in front of her ears, and hid her eyes. She seemed, at this moment, to exist in a distant vista, as she gazed out the window to the humdrum morning. She was unaffected by my presence. The dim light brightened her delicate profile. Her legs were crossed, one over the other and she positioned her body away from the table.
I wolfed the oats and sank my canines deep into the apple's flesh. I'd never tasted an apple. We have photos in books, but none at the markets. With the crisp texture, a slight tang, I recoiled a bit, savoring the sweet finish. The inside, an off-white.
I needed to leave. "I'll see you two there."
Charles smiled, "See you, Onu." Then, Phoebe shifted slightly and turned her head to look at me. Our eyes met. I was entranced by her face and stolid demeanor. Then, her eyes tightened, and a sudden disdain doused me with gravity. Once again, I needed to leave. I pocketed the apple, turned and brought the bowl to the kitchen, rinsed it, and put it to dry.
A downpour accompanied my commute to school. I was told the walk was no more than 20 minutes, but without covering, I'd be soaked. Rainwater sloshed. It filled thick cracks in the pavement, and funneled down the desolate river bank. In certain areas, I propped myself on the stone wall for balance. Bag over my head, I skipped over puddles and slick moss-covered patches until I arrived at a bridge, which crossed to school grounds. My clothes were soaked through. I searched for the bathroom to find resolve. After unsuccessfully patting my garments dry, I glanced at myself in the mirror. I'd seen better days. Although, I'd also seen worse. My eyes had significant bags under them, but my face felt fresh from the water.
Defeated and late, I made my way to the teacher's office. A crowd of different-aged professors and staff huddled around, waiting with disconcerted looks.
"Well, here he is," a woman said as I entered. "Good morning Onu. You are late to your own orientation," she tittered.
"I apologize, I was told that it'd take less time to get here."
"It's okay. Everyone, this is Onu," she said. I put my hand up as a sort of salute. "He's going to serve as our cultural liaison for the next four years."
"Pleased to meet you all," I said.
"I'll be your point of contact for this year," she said.
"What was your name?" I asked, partially cutting her off.
"My name is Lilia."
I hesitated to reach out and shake her hand but decided against it, as I was still dripping with rainwater.
"Looks like the poor guy doesn't know what an umbrella is. Didn't you know that it rains here?" A trim, young man said with a smirk.
"Vincent," Lilia said.
"Surely that'd be in the second line of your report," he said to a mixed reaction from the others.
The man had hazel eyes, thick eyelashes, and stringy, straight brown hair that curtained into a mid-part, partially covering his pale forehead. He wore an Oxford white and blue shirt and a navy jacket. A playful grin met Lilia's disconcerted look. She wore her hair tied into a messy bun, with strands of wavy blond hair coming down the sides of her face. Distinguished features--a narrow face, full lips, light brown eyes--she might've been five to ten years my senior, yet I was immediately attracted to her.
"I could've prepared better," I said, keeping my head high.
"Well, I hope that you have prepared a little better for your introduction today, Onu," she said. A grey-haired woman standing behind her coughed and covered her mouth. Rain pattered across the window. A middle-aged man with short hair tapped his right loafer impatiently. A draft snuck beneath the door, rustling loose papers.
"I'm not sure if you're insinuating something, but of course I have. Tirelessly," I said.
"Right," Vincent said, winked at me, and bit his lip slightly. Two teachers leaned in to whisper to one another.
"Fine then. Let's give Onu a welcome," Lilia said. The faculty's patience stretched thin, heads turning, whispers swelled into murmurs. They wished to break off in a flurry of directions and finish last-minute preparations for class.
"Could I say one thing?" I asked.
Lilia turned back to look at me. The murmurs quieted.
"Thank you. I want to extend gratitude for the sake of my society in this partnership. Upholding this tradition since the armistice is one of the only lines that we continue to have. I know I'm young, but I will try my best to transmit, record, and keep an open heart in the exchange of culture and knowledge. I look forward to working with you…That's all."
Head nods, grimaces–I left the center of the crowd, and the others began to disband.
Lilia approached me and said, "I appreciate the words–it's just–we won't make a habit of it, will we?"
"Of what?"
"Being late. You were late to your assignment here, now you're late to orientation. We'll have to figure out some way to catch you up on the curriculum."
I shifted my gaze. "I could stay after class if someone else can. I don't mind working extra hours."
"Yes, we might have to organize that, but at the moment no one is available for after-class study. We can't just expect staff to be free."
"Understood. I ran into a few unforeseen complications on my way to the North, so.."
"Yes, well…I can't imagine doing that journey myself. It'll be all fine, just may take a bit of coordinating, that's all," she said and forced a small grin. "Good luck today, I'll be standing by for the first bit in case you need anything."
"That's nice of you, but it isn't necessary."
"Oh, I'd prefer it. Just in case."
"Okay then."