The Chameleon's Poison

 

Tablo reader up chevron

To...

To everyone and anyone who's ever lent me a book to read.
To libraries for giving me access to a diverse range of resources.
To librarians for wisely guiding me to new books, words and worlds.
To everyone who has ever shared their poetry, writings and scribbles with me.
To all my friends for putting up with me and always being there, rain, hail or shine.
To the Meadows family for always being supportive, generous and a positive force of nature.
To my brother and parents for instilling a deep love of books, theatre and art in me from a very young age.
To Anna and Beren for always weathering my storms with sunshine, supporting the madness with more madness of their own and always inspiring me to be better.

 

 

Among the countless writers and artists that have in some way or another influenced and inspired me for this book I want here to pay particular tribute to Blas de Otero, Mario Benedetti, Eliseo Subiela and his The Dark Side of the Heart, Franz Kafka, The Chameleons and VNV Nation.

Most importantly, this book would never be what it is now and it would never have been completed, without Dean Marando and Anna Meadows, to whom I'm highly indebted.

 

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Echoes in Time

Through all the faces that we wear
Sometimes joy, sometimes despair
The mask has gone, no mystery
Replaced by fraud and trickery
    Nathan’s Phase (Mark’s Songbook) - The Chameleons

How many years since you found yourself
Staring at an endless sky?
Unaware of yourself
Who you are and where you’re going
Only living
Only breathing
Losing all sense of time
    Endless Skies - VNV Nation

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Prologue

He was feeling much better, his skin was regaining its rosy colour, and his eyes no longer looked empty and tired. He always seemed strong and in control, even the first day I arrived, before the operation. It was not pride, it was simply that he didn't want to worry anyone; he hated people fussing about him.

"I'll have to go down to the garage and see the car," I said.

If there was something in the world that he loved more than Mum, it was that car. It wasn't an antique, not in the sense of the 1935 three and half litre Bentley, but he owned an early Peugeot 404 model and despite being more than fifty years old, it still looked brand new. 

Over the last few years the car had been sitting in the garage, unused, but he still went down to visit his old friend every single day to lovingly wipe away the dust of the last twenty four hours.

“I sold it,” he said. There was no bitterness in his voice, just a simple fact stated plainly. But his eyes darkened for a second.

I didn't know how to respond, what to say, so I simply stared at him looking for answers.

“I could not take her out, and I could not ask more of Thomas, so I sold it.” 

The first thing I realised was that he referred to the car as it when speaking of the sale, but spoke of her when he referred to his time with the car.

Good old Thomas was our neighbour, he was only a kid when he moved into the neighbourhood and father bought the car. Now that the old man couldn't take care of her any more, Thomas took it upon himself to take the car out once a week to keep the engine alive. 

“Did he buy it?”

“Who? Thomas?” He asked and I nodded. “No. I offered it to him, but he wouldn't take it. He said, that it wouldn't feel right for him to own her. And you live so far away, what was I...”

“So who did you sell it to?” I interjected.

“Thomas didn't want it, and no one in the family wanted it. They said it would feel wrong to be driving her. At the same time, I wanted her to be cared for.” 

“I'm glad you sold it, I told you long ago... that car and you are the same. I can have you without the car, but I could not have the car without you. I couldn't bear it.”

He smiled.

I had travelled half way across the world thinking that I would not have time to say goodbye, thinking that, perhaps, I was travelling to attend a funeral. Instead, I saw the man that had always worked from sunrise to sunset without a complaint, with a smile.

The operation had agreed with him. He was back.

“I received better offers, but it wasn't about the money. I sold it to the man that I thought would take care of her best. And I made sure he lived far enough so no one in the family would ever see her again.”

I could sense it in his voice, I could see it in his eyes, but the question came out unconsciously. “You miss her?”

He turned to me with that generous smile I had always loved. “Son, sometimes you have to let go of the people and things you love most. That was a hard lesson to learn, but I learned it with you. It was for the best.”

We were no different to any other father and son. We had our ups and downs, everyone does. His words moved me beyond what I thought was possible. I stood up and embraced him.

I wrapped my arms and body around him. So many years living on the other side of the world had deprived me of his presence, he had almost become a memory, but at that moment, his warmth, his body, felt like a perfect fit. 

“I'll come back tomorrow morning,” I said as I unwrapped my arms and took a step back. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Don't worry,” he said. “You're doing enough.”

I never saw him again. He left the world quietly, without a fuss, making sure that he died the same way he had always lived. 

I was sitting at the top of the hill on the outskirts of the city when they called me with the news. The sea breeze caressed my skin. I took a deep breath and felt the familiar smell of the oak trees and the salt of the ocean. This was where I grew up, this was the place that formed me, that held most of my memories, but somehow, I knew it wasn't home any more; not to me. 

It was then that something caught my attention. Sitting on a little pile of dirt, the familiar green glass of an apple cider bottle glimmered in the sun and I was compelled to pick it up.

The warmth of the sun on the glass spread through my fingers and it struck me that this wasn’t an ordinary bottle; there was something special about it.

I noticed that a lot of papers with very small, fine writing filled it. I couldn’t understand and still don’t understand how they filled the bottle with all those papers. It seemed impossible but somehow they stuffed them all inside with words that I sensed could be important. 

I walked home filled with anticipation and a sense of fate. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that those words, those scribbles, had been written for me.

Once home, I broke the glass in the sink, retrieved the papers and laid them out on the table.

Whoever had stuffed all the notes inside the bottle had done a methodical and judicious job. All the writings were numbered, making the job of sorting them out incredibly easy. With all the pages in order, one small piece of torn paper stood out. Unnumbered, untitled, torn. It didn't feel part of the whole, but it had also come from the bottle.

The note contained three single lines that had undoubtedly been written by the same author. The characteristic, fine and elaborate writing style was there, but the page was ripped, slightly stained, and it was obvious that the writing was rushed. The letters were not as neatly formed as in the rest of the pages.

Vagabonds of undying souls
We wander the streets
Like ships without a sail

The words were fitting, the events of the last few days had stirred emotions long buried deep inside. I felt homeless in my own hometown. It had grown so much so rapidly that outside of the old town, I roamed the streets not knowing where I was going. Like a ship without a sail.

The pages called me back from my thoughts. Curiosity demanded that I read it all but I hesitated. The turmoil in my mind, my grieving heart, would not be healed by mysterious poems. 

The pages called me again. It wasn't just curiosity, I had to know what I'd found. What it all meant. 

I put the small, loose note to the side and braced myself to read the first poem.

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...
~

You might like Iurgi Urrutia's other books...