short story six

“Instinct”

I am running, running, running, running, running. No. I’m just walking very fast through tables of a terrace of a very chique restaurant. I don’t know where it is, I don’t know where I am. There are people eating. It is somewhere outside the city. Lots of people. All the tables are taken and it’s dark. The kind of darkness that appears just after the sun has gone down. I know that something has happened but I don’t know what. Something terrible, anyway. My eyes are filled with tears, and that’s how I know. Trying to find my way into the restaurant so to find my exit, I hold on to the tables while I’m passing. Dinning people are staring at me, seeing the look in my eyes. On a table, just by the entrance in the restaurant there are today’s newspapers. Every single of them had big headlines. One strikes me: “Joe’s death”. It is a big colorful headline in an antique looking paper. The color of the paper is light pink, just like the old papers. I knew something was wrong. Running as fast as I can, I burst out in tears. Crying like hell. Crying and running in the same time, I’m throwing aside everything in my way as I seek for the exit.
I know exactly where to go. It’s not knowledge but instinct. After a couple of seconds I’m in the centre of the town. I’m not tired. Descending the street, I see down in the valley, where is a T-junction two trams facing each other on the same track. The red one is going up, the black one down. Their meeting point is on the corner of the street. There is a house. I know that this is the house. Instinct again. Approaching the place, I feel shivers. Cold intercalating with warm ones. Another second passes and I’m in front of the trams, but now I see only the black one; it is prepared for the funeral. The flowers, the smell, the colors and the heavy feeling, all lead to the funeral.
The house on the corner is old; a bit depredated. Yellowish. It seems like it got old by the northern winds and rain it has to face every day. Today is the sky weeping along with me or because of me. It doesn’t know and I don’t know. Two unknowledgeable individuals, trapped together is the same situation.
The tall, long house, being yellowish, has its windows only on the corner wall. By the dark, gloomy spiral shaped staircase. Every four steps there is another window that faces the black tram. Ascending the stairs I get the elevator-feeling. The typical feeling that one gets in an elevator; you stand still and the building moves downwards. While the house is going up, more and more noise. Arriving in the ill lighted central room, I discover that I’m back in the chique restaurant. The same people and the same lights are staring at me. Right up the stairs, a big flower decorated coffin momentously occupies most of the room. It is a black shiny one. By the head, a dark skinned male with black moustache and coal eyes is keeping watch. Seated on a simple chair, he welcomes me. His face seems familiar, even though I’ve never met him before.
As I desperately gaze in the coffin, I notice Jo’s immortal body. Having her eyes open, it seems that she’s been going through an Indian ritual of mummification. On the forehead there is a golden chain, of which golden figures such as elephants, Buddha’s, hearts are attached. A Hindu red dot is carefully marked on the forehead. Praying hands are folded on the chest holding a Muslim chain. Seeing all this, I lower myself on the ground, where the staircase ends and the room begins. Without permission the watcher starts narrating her life story. I hear, but I don’t listen. He is petting her folded hands. My eyes are fixed on the staring body. I wonder why. There comes no reply. From anyone. The others are enjoying their coffee and cocktails. It seems as if they don’t even exist.
Suddenly, Jo starts to twist around, biting her elbow in agony. Eyes are showing the suffering. This time I’m carefully listening to what the dark skinned man has to say: “Even now she finds no peace; death doesn’t welcome her. Pour soul. It was too early and undeserved.” Placing an ancient golden clock with the mechanism upwards on her chest, she calms down. Inner peace has been found.