Misinformed

A Plea For Help

You who have held the warmth of light

Grant us entry into your night

Say: 'hack away at needless dread'

Give us today our daily bread

For the kingdom, the power, and

the glory are yours- now (and forever)

The glow of the full moon against the dim lighting, magnified his silhouetted back like the statue of a Gyatso. Carrying the tray with two hands, I tread carefully towards the broad, muscular figure. Three months ago I could not have hoped to be privy to his midnight feast, let alone craft it.

I recalled a night when the Place du Bourg-de-Four filled with chatter of new trades, and blossoming women tranced around men. I had leaned forward in the shadows, visible enough for a signal to be served. Notes from Larry Shield's clarinet floated above snippets of tempting exchanges. An unnaturally high pitch drifted from the lips of a dark haired woman sitting across an older male.

'Do you believe the man... -bootlegging... he was'- of New Money! What good news!

This man whom she spoke of, vanished beyond the early sparks of day, only ever seen by privileged figures.

'I heard he came from the gutters of Nebraska. Plenty rich now.'

She raised her arms in emphasis.

My ears twitched. The man sighed.

'Don't worry, he ain't all that great. Hosts all sorts of funny people. Heard he's closed himself up in that mansion uptown'

A hint of admiration tainted her imperfect facade.

'I like to distance myself from those sorts.' The man suggested, shooting a meaningful look in the direction of the younger woman, who replied with deafening silence.

I had not imagined this silence to last as long as it did, for I had scarce failed to hear of this man again.

...

'One pint of Gin, Rickey'

He barely nodded in acknowledgement of my arrival as I lowered the cabernet onto the oak table. He sat on the balcony, overlooking the glistening waters. As I leaned forward, I caught a whiff of lavender and disinfectant. Without averting his gaze from the still waters, he lifted and emptied the glass. Upon refilling his drink, I sneaked a selfish glance over his portrait- or so I had intended. Grim lines crept out of heavy shadows that fell across his downcast face. I had known better than to ogle, but I had grown so entranced in the fluidity of his movements, the intensity of his distant gaze. Something about this man seemed at odds with what I had learnt. Was it the wide slope of his back? Or perhaps, the stasis of his shoulders, despite his moving arm?

Abruptly, the glass shuddered to a stop, and the man dragged his face upward. His pupils were a dark brown, pronouncing the yellows of his sclera. Paralysed, I muttered a distorted apology then swiveled around, marking asylum in the kitchen as my present destination.

Wait.

A croaky, grumble. It echoed in my ears. I stumbled. Wait. He commanded I stay. Explain myself. All of myself.

Hesitant at first, but falling into familiar rhythm, I reiterated my journey from the streets of Dharavi to the dining of a man such as himself. I told him of my plans and my future. As I neared the end of my tale, the corners of his mouth lifted. A cluster of yellowed teeth and a silver crown stared at me, until he finally let out a hoarse, heavy chuckle. His shadow leaped and danced as he rose.

Run then, he had said. Run and never stop.

Though he had stood up. Though he had exited and began to walk away from the lamps of Bourg-de-Four, his shadow stood still beneath his seat. Long after he had turned the corner, it had seeped into wooden planks and finally into the darkness of midnight, a mark of future success. Or so I thought.