A Game of Lights

by

Ran Bleich

A

I remember the first time they put me in prison.
It was the first time I finally got the joke.
Bastards.
The lot of 'em.
Every last one.
Each and every one an accomplice.
Each and every one a criminal.
Present company included.
So no one got to tell me who to be.
My term served in the big house tends to melt together and it all feels alike, same dame - Different dress. But the first day? I never forgot.
'Prisoner #7085097, Sod, William,' the guard said out in the sunny courtyard, and after waiting and working up a sweat in my jumpsuit, I grinned, gritted my teeth and cracked up in their faces.
Behind me was a corrections officer with a face as indifferent as insects. Leading in front was a sergeant as angry as wasps.
We crossed the prison's bullpen, marching forcefully with our boots. Every stomp of our feet dented the concrete floor.
There were no eyes watching from these prison corridors, these narrow, nitty-gritty, harsh halls.
By the time we got to my cell, I saw that the sun was hiding behind a cloud, even though the bars on the window let little detail sneak in past them. Desert air forced itself to reach in. It wheezed, begging to get in, begging to get out. The rays squeezed through the squint like an uninvited guest at a party.
Even lights were in prison here.
My only audience was the two guards who have seen a million like me come and go, jokes or no jokes, tears or no tears.
What was a red-nosed clown without his clapping rug-rats to egg him on.
Just a bozo, that's who.
I went into the cell for the first time.
Then they closed the door behind me. The noise of the lock turning and clicking shut reverberated strongly amidst the four bare walls.
Then silence came, my first cellmate.
Through the tiny barred window I saw the endless sand I stood on not a minute ago. The cigarette butt I tossed to the ground still smoked and glared like fluttering fireworks. Its light will have soon died out.
I looked behind me and saw a wall. I looked in front of me and saw another wall.
On my left a wall, on my right a wall.
The door was shut and there was no one there, not a living soul.
There was a stone on which my prisoner number was carved, but not my name.
I was no "William Sod" here.
Only prisoner #7085097.
Another one. Another star.
After my trial, a man who was going for his second stretch (having broken out and getting caught not an hour later) told me they called fresh prisoners "Fish". I was nothing like a fish. If anything, I was so dried out, I could crumble like whitened old dog shit.
'Guards!' I hollered. 'GUARDS!'
They sure knew how to talk down. What they didn't know was how to listen up.
Who were these two pious bastards to lock me up anyways?
How could they have been born naked and have finagled judges' robes to cover bare skins, all the way up to hands that banged the gavel with which they threw me in the cooler?
Who were these grifters to tell me, an animal with even more fuzz on his chest then they, to rot away for the rest of my life in a cell?
Something had gone terribly wrong, some kind of bug fell into the great machine in which we all served as cogs and bolts.
I stopped fidgeting. This wasn't how I will have dealt with this.
This, right here, was how it must have started and ended.
A cemented block. A cornered man.
This was nothing. They couldn't lock me up, not really. It was all a put on, right?
Yeah. Some funny. Was the punchline the bars or the bunk?
I remember running this old joke I saw in a magazine once in my head, a cartoon in which a survey taker was questioning an indifferently-faced fellow on his doorstep.
'You can put me down as apathetic,' the responder said, 'I don't really care either way.'
I didn't laugh.
It was all just a game, a game men played, just like boys.
But as I rested my head against the tough window bars, the sun disappeared entirely and made way for all-enveloping darkness.
Night has come.
I wasn't gonna get dark. I was always gonna get the lark.
There weren't any lights.
I lay down on my cot and rested my head on the pillow.
Nothing happened after that.
And then I waited.
I'll have counted the hours, I'll have marked the days.
And waited.
Concrete walls. A cornered man.
And waited.
No sun, no sea, no outside, no nothing.
And waited.
Nothing but a game, one that I had to play.
And waited.
A prison, a man.
And waited.
A number, a name.
And waited.
A secret, a truth.
And waited.
To run. To run away. God damn it. To run away, and never return. Come hell or high water. They had walls, I was a ghost. They had shooters, I was a lead yardbird.
This wasn't a cell. This wasn't a cell and these were not four walls.
This here was a window though, yes, and through these bars were fresh air and also the stretching roaring sea that awaited me to swim in it and dive in its waters.
This wasn't a prison, but a desert, an endless one that stretched as far as my eye could see, and one in which I'd run and run and run and run away until I'd disappear and not only will there not have been a prison anymore, but there will not have been a me.
They said this was it. They said a lot of things.
No trust - No bust.
Freedom was a state of mind.
And waited.
I closed my eyes, and all was dark.
The lights went out.
And just like that - I was gone.

"-- באפרכם, החבוק בזרועותי, אני נשבע להיות לכם לקול: לכם, ולקאצט האילם והמאוכל. לא אחדל מלספר בכם עד כלות--"
נשמתי האחרונה." - ק.צטניק, "השעון" \
"With your ashes, which I embrace with my arms, I swear to be a voice to you: To you, and to the devoured and mute KZ. I shan't cease recounting of you until the end of my last breath." - Ka. Tzetnik. "The Clock"
"Tu as voyagé et n'as rien apporté de tes voyages: Tu es assis et tu ne veux qu'attendre, attendre seulement jusqu'à ce qu'il n'y ait plus rien à attendre." - "Un Homme Qui Dort", Georges Perec \
"You have traveled and have brought nothing back from your travels: You sit and you want nothing but to wait,
simply wait until there won't be anything else to wait for." - "A Man Asleep", Georges Perec

Part I:
The Pale Scout

Opened my eyes, the lights hit me.
The plane was finally making its descent and the captain announced we accomplished a smooth natural flight.
All around, people seemed as if they've been hit over the head with a wooden mallet. A kid across from me upchucked into an elegant white sick-bag.
My granddaddy once told me how bowled over he was when airplanes first started going commercial. He said people weren't supposed to see that much of the globe, that they weren't meant to travel at that speed, to reach those distances.
He never spun around the great big world but he somehow knew how it turned.
Got up, carefully walked across the aisle towards the bathroom.
People looked at me with a crooked mug.
It was like prison to them, this long trip.
Poor bastards. It was tough flying around like free birds, wasn't it? Oh, the humanity.
The cabin exit plug door was to my right. Right. Right like right-hand man.
Got it.
Waited out the man in the occupied booth. The blonde chirpy flight attendant with curls smiled tiredly at me. They probably paid 'em extra for an ear-to-ear.
Didn't smile back, scantly scanned people's ankles and backs. They said there weren't any weapons on board. They also said I'll have died in prison.
Looked back at the blonde.
It's been a while since I've seen a dame this up close and personal. Those bizarre beautiful beings were now mine to explore. She had a face, a nose, two eyes and a pumping heart, parts that we both had in common, not parts that told us apart.
The man got out of the john, wiping his hands on his thighs.
Went inside before everyone burned a hole in my back with their eyes.
I really seemed to be airborne. Through the porthole, the green ground moved lazily, the sky stood still. It was an aircraft, no film projection on the windows, no sham.
Had to take their word for it. For now.
In the mirror was the normal face of a normal man, nothing more, nothing less. Ragged, granted. But still kicking. Twelve hours ago it was in a cell. Not half bad for a half day's work.
The bastards out there could have tried anything. If I went down, they were coming with. I was close to the plug door - I'll have pulled the lever. If they'd find a cop while free-falling smack to the ground, I'll have gone quietly.
Retook my seat. A few people eyed me. Maybe they all did.
Goldilocks sure was. She smiled, then looked deep into me with her deepest eyes.
But the plan was flawless, the mission a smashing success.
Busted runaways shared many things in common. One of them wasn't caution.
Shut my eyes, sank back into the headrest. Never saw her reaction until the plane landed.
Made sure I was the first one to leave the sleeve-like walkway into the terminal train.
On it was a bastard who looked at me funny.
He wore a bad suit on a good body. He was either a babbo or a badge.
The fluorescent light flicked on and off. We locked eyes in the dark, a shadow meeting a ghost.
To the right were just families. Pas and Mas gave cookies to kids.
To the left were only businessmen. They never lost faith that a cellphone could work underground.
The train was sealed, nowhere to run.
The man was still looking at me like a wolf on a sheep.
Suddenly, a great moo came out the PA system. Then a projection of a film of a cow on a beautiful snowy meadow came up on the tunnel walls, as if I was on the Swiss border, strolling idly on the peaks of the Alps.
The bastard was still getting an eyeful.
The last time I saw a cow was in a desert. She was blown up and half her body was little more than a bloody pulp.
The projection died. The guy still stared.
I knew how to kill a man with my bare hands five times before he fell to the floor.
God damn it.
I just managed to pull off a miraculous and daring escape from a maximum security clink.
How many more walls were there to climb, how many more gates to unlock?
Was I a con or an ex-con?
And so, I sighed desperately and jackknifed my eyebrows all the way up to my forehead.
The man chortled and nodded bitterly, as if to agree on how life was difficult.
A second later, he cleared his throat and looked elsewhere.
I had to change the train for another one, bound for The City.
Rushed to be the first guy out.
Stopped dead on my tracks.
A man in prison once told me something I'd never forget.
He himself was nearing the end of his given sentence. He was feeling uncomfortable each time we met, since he had a future and I did not, having been sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole.
He said that the inmates who hurried the most were the ones who just got there.
He could not make head or tail of, for the life of him, where exactly all these youngsters were scooting off to. Way he saw it, they had all the time in the world.
Eased my run to a walk, looked at the scenery, gave a happy sigh.
I was on vacation, right? That was why.
And people passed me by, just another guy.
The train ride was shorter than I initially thought it would be.
Made it into The City with what seemed to be the speed of light itself.
It was the first time I walked since I started running.

*

The first time I saw this great burg I fell madly in love with it.
Like a new girl showing up at the end of a party, The City caught me off guard.
If locals took it for granted, they were saps, nothing but damn saps.
First off - Everything was dirty and everybody loved it.
They had a lamppost lit here every two feet. I couldn't even see the night. And that building to my right. Wow! Was it swerving at the top like ice-cream? And was this a real clown car to my left, no, couldn't have been, come on! And what the hell was this sign on about, this one, the one with the picture of a graffiti artist and a thumbs-up hand?
So this was how a newly-born baby felt like in a big playpen.
It was time to explore, time to conquer.
Where did this street lead on to? What underground station did it connect with?
I'll have laid the lay of the land like a scout.
It was peachy, to be on the bricks again. Especially here, where they said it was heaven for artists.
Walking swiftly, I glanced at a vending machine that sold nothing but books.
I put in a coin and got a small two-way dictionary. With it, I translated the sentence on the machine into English: "CLASSICS FOR A TWOFER!"
So books over here were sweeter than candy - Outstanding!
Walking away, I saw an obese filthy man sitting on the corner, humming and whistling.
He was reading a book, didn't even see me. Must have been a good book.
In front of him was a simple cardboard sign. I translated: "I'M HUNGRY."
I tossed the smallest piece I had at him. It missed him, started rolling down the street. He pondered it lazily, grunted, and buried himself back in his book and the tiny copper rode into the night to look for its fortune.
Near me, a mesmerizing woman with blindingly-glossy bangs tried parking a car as small and pudgy as a potato with a drawing of a ukulele on the hood. She rear-ended the car behind her with a loud thud, then head-butted the car in front with a dull one. This travesty went on a few more times, booming and booming, until she felt comfy enough. Just about as she was getting out, the owner of the vehicle behind her showed up with his keys in hand, saw what went on, smiled cordially, said something which made both of them giggle, got in and drove away.
The woman's high heels clickety-clacked on the cobblestones like horse-hooves as she vanished from sight.
The signs probably said simple things like "WALK" and "DON'T WALK", but me, I was gasping with awe like a fat kid next to a beeping microwave.
Jesus, it was as if they built this place out of Lego blocks, I swore to God.
So this was what humans looked like when they were humane to one another.
They marched idly to and fro. Some with cigarettes stopped to ask for a light and others gave it to them gladly. This achieved, these people showed gratitude and left with dignity.
Yeah, right. When everyone had two lighters it was dandy.
But what if between the two of them they'd have had a single soaked match?
Up on the fourth floor of a building across from me, a private party was taking place. Music as soft as a puppy's fur hovered out of the balcony. From there, a man and a woman appeared: The young pretty babe donned a ballerina's dress that revealed more than it covered and the dude in a superhero cape held a small glass filled with a celadon-colored drink I've never before seen in my life.
The man made no effort in hiding the fact that he was explicitly gawking at the woman's body with great passion. The woman, her, was so busy seducing him that she couldn't even see that she was preaching to the choir.
What the hell was that drink anyways?
I moved on, but then a gust of frosty autumn wind caught my neck and I shivered.
I was never cold in prison, it was always too hot.
A man with a fancy looking bottle and a bouquet of roses walked past me, dolled up with an expensive tasteful scarf.
I asked him for directions for my hotel, trying to make do with their language.
English was as foreign here as I was.
He was cordial and patient enough and used hand gestures to show me where to go.
I watched the label from the scarf. I got the name of the store. It was very nearby.
I easily arrived at the shabby flophouse hostel.
Yeah, well, it was the damn Four Seasons compared to my previous permanent address.
Before going in, I circled the building. In the backyard, I kicked the walls hard with my loafers. They were real bricks and it was a real building, they weren't kidding.
I was better safe than sorry.
No trust - No bust.
I went inside.
The man behind the counter spoke with a beautiful young woman who seemed as interested in his conversation as tigers were in broccoli.
I rang the counter bell.
He was ticked off at the intrusion. The girl wasn't.
'An associate of mine confirmed my reservation.' I said flatly. 'His name's Teller.'
'Yes, here we are, Mr. Teller.' He said. 'Will you be staying long?'
'That remains to be seen. I have a few more business engagements here.'
'Just need your name and passport.'
That's right, I was just another boring business man, hopping from one meeting to the next, nothing to see here.
'Will Sod,' I gave him my new fake passport.
The girl finished her drink with one bold jerk and looked at me as if I were one of 'em paintings rich folks paid an arm and a leg for to spend a lifetime in a dining hall with a martini in hand, wondering what paint the artist was sniffing when painting this tour de force.
She was prettier than the women in the magazines I had to use in the jug, hands down.
'Watch out - that's how they get you.' She whispered.
'Who's comin' to get me?' I said.
'Engagements - That's bad mojo, boy. You have to learn how to move like a spook. Business - That's a part of The Enemy.' She winked, her nose ring twinkling.
'The bastards.' I winked back. We laughed. The reception guy didn't get the joke.
I'll have played this game with her. I was rusty, but wasn't it just like riding a bike?
She checked me out. The man checked me in.
He was steamed up at my arrival, I knew the reason why. We all did.
'Does the name "William Sod" mean anything? Do tell!' The girl said.
'Oh, I wouldn't even know where to begin.' I smiled.
'I'm Jules. Charmed.'
Jules put her warm hand into my cold one, shook it delicately.
When was the last time I touched someone? Was it really that long?
After the guy put me into the computer, I listened to Jules with my utmost attention.
With a seductive tone, she told me she was from Australia and that she was visiting until tomorrow morning.
I once read a book about Adelaide in prison, but Jules told me Adelaide was a "shit-hole", to use her exact phrasing.
In my opinion, Adelaide was beautiful. It was the best place on earth. In fact, my life's sole mission was to get there, lead a full rich happy life, and be buried in its soil, my native friends weeping in black veils, smearing dirt on their heads.
When I was a kid, I read a million books.
Then I got in jail.
Then I read two million more in prison.
Maybe Adelaide was a "shit-hole". Maybe I was reading the wrong books.
I wanted Jules to tell me everything about Australia: Did Koala bears really idly graze on Eucalyptus trees side by side with kangaroos in the great Outback? Did people really dare venture into the southwest seas, where, reportedly, great white sharks reigned with terror?
And also, what did people there think of the Aborigines? Really. Without bushwa.
Jules went on talking. The last thing she wanted was for me to say something back.
She was a godsend.
She liked me even more when I didn't talk, and we grew closer and friendlier, like two migrating birds stopping for a breather near a frozen lake.
She asked me where I was from and what they ate over there. Instead of answering, I asked her out to dinner.
When we got to the restaurant, I pulled Jules's chair back and she loved the gesture.
'You're quite a gentleman.' She said.
What did other men do when a lady was about to sit down?
A waiter came by to ask us if we'd like to have a drink before or after our meal.
Before, during, after. How many drinks did this town have?
He gave me a menu and I didn't get a word of it.
I excused myself for a moment and went where no one could see me.
I snuck into the kitchen.
I took a bite out of an apple. It wasn't made of wax, it was real. I turned the tap on. Real water came out of it. I took a sip. H2O, nothing but. I discreetly exited the kitchen and then got to the bar.
Closely inspecting every bottle they had, I quickly made out the one I was looking for and went back to the table. Jules and the waiter exchanged baffled looks and assumed I didn't notice.
I ordered for us both and after a few minutes of Jules's endless yakking, the waiter came back with two glasses, celadon-colored, just like the ones I saw on the balcony.
Fire water - Just what I needed - The whole ball o' wax, just to pass out and come to in a police van, after they'll have spotted my drunken tracks.
I made myself relax, and Jules kissed me when I finally did.
Afterwards, we went back to the hotel, happy and joyful as if rushing to a Vegas wedding chapel and not a random one-night-stand.
I took the room-key from the man and climbed up the stairs. Jules followed me. So did the man's eyes.
Jealous, he was just jealous. Who wouldn't have been?
And if he wasn't?
When we got into my room, I built an escape plan using the security's fire procedure diagram that hung on the wall next to the bathroom.
Jules didn't catch my drift. She asked me what I was doing.
'Safety rules,' I said, trying my best to sound funny.
'Jules rules,' she said and her dress fell to the floor with a fluffy heavenly thump.
We made love all night long.
She asked me why I wouldn't take my shirt off. I lied and said I was still cold in this country, that it would take a while to get used to the climate.
Once satisfied, Jules finally stopped talking for the first time.
'What's your story, Will?' She asked. 'Tell me your story. TELL ME.'
Don't run - Walk. Son of a gun - That man in prison didn't talk schlock.
'I'm an escaped convict,' I said.
Jules burst in luscious feminine laughter that filled the room. Then she kissed me kindly on my forehead, playfully hit me with a pillow for lying to her and sensually bit her meaty lower lip.
The guy from reception was thinking about me down there, I just knew he did.
The bastard was picking up the phone right now and hitting those three numbers.
He'll have chuckled and fondled that cash reward coins like Judas himself.
The bastards could have come if they wanted. I've done all there possibly was to do.
It was amazing, and enough, and a lot, and Christ, if that wasn't plenty, at least I was guilty of the crime of having played the game.
They'll have never gotten their filthy hands on me again.
Push comes to shove, I'll have not been caught at all.
The Dutch Act was never an option.
Neither was going back to prison, though, that was for damn sure.
Escape or die trying, right?
What did I know: I actually felt at ease now.
As Jules was almost under the cloak of sleep, I looked through the open window.
It was the same sky I saw from the window bars every long night.
'Why are you so pale?' Jules asked with her eyes closed. I let her drowse and didn't respond. I opted to kiss her good night instead and she fell asleep.
I couldn't help but get flashes of lights, lights, yes, lights, shooting upwards towards the sky in the midst of a great and desolate darkness, one with no moon nor stars, then the explosion of these lights, momentarily granting a glimpse of everything, of the prison's courtyard, of the distant desert, of everyone there, of what remains of them and what becomes of them.
Just a flash, one single flair, a spark, a white shining in black air.
And then it was gone.
What I've seen I've already clocked though. It was dark, yes. But it was still there.
Jules's peaceful breathing sounded off like the ticking of a clock tower in a town square, just as reassuring and precise, appeasing the dark night in front of me.
I finally allowed myself to dose off for the first time, on the first bed since my cell's cot, since prison.
The lights went out.
And then I fell deeply asleep.
And just like that - I was gone.