Excerpt from working novel, “Where Airy Voices Lead”

Closing his eyes, inhaling the cool stream of air pulsing through the flat, Francis glanced over at the sheer curtains on either side of one window blown back against the interior wall, spread out symmetrically like two diaphanous wings suspended in air. It poured in like a current and felt cooler than it should have, he pondered, as he walked to the door to greet the first of his guests. Perhaps this would mark the end of summer, the end of all the heat. Francis wasn’t altogether surprised at what he saw when he opened the door.

He was greeted not with one, but seven over-smiling faces, each one capped with immaculately executed, shiny black hair.

By the sound of it, they must have fallen up the stairs with excitement, but by now had assumed an austere front and a rigid posture, each one standing as in a military roll call, except for the thousand-yard stare. Rather, these eyes darted around and asked more or less to be told what it was they should look at next.

He would put them at ease all at once.

“Hey!” from behind wide-open arms, hyperextending for effect, going in fast for the first of what would be many hugs on that night.

“They all came together!” as he made rounds outside the door, clasping hands and slapping backs, some of them were reluctantly nudged into the apartment and tried desperately to stay outside the line where the doorframe designated an entrance.

“Everyone’s here! You guys all came together? That’s great!”

At this they all laughed nervously, processing the thought that he knew they were all too embarrassed to come on their own.

“It’s perfect. Now we don’t have to wait. We can get the party started.”

With this they seemed at least slightly more comfortable with their immediate surroundings. Shoulders loosened and heads bobbed with recognition and laughter as they all hugged Francis, the foreign strains of Ventilator Blues jangling through the apartment.

“Come on, come on in,” he waved and turned his back as they more or less fell into a single-file line.

Once they were inside he invited each of them to grab a seat, to make themselves at home and relax. Most sat down instantly, patting their palms on the tops of their thighs and glancing at one another with giddy expressions. Those who lost the lightning game of musical chairs were openly reticent to occupy any open real estate on the bed. They stood, stranded in the middle of the wide open flat, swaying their arms, peering around noncommittally, trying to figure out what to do. Francis had turned his back to them to put some ice in glasses. He looked back over his shoulder.

“Anywhere, really, it’s cool. Just sit on the bed if you don’t mind. Sorry about that guys.”

“No, no,” they reassured him, with real appreciation- the end of the bed was more than suitable. So two more sat down, satisfied to field jealous looks from around the room while Francis iced the rest of the glasses. In some small way, no matter how insignificant, they had already drawn closer to him, and the others knew it.

“So…beer, wine, some special stuff for later.”

“Ohh,” began a chorus of oh’s that resonated at one frequency or another without pause throughout the remainder of the evening.

He enlisted assistance. “Javi,” (this was Javier), “Check that cooler out there.” Francis pointed to the white relic, packed with icy beer in the corner of the kitchenette.

Javier was notable for being the shortest and most excitable of the whole bunch. He was thrilled even to be a part of the group. Attending a party at Francis’ apartment, being seen out with the others, these all fell into the realm of fringe benefits as he had it. As with all of them, his wide-collar shirt, (a size too big), was immaculately pressed and creased, three buttons open to reveal a hairless chest and chain of gold or some other variety of gleaming metal. The aforementioned shiny black hairdo applied in Elvis-like proportions to the smallest member of this troop and conservatively added four inches in real height to his stature.

Besides Javier, all of them were around the same height and build and enjoyed roughly the same degree of relative attractiveness. Only one of them was truly striking. Only one got the attention of any of the German, Australian or American girls at the school. This one factor, not exclusively, but principally, put Cris (this was Cristiano) decidedly and unarguably in the lead, at the helm, where he reluctantly ruled with quiet confidence over a coterie of ready subjects.

“Javi!” lobbing over a bottle opener, pointing around the room, counting heads.

“Looks like eight, right? Ok, Javi, ocho amigo.”

There were at least 40 in the cooler. He set out popping each one with great care, keeping all the bottle caps organized on the counter. It was the little man’s sacred charge, and he went about it with real conviction.

Francis shortened his name to Javi. This was just the local custom, but something that was vital to know. It reinforced the idea that he knew what his friends called him, that he was one of his friends. It reinforced the notion of their solidarity, generally, that he was with it. This was what you did with all of their names really. For the most part they were all simple and customary names, so if one wished to spice things up, he would most likely just shorten it.

All of the beers were handed out. Francis retrieved the clay ashtray with the reefers from the patio and set it on his lap, joining the two on the end of the bed. Getting right back up, he put the ashtray on the foot of the bed, and raised his icy, dripping beer bottle in a toast to his guests. He knew at what level they were capable of speaking and understanding English. He had taught each of them in the beginner courses. An important aspect of what would be happening that night was that Francis would speak almost exclusively in English, acknowledging and appreciating, even if undeservedly, their abilities, his hopeful contribution to their ability to speak the language that everyone in the world, everyone outside their town spoke. The only exceptions would be when he would participate in side conversation, ones that he might overhear and drop in on to display his adroitness, even in picking up on hushed and quick exchanges. There would be toasts in the native language too, and not only that, the colloquial tongue. They would appreciate this on top of everything else. And so a toast was made.

He began:

“Gentlemen, my friends, I’m honored to share my home with you. It is also your home. Welcome. Salud.”

Most had stood up along with Francis. Only a couple remained in their seats, seemingly mystified by the formality of the ceremony playing out before their eyes. Only when bottles were raised in celebration did the stragglers jump to their feet, awakened from their dreams, eagerly seeking out a position from which to clank bottles and embrace. Francis took a big swig from his bottle of beer, good beer, setting the tone for the evening. Others followed along, taking second pulls off of their beers, and Francis put his arm around his nearest compatriot, leaning, as if to tell a secret, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Now…we have something special. I want to share something very special with you.”

“Ohh,” (reverentially) could be heard in unison in varying, not inharmonious pitches.

Everyone nodded with affected concentration and more or less shifted around, not sure whether to return to their seats. Certainly not now as Francis seemed prepared to impart some special bit of information to them.

“You all know that I love Tequila,” (with this a premature and excited laughter) “but have you ever had Scotch? Any of you?”

Each of them turned to one another, inquiring, verifying that they had not in fact collectively experienced this phenomenon of which he spoke. Then he turned to directly face his friend. He hesitated to look his gracious host full on in the eyes, so Francis slapped him on the back, and with a pointed gesture announced,

“Come with me. I only need one mate for this task.”

The rest pouted backward into their positions.

“Mani,” (this was Manuel) “would you bring those glasses with ice over here?”

Javier looked on intently, measuring how he might have gone about his own task more efficiently.

Manuel followed closely behind his host, careful only to grab two glasses at a time. He made four trips altogether between the cabinet and counter where Francis poured the Scotch, each time consulting another set of eyes, seeking out any vital, unspoken information that may have been coming across the lines.

“Just like this.” Francis poured about an ounce and a half of the Scotch into a glass and handed Manuel an empty one.

Francis placed another of the glasses down, indicating not to hold the glass while you pour, speaking directly to his pupil, “Just about this much.”

He handed Mani the bottle and motioned for him to try, watching as he diligently poured his first glass of Scotch, careful not to fill the glass too high, in fact pouring too little.

Francis encouraged him with a reassuring wink and upward nod, “Go ahead and top that off.”

He did his bidding and stood with the bottle, relieved he had not poured too much, or it didn’t seem so anyway. Francis took the bottle from him, and with one hand on his heart, imparted to his friends:

“This is the best gentlemen, the very best. This is very close to my heart. It is also very strong.”

Then, before the other glasses had been filled, and without waiting for the others to drink, Francis handed a glass to Mani.

“You just sip it, like this.”

“Ohh.”

Then he had Mani sip it with him. The young man did his best straight face cowboy, which in a way made his evident pain even more comical.

“It’s different, I know, but what do you think?”

“Oh, good. Very good,” he sipped again.

“Now Mani, if you’ll do the honors, just set your glass down there and let’s pour the rest of these guys the same amount, good?”

“Si…yes, claro que si.”

Francis returned to the end of the bed between two more of his gang who had worked their way to the end of their beers while rapt by the Scotch instructional. Seeing this, he popped back up, the ashtray with the reefers bouncing perilously on the mattress.

He made a hang loose motion with thumb and pinky that says, “You ready for another one?”

Francis didn’t wait for a reply, but rather went to get eight more beers. They looked down and back up at each other, wondering if they had overstepped. They hadn’t even noticed how quickly they had downed them.

“Oh.”

Francis detected their nervousness.

“Come on boys, you need to keep up with these men! Drink up! Are we going out tonight or not?”

Everyone smiled and loosened up once again and began taking the task of drinking their beers much more seriously. Once the second round of beers had been passed out, Francis began distributing glasses of Scotch, deliberately, one by one, to each of his guests.

“Should I play some different music before we really get the party going?”

Without waiting for a reply, he walked over to his old record player to a chorus of “Si’s” and “Yes’s” and “Oh’s” and a harmony of other affirmations. The chorus was warming as a unit.

As Francis thumbed through a box of 50 or so odd records, the boys were eyeing up the reefers and looking around as if to dare each other to take another sip of the toxic brown liquid. Was this real? There was a whole stack of joints as they could see it. This was well beyond the pale.

“How’s the Scotch boys? You like it at all?”

“Oh, si, good.”

“Si, Yes, good.”

Francis hadn’t given much thought to the music selection for the evening. Maybe something they might recognize like Dylan or more of the Stones, which were rambling on at the moment, but then there was a lot to talk about, a lot to cover in a short period of time. He would need their full attention and this required an appropriate soundtrack, one that would not distract from what was critical, but rather help to vivify the gravity at its core, to lend immediacy.

The boys buzzed with laughter and chatted behind him as he reached for a record he played often while reading or writing- the Prague Festival Orchestra performing Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 in B minor, a piece rife with drama, elegant, sensual melodies, terrifying climaxes. He glanced up at the curtains swaying faintly with the wind. It made perfect sense that this should be the soundtrack to the story he would impart to his friends, the story of Francis and Flora. The lies, the abuse, the suffering he had watched her endure. They would know it all, or at least as much as was necessary.

He rose from his crouched position, surprised to hear a voice, in perfectly articulated, if grammatically incorrect English, inquiring, “Francis, do you like another drink?” Francis was chewing a piece of ice, having long since knocked down his last one. Nerves settling.

He turned around to find Cris standing front and center, bottle in hand, with six pairs of eyes fixed on him. Francis walked toward him and extended his glass. Cris poured without hesitating, seeming to have sensed that it would have been silly to take the glass and put it down, only to fill it up, especially in this sort of environment.

“Thank you, Cris,” slinging his arm over his shoulder.

“Boys, drink up! Cris, if you would.”

Francis walked back to the record player and dropped the needle. The wind began to blow at his back as he returned to his bed and companions and the sound of ominous double basses signaling the gravity of the night, bearing witness to the depths of the past year- anguished violas and a singular bassoon evoking the arrival of the moment, the opening up of a scarifying infinitude of possibilities.

Cris finished pouring drinks and Francis gathered up enough of the reefers from the ashtray to pass one out to each of his guests. Some politely deferred (“No, oh, oh”), extending open hands.

“I rolled one for each of you, but we don’t have to smoke them all at once, you know?

Now they were doubly in awe, having been given their own to keep and watching the laxness with which Francis treated the whole matter. He finished his rounds and asked,

“Who will do the honors for us?”

As no one immediately volunteered, Francis called out, “Juan,” (this was Juan).

“Do you have a lighter?” Francis milled around unwittingly as the young man patted nervously at his pant pockets, finally producing a book of matches.

“Please, let me,” guiding a lit match behind cupped hand in the direction of Francis’ chest. Obliging, he reached for the tray and raised the first joint of the night to his lips.

It made its way around the circle and Francis sensed the imminent and agitated handoff of the melody, from the airy violins to the brass and percussion. He took several long drags and, seeing it was almost to its end, encouraged the next in line to light his own. Each one’s name was announced and he was asked to do the honors in turn. White puffs of smoke gathered and turned dusty and lavender in the diminished light of the higher reaches of the flat, funneling out into the ether as a lazy, vaporous river. Everyone more or less settled in. Beers were no longer served eight at a time. Rather, people began to fetch their own, at Francis’ behest, of course.

Francis listened to the familiar lull of the middle part of the first movement- the joy and ease of the sweeping strings, the exaltation of the vaulting clarinet capitulating to one mournful bassoon, sorrowfully beckoning hysteria, the furious ascent into near chaos. He knew well the fury, the terror of its abruptness. He put his hand in the air, leaning forward slightly toward the middle of the group, signaling they should pay careful attention to this part of the music, something that had hitherto been a mere background tape for the others in the room.

Everyone easily took the cue, leaned in and concentrated, and made sure to demonstrate their complete concentration. In a rapture of Scotch and weed they heard the elemental rumble of the drums, the vocalization of the transcendent strings, the haunting intersections of sound and stark silence. All at once, everyone was enraptured in the music, so long as his hand remained in the air.

“Oh guys, I have to tell you. You mind if I tell you all something?

Up to this point, everything about Francis’ demeanor, the hugs, the casual conversation, the toasts, put his friends at ease. Now he looked at them with grave consternation. Each one leaned forward a bit further on his seat. Each one who was now privy to what this sort of epicurean celebration entails- exotic liquors, endless reefers, strange and unfamiliar music, and now, it seemed they would be imparted some manner of privileged information. The Scotch glasses were set aside. The curtain of lavender smoke lifted momentarily and the group collectively sipped their beers, waiting, waiting.

He looked each of them straight in the eyes before he began.

“This is something very serious for me, you know? Can I trust you all with something?”

Each shook his head gravely, eyes uncharacteristically fixed on his own.

“I do trust you, you know? I think that’s why I wanted you guys to be along tonight even after I found out. See, I had just planned to have you all here, and then I come to find out about this…situation.”

He paused momentarily, then continued.

“I’m sorry, will you pour me another,” to no one in particular. Mani, having had his formal training, was quick to the task. “Get beers for everyone too.”

“So, it’s difficult to know where to begin with something like this.” Then he looked upward and pondered aloud, “How this all began.” Now wasn’t the time to reel off course at some vague notion of inauthenticity. He was past that by now. It was too late in the game for that.

“When I started working at the school, I became friends, just friends, with Flora. You all know her.”

They all nodded to indicate they understood, inwardly marveling at the notion of Francis enjoying even a casual friendship with this unapproachable beauty. Just her role in the story inspired a basic intrigue in each of them.

“I want to tell you because I just need to talk to people I can trust about it. And I believe that I can trust you all.” Making gestures to emphasize “I,” and “You.”

Continuing, “I want you to see what’s going on with this whole mess so you know…what to expect. You know, I’m older. I want you guys to understand what’s important in life.” Perhaps he was reaching. “That you can’t hurt other people and abuse them.”

They sat rapt, eager for him to continue, understanding at least enough of what he said, he assumed. He committed to double down on the simplicity, being sure to enunciate slowly, ensuring that they understood, eyeing each closely to detect if any were lost. He looked around the circle again, paying close attention to the manner in which the group’s unspoken leader betrayed an evident eagerness to hear more.

“Who’s next?” Francis got up and took a book of matches from his pocket, announcing the distinguished guest whose joint he would ceremoniously light. At the moment, his name absolutely evaded him. Instead of returning to his seat on the bed he paced around, stopping occasionally to speak, coolly spinning the scotch and ice cubes in his rocks glass as he pondered each new thought.

He was beginning to entertain strange pictures in his mind, even as he continued his account of how he came to be a close friend to Flora, how it came to be that she wound up with her husband and how she had been treated ever since (they were in paralyzed disbelief)- strange images and flashing lights and the intoxication of anticipation. He knew this would be part of it. This was something for which he had prepared. He tasted it. He allowed what he knew to be underneath these feelings to be felt fully, and in this way, he could control them. He observed them. He observed his feelings and thoughts and detected fear and second-guessed himself, but knew all of these to be nothing more than fleeting states of mind.

Some of these states of mind were perhaps more convincing than others, and as fear tugged at him, perhaps muddling the clairvoyance of what he conveyed to them, he felt rage well up deep inside. He had planned for this as well, however, and attempted to use it, to use it appropriately, not to make the fatal mistake of being driven by it.

I felt quite apart from the group. Francis was plenty enough entertainment for them. And I’d long since given up on the idea of not drinking myself.

Sitting back down, Francis stared searchingly, the thumb of his left hand propping up his chin, the tips of the fore and middle fingers compressing the upper lip.

“So, there was a time when she finally broke down, she cried, and told me he had beaten her.” Then, with his hand on his heart, “You promise you will not tell anyone?”

All of the heads in the room shook up and down. Faces expressed blank awe, dumb disbelief, and beers hung low at the side or were wedged in between legs.

“He would force her to have sex with him, even when she was younger, like 18 years old. And really, this is…it’s hard to tell you, but it is bad boys, it is very bad what he’s done.” And underneath that, a righteousness for which he had also prepared, but which was only right, was it not?

The young men to began to look around at each other for validation of what they were hearing. This was on an entirely different scale- the thought of anyone abusing, violating, raping Flora.

“I don’t want to upset you guys. I just know this…guy, he could possibly be out tonight.” Gesturing to be sure, indicating “tonight” somehow by pointing repeatedly in the direction of the floor.

He continued, “And you know, I’m just upset. I can’t imagine how he could hurt her.”

Many hearty nods meant to reassure and comfort him from all directions.

“Do you promise me…  I just want you guys to understand why I’m not going to want to talk to him if he’s around, or even see him. But I do not want anyone doing anything, you know. Not anything. If I see something that is wrong or, I don’t know, I would tell you, but not until then. Do you guys understand me?”

“Si, si.”

“I’m trying to help her. I would treat her so much differently. You all would too.”

“Oh, si.”

“Real men do not treat women like that.”

They all nodded solemnly. It was time to change the music.

“Anyway, tonight I rented out a room at the club, you know the one at the corner of the market. It’s just for us, so we shouldn’t have any problems.”

They turned to one another in wonder. They hadn’t imagined that the night would carry over with such grandiosity into the public domain, where they would be seen together, out, as a group.

“So, I just wanted to tell you to be aware, you understand? Be aware, but everything should be okay. Please keep what we talked about between us? Just us. Amigos, no?”

Several rose to their feet and the rest were soon to follow. Hugs ensued and Francis feigned reluctance, even weakness, and allowed himself to be engulfed in his confidants’ embraces. When he was unfolded he saw that even Cristiano was a part of the melee, of the camaraderie, wearing a proud but serious face, seeking out Francis’ own.

The group finally dissipated and Francis walked over to change the record. They seemed sufficiently emotional and stirred up after having heard even just the first two movements. He would give them a rest, something easier to process. He casually mentioned that Charlotte had asked to stop by before they left as well, and before he could turn around, the makings of a line had already begun to form at the bathroom door.

“You guys remember Charlotte.”

No one dared approach the question/statement.

“We’re friends now, you know? She just wants to hang out and I couldn’t say no.”

Naturally, everyone agreed that he had been right to have her over. More of the joints were handed around and more drinks imbibed, and one after another retreated from the bathroom with newly slicked hair and currents of spicy cologne streaming in their wake. Only Charlotte never ended up coming over, and perhaps not for the first time, Francis realized that he was not in control of every minute detail, and this made him all the more aware, acutely aware, that what he needed to concern himself with most was ensuring the desired outcome, what was critical, and nothing more.