The Second Scene
I’m in the wars today, so all you get is the second scene of ‘Not on the Cards’ (title subject to change without notice). Copyright (of course) Cage Dunn 2018.
If you need Scene 1: here.
Scene 2.
When the fifth querent left and the upturned box remained bare of the thick tome of The Age, Chiri closed the diaphanous curtains on her stall. If it was there, she’d see it. Too big to miss. The Saturday Classifieds, property pull-outs, sports and arts and lifestyle magazines. If it fell to the ground, if it rolled under the stools, if the wind blew the sections apart — no, she’d still see it. No newspaper. No timeline.
The smells of the lunch-wagons, the cafes and restaurants and chipperies and spices and … her stomach rumbled. It was nearly lunch-time. She’d get something to eat, look around the other stalls, see if she could beg, borrow or steal a paper. The fish and chip shop always had the freebie, even if it got torn to pieces and redistributed in small bits — always with the sports section missing. Was Bruno still the proprietor? Wouldn’t matter which bit of the paper she got; they all had a date on them. That’s all she needed. Just to know which when she was in, and what it might mean, how close she might be to the right pattern, the right door to the revolving time structure that held Saffo.
She needed to know the date and year.
If something was going to happen, it better be soon, or … Chiri clamped her teeth together. She made the threat regularly, although there were none to hear it. Who knew of her plight, her entrapment; who was she threatening? Herself? Bah! No good ever came from that.
And where could she go? The boundaries of her now-world were clearly defined. The wavering lines up that hill, down that road, to her left and right and centre became mist and mirage if she looked too hard. Only this small space, the carpark, the art-deco apartments on the opposite side, were places she could exist in any form of reality. On the miniscule edges of the icosahedron that jutted up at this point, that hid the quaternions below, the elements of the polytopical dimension. The truly magnificent structure of the 600 tetrahedral faces of the dimensions of her true home. The perfection of the geometric image that shielded the divisions and barriers between each structure and shape and time.
Chiri wanted to go there now, to find Saffo now. She needed to do it; needed to see if Saffo lived, if … A sob rose to her throat. She tamped it, held it down. Being miserable or emotional wouldn’t help. Only the key, and the location of the lock it opened, and the right door …
What did it matter? She’d smelled that aroma, that scent, and her body quivered at the memory of it, at the memory of the loss and pain and heartbreak. It wasn’t just Saffo, though that was the biggest fear and need. It was also Him.
She frowned as she did a double-take and looked across the intersection again. The Art Deco apartments weren’t there. Was she in the time before it was built? Did The Age even exist then? She shook her head. Not possible. Look at these people. The clothes. The cars. The fact she was in a car-park. The food smells. So many different voices, colours, sounds and smells. Not, definitely not the era before the apartments.
So, when?
A woman walked past, head down, studiously avoiding looking at Chiri or the gaudy tent of the fortune teller. The perfume was the heady Chanel. Was that the sharp 9 or the fruitier 5? Undertones of tang, neroli and musk? Sniff. Not Chanel. One of the twenty-first century perfumes. So many new ones, it was impossible to recognise them by aroma alone. And the undertones of plastic, or coal-oil, or the stink of created scents. The woman’s coat — if she had a coat on, then it must be Autumn, right? — wasn’t a natural fibre. The brilliant blue wasn’t a natural colour. It hung slightly off-drape, as if one side was heavier, or the stitching had failed in the main seam. A loose button, iridescent in a swirl of blues. And the woman huddled in tight, as if the synthetic coat didn’t warm her.
Definitely beyond 2010.
Everyone who hurried by carried bags or parcels or satchels. Everyone had electronics. Ears and hands occupied. Eyes traced the dancing lights on screens. Mobile technology. Did newspapers still exist? Had she slipped beyond her realm again?
The panic sent her scuttling, running along each row of stalls, ignoring the abuse from the heavy human traffic as they wandered the market like herd animals. Her eyes searched surfaces, hands, bags, the screens were too tiny! — there must be a paper somewhere, otherwise … otherwise … was she already too late?
Her nose quivered. A new aroma, distinctive, alluring. Familiar. The combination of wood-smoke, horses, salty sea-breezes. His smell. His unique combination. Her nose flared, her head lifted. She slowed to a walk, closed her eyes, and followed the smell.
The tall man she saw didn’t look like Him. He sat on the upturned wooden crate where the newspaper should be, and looked up when she moved closer, his head tilted. He frowned.
Chiri raised her eyebrows. His eyes didn’t light up. He didn’t smile. His back remained stiff and straight. He showed no sense of recognition.
“Do you want a reading?” she asked as she flipped up the curtained doorway and held it. She stared at him. The smell was right; was it Him? Why did he look so different, yet feel so familiar?
He stood up and held out his hand. Chiri put one hand behind her back and held the door open with the other.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he said, head down, hands clasped together.
Not calm, not anxious. Too hard for her to read without the cards.
“I’ll do a reading, shall I,” Chiri said.
He stood up and followed her inside and sat down, crossed his legs and placed his hands, one on top of the other in his lap.
She pointed to the box. He nodded, pulled something from a pocket and slid it into the slot. After his donation — she couldn’t tell what he’d put in, but it wasn’t much — she held the cards forward. Nothing happened. The cards felt as if they clung to each other, refusing to be separated from the pack. The cold penetrated to her bones with a sensation of reticence and fear. A childish fear.
“You have a child,” Chiri said. Why did I say that?
“No,” he frowned. “Not that I know of.”
“You have a child. Her name is Saffo.”
“How do you know?”
“I am her mother—”
He thrust up from the chair and tossed a handful of coins onto the table, shook his head and scowled. The coins rattled, clattered and fell to the rug with a litter of thumps.
“Listen to me, old woman. I’m a young man and you’re an old witch. How old are you? Eighty? Ninety? Look at me. Thirty.” He held out his arms, did a slow turn. “What makes you think I’d fall for that scam?” His arm lifted the curtain.
“Wait,” Chiri said. “I can prove it.”
He stepped out and pushed through the line of querents. He was gone.
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Pic from pixabay.
