"An enigmatic story from my life that I still can't find explanations for."
Murad lights a cigarette, not holding it with his fingers – only with his lips in the corner of his mouth. This makes him look cooler than others – not more attractive, just cooler.
Murad tells me that he remembers himself from the age of two or even earlier. He claims that his urge for cigarettes is because his mother wouldn't let him suck on a pacifier, fearing it would misshape his teeth. He doesn't eat apples because his drunken father once threw this fruit of discord at him while he was crying.
Murad was about three at the time.
The scar on his cheek has a similar story, although relatives insist that he accidentally hurt himself with a branch from an old oak tree in the yard. But Murad remembers it differently.
The waiter sneaks glances, refilling our wine glasses, as Murad has a ring on his ring finger, and I don't.
I think that without the scar and the cigarette, my companion wouldn't have half the effect he does now.
Or if his brown eyes weren't constantly filled with immense, all-consuming pain. When someone is dying on the street, you don't pay attention to a beautiful sunset, flowers, or a girl in a miniskirt.
Similarly, when he's around, the world is always contracting and you can't see anything else around you.
We had another drink.
"And what do you remember from your childhood?" I had been waiting for this question.
"Almost nothing… Maybe just one incident…"
I had just turned seven, and in September, I was supposed to start first grade, which I eagerly anticipated.
It seemed like summer would never end - I kept opening the closet and running my hand over my future school uniform, crossing off the remaining days on my kitten pocket calendar and reading "only necessary literature" - Orthographic dictionary.
I suppose my impatience was fueled not only by the change in status from "kindergartener" to "schoolgirl" but also because we had just moved to a new house.
It was a newly built residential complex; some apartments were not yet occupied, while others were undergoing renovations. In the yard, there was already a playground with a slide, a sandbox, and a couple of pull-up bars, but children my age had not moved in yet. I was unbearably bored.
My parents kept sending me to "get some fresh air," and I would reluctantly make my way to sit on the bench in the yard (again, playing in the sandbox was something I refrained from due to my impending proud status as a first-grader).
On one of these scorching summer days, I discovered a "secret" – a piece of glass in the ground with a beautiful candy wrapper underneath it. I was already familiar with such quests from our previous place of residence, where there were many children, and I actively began to seek out others. Time flew by, and I went home a little later than usual, slightly disappointed that I couldn't find anything else.
In our building, on the ground floor, there was a man (I don't know, maybe not quite a man, but when you're seven, anyone over fifteen is a man). He was wearing a bright shirt and smiling at me. I smiled back at him.
"You're always sitting on that bench and you're already so tanned, as if you've been to the beach. Have you ever seen the sea?" The stranger started the conversation.
My parents got married early, and I came into their lives when they were both nineteen. Their friends were always hanging out at our home, my mom often took me to her job at the community center, and my father was a popular radio DJ – in short, I wasn't afraid of adults.
"No, but my grandmother and I sometimes go to the lake. Are you our new neighbor?" I, for some reason, felt incredibly grown-up.
"Unfortunately, no," my new acquaintance replied, "I'm just renovating this apartment. Would you like to take a look?"
I knew I shouldn't go anywhere with strangers, take candy from them, or agree to "look at the kittens." But this man was standing in our building, and he inspired immense trust because neighbors are like a family, just a bit further away.
"My name is Nico!" The man was already opening the door.
"And I'm Shura, and I'm starting first grade soon!" I crossed the threshold.
The apartment was large and bright. The walls were still bare, except for the kitchen, which was painted blue (almost like ours, except my mother chose green).
"The bed will go here, and we'll hang a crystal chandelier here! A wardrobe will be placed here – do you like wardrobes?"
I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.
"When I was little, I loved sitting in the wardrobe – it's like a room within a room, and no one knows where you are. Besides, adults can't fit inside a wardrobe – it's territory only for kids like you, understand?"
I nodded again.
"In this room, the owners will create a children's room – toys, a soft carpet on the wall. Do you prefer playing with dolls or building blocks?"
"Only little kids play with dolls! I watch cartoons and I am even reading a book!" I tried to make an impression.
"Oh, I love TV too – it will be placed right here! And look, this I brought as well!" Nico pointed to the windowsill where a horsetail was rising from a pot. "It makes it cozier; don't you think?"
The plant looked somewhat alien in this empty apartment, as if an apocalypse had happened, and the flower was the only thing that survived.
"We need to dust the leaves!" My new friend was already standing behind me with a wet cloth. He carefully and very gently wiped each lance-shaped leaf, and when only two dirty ones were left, he handed me the cloth. I couldn't reach the plant, so Nico picked me up by the waist and held me up to the flowerpot. So, hanging in the air, I wiped those leaves.
Nico lowered me to the floor and, taking my hand, led me to the door. "Behind this door is the most interesting thing. Are you not afraid?" he said this with such a mysterious tone that it piqued my childlike curiosity, but it didn't frighten me at all.
"No."
The man took a bunch of keys from his pocket and began inserting them one by one into the keyhole. Even now, I remember how surprised I was; at that time, the doors inside an apartment usually had a simple latch, and I had never seen an embedded lock like this before. None of the keys fit, and my friend started to get a little nervous.
"What's in there? Why is this door closed?" I could feel his impatience, and I myself began to burn with curiosity.
"Because what is truly valuable can't be easily accessed," he answered.
We never managed to open the door.
"Are you very disappointed about not getting into the secret room?" Nico asked me as he saw me out of the apartment.
"I don't know," I said and ran up the stairs; we lived on the fourth floor.
At home, my mom was cooking dinner, and my dad was just sitting at the table to keep her company. I washed my hands and sat on a stool, keeping my silence mysteriously. My parents, seeing how eager I was to tell them something, deliberately let me stew for a while without asking about how my outing had gone. But finally, the long-awaited question came, and I began excitedly telling them about the amazing Nico, the empty apartment, and the secret room. My mom, clutching the edge of a cupboard, sank into a chair, and my dad rushed out of the apartment. I didn't understand anything and thought maybe he wanted to meet my friend too.
Later, Mom cried, and Dad kept asking questions. Soon, his friends arrived; they smoked a lot and kept coming and going. From my parents' conversation, I gathered that the apartment I had visited today belonged to these friends - they had bought it a couple of months ago but hadn't started any renovations, and they hadn't moved in yet.
They also didn't know Nico…
Murad was examining his long fingers, and I was examining Murad. I had never shared this story before.
My companion signaled for the check – it had gotten dark outside, and it was getting chilly. My hands were trembling.
"So, how did it affect you? Do you hate repairmen? Are you afraid of empty apartments? Can't stand bright shirts?" I was surprised because for a moment, it seemed like Murad, as usual, had been too absorbed in his thoughts and hadn't paid attention to anything I said.
"Not at all. I even didn't remember it for a very long time. I only attended elementary school there for a couple of months, and then we moved to another city, and everything was forgotten. When I was already in university, there was a horsetail on the windowsill of our dormitory, left by the previous tenants. I was wiping its leaves one day, and suddenly, the whole memory resurfaced. Not image by image, but just like that – the entire story. It was as if it had always been in me, just hidden somewhere."
"Into the secret room of your subconscious," Murad stood up and led me by the hand to the waiting taxi.
We were silent the entire way. At the building entrance, my companion asked, as usual, if he could come in with me. I responded as usual, saying no – it was our unchanging ritual.
"So, what was in that room? Your parents were friends with the apartment's owners – did you not ask them?"
"I did ask when I remembered. My mom said that nothing like that ever happened, and it was probably my childhood fantasies due to a lack of social interaction in the new place."
I stood at the door, watching Murad get into the car and sit in the passenger seat next to the driver. He rolled down the window.
"Why can I never come in?" he almost shouted from the departing taxi.
"Because I don't sleep with married men," I said, already opening the front door, and waved to him.
"Because I don't sleep with anyone," I whispered as I cautiously stepped inside.
The End
Bio:
I’ve graduated medical university in surgery section.
After a few years in medicine I decided to be a writer. My plays have been performed in several countries around the world and in more than 20 theatres; films based on my scripts have participated in many prestigious film festivals. My first novel was published last year. Now I’m taking my first steps in English writing