"Hey, man. You awake!"
It was a statement, not a question. The person speaking sounded young but nothing was clear - eyes didn't seem to focus. Only an impression of dark skin - a ruddy tan - in striking contrast to his white uniform.
Blinked and tried to answer but voice didn't seem to be working. Instead, nodded ... weakly.
"Relax, man," he instructed. "Let me get you some water. Your throat's dry. Just relax."
Everything was blurred. Fuzzy. The man was setting something down and reaching forward. Blinked again, trying to focus.
It helped a little but not enough. Blinked again. There was a whirring sound. The bed was moving, sitting upright. Hands reached for eyes, wanting to rub the sleep out of them.
"No man, don't do that," the man reached across, restraining the right hand. "Just hang on a second. We'll get'cha upright. You still got bandages there. Don't disturb them. Be right back with something to drink. You'se thirsty, right."
Thirsty? Parched was more like it! Nodded acquiescence, then blinked again, watching the blurred figure moving across the room.
Bandages? Felt around the face - gently ... fingertips patting softly.
He was right - bandages. Not over the eye - that wasn't it.
And could see hands. Two of them. They looked all right. Clear enough. Looked up again - the visitor was still something of a blur. Let the eyes return to the hands.
No watch on the wrist. Right wrist. Slightly paler band showed where watch should have been. What time was it anyway? And why was there a tube taped to the left arm? Could see the hairs clearly ... and the tape and the tube ... and the lumps under the blanket must be legs. Let the gaze work it's way down the length of the bed. Things were clearer now.
Across the room, the visitor was returning with a glass. Could even see the straw protruding. And the man carrying it. He was clearer now. And he was young. Chicano? Twenties? Dressed in whites?
Hospital whites?
"Where ..." Voice croaked while hands reached for the glass, greedily.
Nearly dropped it. It was heavy ... or arms were weak. The visitor steadied the glass, wrapping one of his hands around the two holding the glass. His touch was gentle but still firm.
"Slowly," he cautioned. "Not too much. Take it easy." His words were clear but accented. Mexico? Or the barrios?
"Gracias, amigo," voice croaked after swallowing a long, welcome drink. "Uno momento." Allowed the glass to withdraw for a moment ... but not too far. "¿Dondé estoy, por favor?"
"Hospital," he answered, then added, "San Francisco. ¿Comprende?"
"Si, gracias," Relaxed against the mattress, suddenly feeling very tired.
The ... orderly? ... nurse? ... took the glass and set it on the table by the bed before swinging the table across the bed. "Just take it easy," he advised. "It's here when you want it. Someone will be in to talk to you uno momento. We've been wondering when you'd wake up."
Or if? He hadn't said that but the implication was there. Or was it just imagination? Didn't know how long the sleep had been. But it felt like it had been a long long nap.
For that matter, what in blazes had happened? Couldn't remember.
San Francisco? The City by the Bay? No memory - Knew where San Francisco was but ... couldn't remember ever being there.
For that matter, couldn't remember where was supposed to be ... except that it didn't look like going anywhere immediately.
Raised hands to head ... touching the face very gently. There were bandages below the right eye and over the nose. Still, nothing seemed to hurt. Least, it wasn't tender or anything.
Pressed a little harder. Actually, things felt a little itchy.
Tried to ignore the sensation, feeling for where the bandages extended as distraction.
Another surprise. On the left side of the head, behind the ear ... the hair was a short fuzz - like it had been shaved? And had grown back out again? How long had it been?
Felt the beard. Longer than usual - definitely needed a trim.
But couldn't remember what it looked like!
Thought about getting up and looking for a mirror ... except the body was tethered in place. Not just the tube in the arm and the drip bag hanging from a support mounted on the corner of the bed. There was another tube - lower down - and this one ran somewhere under the bed.
Yeah, that made sense ... After all, what goes in, comes out, right?
Besides, wasn't sure how much strength had.
Things were focusing a little better now - not perfect but better. Looked around.
The room was light, well lit, light beige walls at the bottom, off-white above with a fern pattern in a pastel green for relief. Pleasant but institutional - didn't need to be Sherlock to recognize hospital ward. The dozen beds - most of them occupied - were a clue too obvious to miss.
The patient on left was still asleep. An older man, stubbled face looking sunken and hollow cheeked. Caucasian but weathered and once ruddy, now pale. Sailor? Certainly someone who was outside a lot. Why think of a sailor? There was nothing on his table except a water carafe and a glass. Nothing showing except his head and one hand and the hand couldn't be seen that well. No tattoos visible.
The bed to the right had the curtains drawn. Nothing to deduce from that.
There were windows behind but it was too much effort to turn around. Was too weak to look. The sunlight coming in was diffuse, casting hazy shadows. Nothing remarkable, nothing notable. Wasn't San Francisco noted for fog? Look later, no rush.
Directly across, a portly man reading a book - a paperback. Couldn't make out the title. Hands kept wanting to reach up to adjust ... What?
Glasses! Hands were reaching for glasses. Except that there weren't any.
There was a little table next to the bed. Twisted awkwardly, looking for glasses. Nothing except a plastic carafe. Water? Seemed reasonable. The drawer in the table was empty except for a Gideon bible, a note pad from some pharmaceutical firm and a cheap ballpoint. The ballpoint advertised a mortuary. Wonderful.
Plastic chair sitting next to table. Nothing on chair.
Other side of table a metal locker, then curtains hanging from curved track. Curtains pulled back. Beyond curtains, next bed and patient. Same arrangement repeated across the room - could see six beds against opposite wall. Two doors at left end of room. Couldn't see wall to right.
Couldn't reach the lower part of the table ... cabinet. Settled for another sip of water. The glass was easier to lift this time but still used both hands. Shaky.
The man across from me looked up from his book, smiled and nodded hello. "Glad to see you're back among the living," he offered, pitching his voice to carry across the ward. "How you feeling?" The man was a light chocolate, his kinky black hair was trimmed short and gray at the temples. Clean shaven, his face was rounded, relaxed, nice smile. His voice was a soft drawl with a faint Creole-French undertone. Too musical for pure French.
"Weak," admitted, then added, "Confused."
"You've been out of it for a while," the man advised. "Guess that's understandable."
"How long?" The question was hoarse.
"Been here a week, myself," the man answered. "Hope I'll be getting out 'fore long. You were sleeping when I arrived. Don't know how long before. Least a week or two before that from the gossip. Chas - he left a few days ago - wanted to make book on whether you'd wake up at all. Glad to see you did." He laid the book open on the table as he talked, then levered himself carefully off the edge of the bed, feeling with his feet for a pair of slippers. "Got to move slow," he continued, "but the doctor says I need the exercise. Nurse makes me walk down the corridor least twice a day."
He was standing - and walking - slightly bent, shuffling rather than stepping. As he reached the bedside, he paused, using the frame at the foot for support for a moment. Then another five short steps allowed him to pull out the chair next to the table and to sit with slow caution.
"George Lansburg," he offered his hand. "Appendicitis."
Took the hand and shook.
"Have a name?" he asked.
Thought about it. Seemed reasonable - certainly ought to have a name. Realized it was customary. But ... didn't ... At least, didn't remember one. Shook head slowly. "Don't know." Thought a moment more, then amplified the answer. "Really don't know." And that fact, intellectually, seemed like it should be really upsetting ... except ... it didn't. It was just ... that there was a blank. Had no name but it didn't feel important.
"Still asleep? It'll come to you," George assured me. "Don't sweat it. Takes a while to wake up sometimes."
"It's okay," agreement. "It'll come back. Appendicitis?" Changed the subject. "And they've kept you here a week? Thought appendicitis was routine?"
"Bum luck," George replied. "Infection, complications. Not too bad. What the hell, I'm alive - that counts for something. 'Sides, I've lost twenty pounds," he patted his side ... gently.
"Hell of a diet," more agreement, wondering what normal weight was - had lost weight lying here? A hand on along the side felt ribs but they didn't feel too pronounced. Nothing felt strange ... but not particularly familiar either.
"Don't recommend it," George smiled. "Kind of drastic. Probably won't last anyway. Too much time sitting behind a desk, not enough exercise. Twenty-seven years in the brick business and I'm getting flabby, ain't that a crock?"
"Brick business?"
"Construction materials. Started in bricks, back when I was a pup. Now it's bricks, stone, marble, granite, specialty materials - you name it, we supply it. Except all I ever handle is papers - haven't loaded stone in fifteen years, too busy handling client contracts. Feel like I should have a phone grafted to my ear. A week in the hospital and who knows what kind of garbage is going on at the yard. George Junior hasn't been by since Sunday - says he's too busy holding things together. So, let him have the ulcers - serve him right."
"Your son?"
"My son. Master of Business Administration, U. C. and doesn't even know how ... Never mind, not your problem. Not mine, for that matter. And I don't suppose he's any worse than I was at his age. How 'bout you? Any kids?"
"Don't know ... no ... " The answer was a surprise, then added, "At least, don't think so." Funny, couldn't remember a name but didn't think had kids. Family? Wife? Just couldn't remember.
"Yeah, didn't think so," George agreed, satisfied. "You don't act like it."
"What do you mean?"
"You didn't look around for anyone. Too self-possessed. Like you're used to depending on yourself. I know - I've got forty people working for me. Visited a lot of them in the hospital over the years, injuries, illness, maternity, what have you. Noticed how they react. Married and they just naturally expect someone to be there. Single and they don't. Besides, you haven't had any visitors since you've been here. Least, not according to Chas and he was here when they brought you in."
"Lots of privacy," laconic comment.
"Absolutely none," George agreed. "Not in a ward. George Junior wanted to put me in a private room. Be bored out of my skull. Here, maybe we're sick but we're lively. Hey, look, if you mind the company, just say so. I can go back to my book."
"Actually, glad to talk," an admission. And that was another surprise - wasn't exactly lonesome but George's company was welcome. Reassuring.
"Okay but, if you get tired or whatever, just say so. No privacy, my man - everybody here's curious and you're the big question. Think you can stand it?"
"Not much choice," stating the obvious. "Humn, guess the ward's kind of like a small community - everyone in everyone else's pockets."
"You got it, bro. And a new face - well, a new awake face - is always welcome. Hey, 'bout time for lunch. Feeling hungry? Or you going to stay on the drip?"
Hungry? Hadn't thought about it. How long had it been since eating anything? Literally weeks? Felt the stomach ... definitely empty ... also shrunken. And the water drunk was producing a full feeling. But still hungry. "Food would be nice. How's the menu?"
"Terrible," George grinned. "You have to fight for salt ... and forget about flavor."
"Wonderful."
"Hey, not really. Not bad but not great. But they'll probably start you on jello anyway."
"You prescribing diets today, Mr. Lansburg?" a new voice interrupted.
"Morning, Doctor," George levered himself upright. "Kind of late for rounds, isn't it?"
"You running this ward today? Or can I talk to my patient?" The speaker was a lady, late twenties, dark hair pulled back in a bun, nice eyes, light brown skin, good cheekbones, small red mark on forehead above the nose, no other makeup. White lab coat, bulge in lower pocket probably stethoscope, three pens in upper pocket, gray clipboard - thick plastic kind with inside compartment for papers, notes, etc - held loosely against breast by one arm. Other hand in pocket with stethoscope.
George walked carefully back to his bed across the ward, looking back as he went.
"Namaste," greeted her politely. Unable to bow, settled for nod.
"Namaste," the lady responded, mildly surprised. "Kya ap hindi samajhti hain?"
Did I speak Hindi? That was a strange question to ask. "Main bahut kam urdu janta hun," I answered, offering that I spoke a little Urdu, the second most popular of India's thousand dialects. "My English is better," I concluded.
"Your accent is very good," she offered, then. "I'm Doctor Patel. How are we feeling?"
Recurring question - easier to answer this time. "Weak, hungry, thirsty." Shrugged ... tried to shrug anyway.
"How's the head?" she asked, lifting a wrist from the sheet and looking at her watch.
"Itches, little bit ... what ... what happened?"
"How many fingers am I holding up?" She let the wrist fall back on the sheet and held up three fingers on her right hand.
"Three." Nothing wrong with eyes, no problem counting ... least to three.
"What's your name," she was watching face, her face remained calm, expressionless.
Shook head, "Don't know," admitted. "Name? ... No name ..."
Doctor Patel had a lot more questions ... but most lacked answers. Had questions for her too ... but didn't receive many answers.
Insisted, then spent most of afternoon reading medical records.
According to hospital records, John Doe #23 had been brought to the Emergency Ward by the SFPD ... six weeks ago. Admissions recorded a man somewhere between forty and fifty years of age, estimated height 6 ft 2 inches, 165 lbs, thinning hair, brown, widows peak, full beard. Marks on ears and bridge of nose indicating glasses worn regularly - none reported found. Nails trimmed neatly but not manicured. Moderately tanned, light mark on right wrist suggesting wristwatch - none reported found. No rings or personal jewelry.
Victim found in Golden Gate park, gun-shot victim, small caliber bullet - estimated .22 caliber - entering skull at left rear and exiting right median sinus. Extensive damage within cerebral cavity, extensive bleeding and contusion. Further damages from bone fragments and bullet passage.
The record included extensive surgery to repair entry and exit wounds, both had been repaired with plastic insets. Patient remained comatose following surgery. Prognosis uncertain. Continuing EEG activity and reflex responses but no voluntary activity evidenced.
Additional reports, daily assessments, shift notes had very little to add. John Doe #23 had spent three weeks in intensive care before being moved to a general ward where minimal life support - intravenous saline / glucose drip - was provided. Weekly EEGs showed no change in higher brain functions, no voluntary activity noted. Patient remained in vegetative coma.
Clipboard was heavy, hard to open, hard to handle. Reading reports was interrupted by removal of urinary drain and IV drip ... and delivery of - per prediction - very bland meal. Orange juice, milk, jello. Still tasted good. Stomach accepted sustenance with minimal protest but also limited capacity. Lots of fluids recommended.
Continued with reports. No facial scars - current injuries excepted - noted, evidence nose previously broken and healed. Three scars noted:
First on inside of right forearm, half-inch in length, two inches below elbow. Easily checked, found scar described - no memory of scar or injury.
Second, below rib cage beginning left of median, four inches in length running diagonally down and left, probable laceration, possible knife wound, long healed. Checked, found scar as described - again no memory.
Third, paired scars on left thigh six inches above knee, puncture, entry and exit wounds, possible bullet wound. Again, easily located, description matched ... and no memory of injury.
All scars were old and well-healed.
Clothing: John Doe #23 was wearing a pair of dark brown Haggar slacks - size 34 waist, 32 inseam. Dark brown belt, 90 cm length, plain buckle, no manufacturer's imprint. Light blue cotton shirt, short-sleeved, label identifying manufacturer as "Chu" and size as "L", no other details. Beige jacket with "Nautica" label, made in Malaysia, size "L". Cotton briefs - size 34, Haynes label. Stretch socks, dark-gray, over calf length, Burlington brand. Victim was not wearing shoes but a pair of very ragged sneakers were reportedly found nearby.
Personal effects: No identification, no wallet, no personal jewelry. Key ring with compass (fluid-filled bubble type), four keys and conical brass weight. One key identified as late-model Nissan - year and model not identifiable. One key fitting an Arbus padlock. One key matching a Rabson lock - possible house or office. Fourth key described as barrel or cylindrical key - possible bicycle lock, steering-wheel club lock, etc.
No money, bills or coins found on victim's person.
A note in the package requested that Lieutenant Grayson - San Francisco Police Department - be notified of any change in the condition of John Doe #23.
Read through complete medical and notes a second time - was feeling stronger, sitting upright, legs crossed in lotus position when Doctor Patel returned. This time accompanied by a younger man, sports coat, gray slacks, confident mannerisms, carrying small cassette recorder in left hand.
"Feel better?" Dr. Patel asked, reaching for wrist to take pulse.
"Some," agreed. "Still weak."
Younger man turned to reach for chair, slight bulge on left side, under coat. Man moved chair, took a seat, crossing legs, then laid cassette recorder on bedside table. Red light on cassette showed recorder on.
"Lieutenant Grayson?" Easy assumption, saw startled expression in eyes, quickly covered.
"I'm Lieutenant Grayson," he admitted. "You are?"
Shook head - familiar gesture, doing a lot of that lately. "Don't know. Any clues?"
"You can have fifteen minutes," Dr. Patel addressed the officer, then turned back, "If you get tired, just ring for the duty nurse. Okay?"
"No problem," agreed. Looked at officer, "Nothing in records? No missing persons reports? You tried fingerprints?"
Again, a moment of disconcertion in the man's expression. "No, you don't match any missing persons reported," he admitted, grudgingly. "And your fingerprints don't match any on record. Dr. Patel said you couldn't remember your name. Tell me what do you remember?"
"Nothing," shook head, then added, "Woke up this morning ... hospital ... lunch ... read records," gestured at the clipboard lying on lap. "Nothing else. Said gunshot wound to head, entry in rear, exit wound in front," touched bandages on face, "Was bullet found?"
The Lieutenant's face said 'no' while his voice asked, "You don't remember anything?"
"Nothing," repeated. "No memory ... any kind." Wasn't completely true - remembered places, remembered things, remembered foods, remembered buildings ... but nothing connected. And no names, no faces.
Was feeling very tired by the time the officer left. A bit frustrated as well - had mapped extent of void in memory - not encouraging. Names ... a few ... but none that seemed relevant. What point remembering King George IV of England - long dead. Same for Aristotle, Franklin, Twain and Pope Gregory. Remembered President Carter - still alive but just a picture from papers or magazines, no personal connection. Same for Prime Minister Thatcher. Same for several others, some alive, some dead but nothing personal. Alex Trebeck was easy but suggested one more name. Name - no face, no details - was Alex Tambeau. Mentioned to detective but nothing connected here either.
"Who's Alex Tambeau?" Detective Grayson echoed.
"No idea ... just a name ..." shrugged.
Rest of interview was no better ...
"Hola, amigo ... you okay?" Distant voice, familiar but worried. "You've not gone comatose again? ... You awake? ... Hey ..."
Voice was urgent, concerned. Looked for source, opened eyes. Looked up. Caesar - our ward orderly - had worry written all over his usually pleasant features, he was standing bent forward, hand half extended.
"Tol' him not to bother you," George's soft, Gallic-accented drawl came from behind Caesar. "Seen people like you - off dream walking, weren't you?"
Why all the fuss? Was seated on bed, legs crossed comfortably in lotus posture, hands resting on knees, palms up ... perfectly normal posture for zazen. "Dream walking? Meditation's something like that. Didn't mean to cause alarm."
Caesar still looked worried. "You're sure you're all right? ¿Esta bien?"
"Bien, gracias. ¿Que es problema?"
"I think you go comatose again," Caesar apologized. "I was about to call Doctor Patel. You ... you were so still. Didn't move ..."
"Este nada. Just thinking. No este infermo. Pero muchas gracias."
"De nada," Caesar responded automatically, then asked, "Ah, do you need anything?"
A supporting hand to the bathroom, yes - the legs were weak, didn't want to support the body. Caesar offered a wheelchair but exercise was better - just needed someone to steady against.
Came back same way - half-walking, half-supported but felt stronger. Little bit, any way.
Found another nurse waiting - with a wheelchair. Accepted ride to physical therapy - whirlpool bath, muscle massage, hesitant steps between parallel bars, more whirlpool. What was it about massage? Something ... different. Some hesitant memory of a different style of massage. Memory remained vague - no details. Relaxed and tried to enjoy treatment.
Wanted to walk back to ward but settled for pushing wheelchair part way ... until legs went soft again.
Bed was welcome. Let the legs stretch and relax - tired thighs, tired calves. Found controls to raise bed to sitting position.
George - across the ward - smiled, then set his book down, levering himself upright, feet fishing for slippers again. "What you need, my man," he grinned as he approached, "is a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. Tol' Caesar you were okay. So, how was the old twist, pummel and bubble?"
"Legs feel better. Kind of tired. Guess legs napped too long."
"Feel like some company?" George was leaning on the foot of the bed, not intruding, just offering.
"Have a chair." Gestured toward the single plastic chair. "Your abdomen isn't up to standing for long, right?"
"Got that right, my man," George accepted the offered chair without protest. "Say, don't suppose you play pinochle? Or cribbage?"
Had to think a moment. "Pinochle? Think so but not real sure. Cribbage, okay. Uh, rummy or poker's okay ... no, guess not poker - no money."
"Hey, Captain," George didn't raise his voice, just pitched it to carry, turning his head toward the further end of the ward. "Got a sucker here for pinochle if you're game. You and Wills want to drag a couple of chairs down? Got to do something to break the monotony," he turned back. "And the Captain's been itching for a good pinochle game. Likes acey-ducey, too - you play that?"
"Acey-ducey?" Considered the question. "Like backgammon?"
"No, is tivoli!" a new voice interjected. "Acey-ducey for America sailors who not know better. Captain Mikael Donavi," the speaker freed one hand from his crutches to extend a mitt lined with calluses on calluses. His voice was redolent of the Mediterranean - the famed mid-land sea of ancient times. His face was ruddy skin with lines on lines topped by thick gray hair, curly with a touch of salt-yellowing at the ends. Brilliant blue eyes looked out under heavy eyebrows, surrounded by tiny broken veins. Nose slightly hooked with an angle to the left. More stocky than tall but probably weight one-eighty on a five-ten frame. Most of it was muscle - not fat.
Accepted handshake. "What ship, Captain?"
"Bless you, mate. The Andromea out of Cyprus. You're not a seaman - don't have the hands for it. But you're no landlubber either. Saw you walking, weak in the pins, sure, but you rolled with it, eh? Won't ask your name - word is you've lost your memory." - more evidence of ward grapevine - "Still, glad to see you up and about."
"Er, thank you. Uh, sorry - short of chairs." Looked around wondering what hospital etiquette demanded for borrowing a chair or two.
"Not a problem," the Captain gestured behind himself. Another man - not encumbered by crutches - was sliding two chairs across the floor. "Not that I'd shirk carrying my own load, you understand, but - until they give me my legs back - it's not a matter of choice."
"Captain Donavi," George offered, "got his leg crushed when a boom dropped a crate. But might be I should let him tell you the tale."
The Captain, it developed, had been struck by a heavy wheel - an eighteen-inch hard rubber disk for industrial equipment - which had bounced from a smashed crate to strike the Captain coming down the gangway. "And, so, mate," he concluded grinning, "I was run down on my own gangway ... and the insurance company had the nerve to ask if it were a traffic accident, eh?" He lowered himself into the provided chair, leaning the crutches against the end of the bed.
"Daniel Wills," the third man introduced himself. "Nothing quite so interesting in my case - just your run of the mill peptic ulcer."
Accepted the offered hand and shook. Mr. Wills was almost the penultimate non-descript middle-aged Anglo male. Hair cut short on the sides, bald on top, small mustache, gray eyes behind wire-framed bifocals, about five-ten, medium build, slight pot-belly. Hand was smooth for the most part - very smooth fingertips ... almost worn silky smooth. Slight callus on the outside of the thumb. No tan - not even tan line at wrists or neck.
"Accountant?" Forestalled question with raised hand, then added, "Not management, CPA?"
Startled look crossing the gray eyes, vanishing almost as quickly as it appeared. "Something like that," Mr. Wills agreed. "Uh, here, let me lower this table and put it next to the bed. We can deal on the table if that's okay?"
"Sure, why not." Remarks must have touched a nerve in Mr. Wills - decided to leave subject alone. No point in embarrassing him.
Captain Donavi produced a couple of pinochle decks from his bathrobe, wrapping his hands around them like they were half-sized decks, bringing them together with a smooth rippling brrrr as he shuffled.
George swung his chair toward my side, Mr. Wills taking the center opposite.
Pinochle rules came easily - cut-throat but without animosity. As we played, the Captain carried most of the conversation, rambling reminiscences of ports of call, of sunny seas and cloudy, of northern waters and tropic ports. George chimed in with tropical comments - he'd spent time in the Caribbean it seemed - but Daniel Wills was mostly quiet, confining his comments to the cards, the hospital and the bland food.
Mr. Wills was an enigma. He had an occasional touch of accent - sounded north-eastern U. S. - but mostly smooth California speech ... almost a studied accent. Neutral in tone and content, as neutral as his appearance. Almost like a mask.
"We'll have to break this up," Captain Donavi offered, counting up his tricks with some satisfaction - he was easily ahead of everyone. "Near time for the galley to open, eh?"
"He means chow time," George offered.
"Maybe a shot at tivloi later?" the Captain's voice was wistful. "If you're game, mate?"
"Can try. Can't promise much."
Captain Donavi levered himself upright, using the bed for support. Daniel Wills gathered the chairs, sliding them back toward his end of the ward, no words of departure.
"Bothers me, mate," the Captain looked down the bed. "Need a name. Can't just call you 'mate'." He picked up the clipboard hung from the frame, examining the label. "Can't call you John Doe Twenty-three either. Y'look like a man's been around. How 'bout ... Jason - countryman of mine, traveled a bit."
"Looking for a golden fleece? Thanks but ..."
"Well, give us a moniker, mate. Then, when y'remember, well, you can always change."
Reasonable request - could see it being awkward. Tried to think of one ... what's in a name? "Alex Tambeau ... Alexander Jason Tambeau ... Alex for short. That suit?"
"Alexander Jason, eh? My pleasure, Mr. Tambeau," the Captain used his crutches to come around the bed, then extended his hand again. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Alex, it is," George agreed. "Until you find a better one."
Supper - dinner - whatever - was welcomed by a stomach which had been empty for weeks. It was all pretty bland ... and, presumably, well balanced but hardly remarkable. Ate slowly, unsure how much the stomach could tolerate all at once.
Neighbor on left was awake but didn't say much. Seemed to stare at the food with disinterest, ate little, picked at it. Looked like he needed food - thin arms, bony wrists, skeletal shoulders under the blue and white pajama shirt. Tendons in neck prominent, protruding adam's apple, sunken cheeks, hollow eyes. Every movement careful, deliberate ... almost painful to watch.
Conversational offerings were met with a sad smile. Didn't press. Man's entitled to privacy.
Finished dinner - jello for desert - some memory of jello ... should be sweet red beans and fruit with it ... and shaved ice and coconut milk ... couldn't remember where ... or why. Ate it anyway.
Stomach was full, felt sleepy. Tried to sit zazen and look inward, searching for ... memories? Past? What was missing?
Woke up ... lights were dim. Everything silent ... deep silence ...
Found carafe on table, sipped water, made long trip to bathroom and back. Some improvement, legs felt steadier. Still, tiring trip.
Didn't feel like sleeping though. Felt ... empty. What was missing? Sat zazen, relaxed, regular breaths, calm ... looked ... thought ... searched ... charting the borders of an empty sea. Wandered aimless, no referents ... no points to navigate ... no pole star ... no compass ... no landmarks.
Not all was empty ... lots of places. Memories of red, green, blue and gold woodwork intricately carved. Dark lush vegetation outside. Images of stepped pavilions, tan and sand, palm trees and date palms. Memories of climbing a palm for coconuts. Memories of how to bow and back away. Memories of eating with the right hand only. Memories of shrouding mosquito netting. Memories of warm fireplaces, sausages, pancakes with onions, snow fields and mountain peaks. Voices ... accents ... languages ... bamboo-framed walls ... stone walls with tapestry ... plain walls ... plaster walls ... tent walls ... more voices ... moss hanging from tree limbs ... wrought iron gates ... narrow streets and overhanging balconies... becoming narrow paths up flower-strewn hillsides ... taxis ... and pedicabs ... and bright, chrome-spangled jeeps ... motorcycles with home-made sidecars ... and trucks along the interstate ... and yellow and black checkered cabs ... and plain black boxy taxis ... and long shallow boats piled high with vegetables and fruits ... and temples - or churches - with bright stained glass ... and others open to the breezes caressing statues many times larger than a man ... and others white with geometric borders but no images and no figures ... and small cafes with glass windows looking into crowded streets ... and other cafes - other scents - with open fronts or no walls at all ... and huge fans turning slowly overhead ... and incense ... and strings of jasmine blossoms ... and tall fruit drinks ... and mint tea, sweet and fragrant ... and street-vendors and push-carts and ice-cream trucks with jingling bells and sweet crisp fish served on platters of banana leaves.
Mountains melted into lakes, lakes flowed into plains, plains gave way to sea shores, waves became forests, forests of evergreens gave way to dark and dripping tropics filled with madly tangled vines ... and the vines gave way to towering redwoods. Mushrooms dotted the forest floor. Black birds flashed red and yellow chevrons on their wings. Squirrels chattered from oak trees. Deer stepped across the clovered clearings. Elk stood in the tall grass. The sunset across the desert's vast expanse was a riot of colors, a marvel of steaks and shapes and forms carved in ancient sandstones so mysterious and vast that a man could be lost in the landscape ... lost in wonder amid the crowded streets, the tiny shops, the hustle and bustle of the metropolis where gray-suited bankers passed by beggars wrapped in breechcloths, where sarongs and caste marks blended with haute coture and proud black skinned women stood tall in brightly colored wraps while others wrapped in coats and fur fought the bitter winds along the canyons lined with windows and filled with bustling traffic.
Step-roofed pagodas became rounded, peaked mosques which gave way to glass-curtained skyscrapers supplanted by low-roofed, small-windowed cottages before changing to round, wattle-finished huts which became platform-mounted houses with phoenix-winged gables. A city of flags with bamboo poles from every window draped with drying wash. Night became day, day became sunrise became sunset became night in no order. The big dipper shown over a hot spring-fed pool in the desert and over another high in a valley flanked by mountains in all directions where the southern cross rose proudly above a snow-capped peak.
Huge birds - waking on two legs with tiny wings - were followed by chicks looking like balls of fluff. Peacocks strutted and screeched to attract peahens. Brightly-colored birds of paradise ruffed their plumage, grouse thundered up like a sudden storm. Miles of rain walked across the waters like a curtain stretching from the seas to the heavens. Flying fish soared. Porpoises leaped from the waves. Kangaroos bounded across the outback. A herd of wild horses thundered past, wild as the storm which followed them. The desert was white with snow - a gaze-field with no shadows, no features, no focus. The moon was brilliant in the heavens.
And all of this bordered and surrounded a great emptiness. A void where something had been lost. Or where something had been and had left.
The emptiness lay in the center ... vastly empty ... not a mark, not a trace, no point of navigation nor recognition. Not a ripple, not a sign, not a flaw or mist or glimmer.