Beyond Paradise
Bittersweet Migraine in My Head
Odette's level gaze waited for his response. Her eyes seemed to look beneath his skin, into his heart, but she said nothing.
"I did need him," he said. "I was only ten fucking years old when he died, and what was I supposed to do? He was gone, and that guitar was all I had left. So I learned to play it, played the hell out of it. I threw everything I had into it, all my energy and emotion and time, everything. But you know what? Even at the top of my game, when we had made it as big as we could make it, it was all like some lousy consolation prize. All I ever wanted was to look down into the audience, just once, and see him sitting there smiling, and make him proud. And that'll never happen."
She shook her head sadly, the thick braid swinging across her back. "You do him dishonor, Billie. You see only his absence, and not the man who lived and breathed. When you cling to the past, you lose sight of the gifts you have."
He clenched his teeth in frustration. "That's just the point. I have no gift anymore! That son of a bitch Stroud took it away from me."
Odette sighed. "As long as you believe that, you will be at his mercy. You have to learn to see with new eyes, Billie. You have to understand that everything comes full circle. Full circle. Remember that."
She stood, bending to gather the cups and tray, and took them to the kitchen. He heard water running as she filled the sink, and the chink of dishes. As she worked, she began to hum a melancholy tune, her thin, sweet voice drifting through the house like the haunting sound of a music box.
He sat for moment, waiting to see if she would rejoin them, but even when the sounds of clattering china had ceased, she didn't reappear. "Is that all?" he asked Jabril. "Are we supposed to leave now?"
"I think so," the boy nodded, and rose from the couch. He opened the front door and held it for Billie. There was no wall now, no impassive brick obstacle, and outside the sun was shining brightly on the street and the few people who were beginning to move about. Snot sat patiently by the door where he had waited for them.
Jabril squinted, shading his eyes as he scanned up and down the street. Billie reached down to scratch behind the dog's droopy ears, unsure what he was supposed to do next. Suddenly a low, rumbling growl vibrated against his fingers, and the hackles on Snot's back and neck stood straight up, his ears laying flat. The dog's eyes were fixed on the roof of a building on the other side of the street, but Billie could see nothing out of the ordinary.
Suddenly Jabril grabbed his sleeve, eyes wide with fear. "Run!" he shouted, and Billie was nearly pulled off his feet as they fled back toward the warehouse. He tried to turn his head to see what was behind them, but Jabril yelled over his shoulder, "Don't look back, just keep running!"
A hissing noise, like a tremendous wind through dry leaves, was growing louder and closer behind them. Billie was struggling to keep pace. It seemed that even though there had been hardly anyone on the sidewalk just moments ago, people were drifting out of doorways and side streets, so many that he could hardly make his way past. He shouldered through the crowd, trying desperately not to lose sight of Jabril. No one seemed to pay the slightest attention to him, but their bodies blocked his way as surely as Odette's brick wall had.
Up ahead, the boy's brightly colored hair was moving further into the throng, and he wasn't turning to look back. Billie was fighting panic, pushing people aside, but it was no use, Jabril was getting away from him.
Fighting the panic that was climbing into his throat, he elbowed and shouldered between people who seemed oblivious to him. The noise behind him was growing louder, like a swarm of invisible locusts about to engulf him. Though he remembered Jabril's warning not to look back, he could see the sunlight dimming, as though thunderclouds had moved in overhead, and his terrified mind flashed one image after another of the imagined horror at his back.
Near the side street that led to the kebab stand, he was finally able to break free of the mob, and he could see around him well enough to tell that he was alone, except for Snot. Jabril had disappeared. Still he ran, the adrenaline pumping through his veins forcing him on, feet flying over the pavement as fast as he could go.
He covered the two blocks back to the warehouse quickly, but when he arrived in front of the big door, the padlock was firmly fastened outside, and there was no sign of Jabril or any of the other boys. He slammed his fist against the door, hard, breath whistling in and out of his lungs, but there was no answer. The shadow was dark overhead now, as if an eclipse had blocked out the sun, and he flattened his body against the rusted metal door, his eyes squeezed shut to block out his doom.
The brief seconds that passed seemed like hours, but the explosion of pain he expected never came. He began to see light growing brighter through his lids, and cautiously opened his eyes. The shadow--and the hissing sound--had disappeared, and the sun was shining brightly again.
Inside his chest, his heart flopped and thudded like a hooked fish. Every nerve tingled with electricity, and his skin was bathed in cold sweat. As relief washed through him, his knees felt weak, and he leaned against the door to keep from sinking to the ground.
He turned around to survey his surroundings, feeling like a child who finds himself alone in the dark. Across the street from the building where he had spent the night, all the windows and doors of the decaying buildings were boarded, except for one, and over that door was a sign, hanging crookedly by one corner, that read "Pawn Shop."
Hoping to see a human face, he cautiously crossed the street, listening for any sound that might mean danger. The door was arched, wooden and crossed with black iron bands. He grasped the iron handle and pulled, and the heavy door swung open with a groan.
No pawn shop he had ever seen looked quite like this. The ceiling was low, supported by large exposed beams, and stacks of shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Hazy glass cases stretched across the back of the shop, filled with odd-looking objects--out of fashion jewelry, battered electronic devices, tarnished silver dishes and flatware, dolls with chipped porcelain faces. Many of the items looked very old, as though someone had cleaned out an attic and dumped everything here.
What caught Billie's eye was the guitar, mounted on the wall behind the counter. It was a Daphne-blue 1965 Fender Mustang, polished to a mirror shine, complete with vibrato tailpiece. It was a surf musician's wet dream. In spite of the trembling that still reverberated through his body, he had to admit he was in awe.
"She is beautiful, no?" a deep voice with a Slavic accent rumbled from the storeroom behind the counter. Billie recognized it immediately. Mischa stepped forward out of the dark, a screwdriver in his tattooed hand. "You have seen such an instrument before?"
For a moment, he thought he would weep from relief at seeing a familiar face, even one he barely knew. He held out his hand, which was swallowed up in Mischa's huge one. "It's good to see you again," he said, realizing it was an understatement. "Where did you come by such a rarity?" Somehow he felt safer just being in the room with the big man.
"She is an old friend of mine. Ve have grown up together, you may say." He spoke softly, almost with affection. "Vith music, it is a dance, no? You hold her close, lead her vhere you vant her to go, and yet it is she who creates the beauty you make together."
Billie chuckled. "You sound like you're talking about a woman," he said, his eyes tracing the curves of the guitar's body.
Mischa looked steadily at him, a wry smile tilting one corner of his walrus mustache. "Is it not the same?" he asked, leaning one elbow on the counter. "She is quiet and shy until you touch her, find her secrets, and then she begins to sing for you like the angels in the heavens. It is a vonderful thing, no?"
Adie's eyes, warm and sable-colored, floated through his mind, and the sudden jarring pain of remembering where he should be made his chest constrict. His hands clung tightly to the edge of the counter for support. The sense of loss and hopelessness was more than he could bear.
"My friend, are you not vell?" Mischa asked in alarm. Billie's face had gone pale, and his lids had slid closed over his green eyes.
"I--I'm okay, I guess."
"There is somevhere you vish to be very much, I think," the big man said. "Someone you vould give much to see again."
"Y-yes," Billie stammered, struggling for control.
Leaning forward to look earnestly into Billie's face, Mischa spoke, so softly it was almost a whisper. "Then let us find out vhat it is you vill give to go home again."
"I did need him," he said. "I was only ten fucking years old when he died, and what was I supposed to do? He was gone, and that guitar was all I had left. So I learned to play it, played the hell out of it. I threw everything I had into it, all my energy and emotion and time, everything. But you know what? Even at the top of my game, when we had made it as big as we could make it, it was all like some lousy consolation prize. All I ever wanted was to look down into the audience, just once, and see him sitting there smiling, and make him proud. And that'll never happen."
She shook her head sadly, the thick braid swinging across her back. "You do him dishonor, Billie. You see only his absence, and not the man who lived and breathed. When you cling to the past, you lose sight of the gifts you have."
He clenched his teeth in frustration. "That's just the point. I have no gift anymore! That son of a bitch Stroud took it away from me."
Odette sighed. "As long as you believe that, you will be at his mercy. You have to learn to see with new eyes, Billie. You have to understand that everything comes full circle. Full circle. Remember that."
She stood, bending to gather the cups and tray, and took them to the kitchen. He heard water running as she filled the sink, and the chink of dishes. As she worked, she began to hum a melancholy tune, her thin, sweet voice drifting through the house like the haunting sound of a music box.
He sat for moment, waiting to see if she would rejoin them, but even when the sounds of clattering china had ceased, she didn't reappear. "Is that all?" he asked Jabril. "Are we supposed to leave now?"
"I think so," the boy nodded, and rose from the couch. He opened the front door and held it for Billie. There was no wall now, no impassive brick obstacle, and outside the sun was shining brightly on the street and the few people who were beginning to move about. Snot sat patiently by the door where he had waited for them.
Jabril squinted, shading his eyes as he scanned up and down the street. Billie reached down to scratch behind the dog's droopy ears, unsure what he was supposed to do next. Suddenly a low, rumbling growl vibrated against his fingers, and the hackles on Snot's back and neck stood straight up, his ears laying flat. The dog's eyes were fixed on the roof of a building on the other side of the street, but Billie could see nothing out of the ordinary.
Suddenly Jabril grabbed his sleeve, eyes wide with fear. "Run!" he shouted, and Billie was nearly pulled off his feet as they fled back toward the warehouse. He tried to turn his head to see what was behind them, but Jabril yelled over his shoulder, "Don't look back, just keep running!"
A hissing noise, like a tremendous wind through dry leaves, was growing louder and closer behind them. Billie was struggling to keep pace. It seemed that even though there had been hardly anyone on the sidewalk just moments ago, people were drifting out of doorways and side streets, so many that he could hardly make his way past. He shouldered through the crowd, trying desperately not to lose sight of Jabril. No one seemed to pay the slightest attention to him, but their bodies blocked his way as surely as Odette's brick wall had.
Up ahead, the boy's brightly colored hair was moving further into the throng, and he wasn't turning to look back. Billie was fighting panic, pushing people aside, but it was no use, Jabril was getting away from him.
Fighting the panic that was climbing into his throat, he elbowed and shouldered between people who seemed oblivious to him. The noise behind him was growing louder, like a swarm of invisible locusts about to engulf him. Though he remembered Jabril's warning not to look back, he could see the sunlight dimming, as though thunderclouds had moved in overhead, and his terrified mind flashed one image after another of the imagined horror at his back.
Near the side street that led to the kebab stand, he was finally able to break free of the mob, and he could see around him well enough to tell that he was alone, except for Snot. Jabril had disappeared. Still he ran, the adrenaline pumping through his veins forcing him on, feet flying over the pavement as fast as he could go.
He covered the two blocks back to the warehouse quickly, but when he arrived in front of the big door, the padlock was firmly fastened outside, and there was no sign of Jabril or any of the other boys. He slammed his fist against the door, hard, breath whistling in and out of his lungs, but there was no answer. The shadow was dark overhead now, as if an eclipse had blocked out the sun, and he flattened his body against the rusted metal door, his eyes squeezed shut to block out his doom.
The brief seconds that passed seemed like hours, but the explosion of pain he expected never came. He began to see light growing brighter through his lids, and cautiously opened his eyes. The shadow--and the hissing sound--had disappeared, and the sun was shining brightly again.
Inside his chest, his heart flopped and thudded like a hooked fish. Every nerve tingled with electricity, and his skin was bathed in cold sweat. As relief washed through him, his knees felt weak, and he leaned against the door to keep from sinking to the ground.
He turned around to survey his surroundings, feeling like a child who finds himself alone in the dark. Across the street from the building where he had spent the night, all the windows and doors of the decaying buildings were boarded, except for one, and over that door was a sign, hanging crookedly by one corner, that read "Pawn Shop."
Hoping to see a human face, he cautiously crossed the street, listening for any sound that might mean danger. The door was arched, wooden and crossed with black iron bands. He grasped the iron handle and pulled, and the heavy door swung open with a groan.
No pawn shop he had ever seen looked quite like this. The ceiling was low, supported by large exposed beams, and stacks of shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Hazy glass cases stretched across the back of the shop, filled with odd-looking objects--out of fashion jewelry, battered electronic devices, tarnished silver dishes and flatware, dolls with chipped porcelain faces. Many of the items looked very old, as though someone had cleaned out an attic and dumped everything here.
What caught Billie's eye was the guitar, mounted on the wall behind the counter. It was a Daphne-blue 1965 Fender Mustang, polished to a mirror shine, complete with vibrato tailpiece. It was a surf musician's wet dream. In spite of the trembling that still reverberated through his body, he had to admit he was in awe.
"She is beautiful, no?" a deep voice with a Slavic accent rumbled from the storeroom behind the counter. Billie recognized it immediately. Mischa stepped forward out of the dark, a screwdriver in his tattooed hand. "You have seen such an instrument before?"
For a moment, he thought he would weep from relief at seeing a familiar face, even one he barely knew. He held out his hand, which was swallowed up in Mischa's huge one. "It's good to see you again," he said, realizing it was an understatement. "Where did you come by such a rarity?" Somehow he felt safer just being in the room with the big man.
"She is an old friend of mine. Ve have grown up together, you may say." He spoke softly, almost with affection. "Vith music, it is a dance, no? You hold her close, lead her vhere you vant her to go, and yet it is she who creates the beauty you make together."
Billie chuckled. "You sound like you're talking about a woman," he said, his eyes tracing the curves of the guitar's body.
Mischa looked steadily at him, a wry smile tilting one corner of his walrus mustache. "Is it not the same?" he asked, leaning one elbow on the counter. "She is quiet and shy until you touch her, find her secrets, and then she begins to sing for you like the angels in the heavens. It is a vonderful thing, no?"
Adie's eyes, warm and sable-colored, floated through his mind, and the sudden jarring pain of remembering where he should be made his chest constrict. His hands clung tightly to the edge of the counter for support. The sense of loss and hopelessness was more than he could bear.
"My friend, are you not vell?" Mischa asked in alarm. Billie's face had gone pale, and his lids had slid closed over his green eyes.
"I--I'm okay, I guess."
"There is somevhere you vish to be very much, I think," the big man said. "Someone you vould give much to see again."
"Y-yes," Billie stammered, struggling for control.
Leaning forward to look earnestly into Billie's face, Mischa spoke, so softly it was almost a whisper. "Then let us find out vhat it is you vill give to go home again."