Mandolin Dreams - Chapter VII.i
Paris, Now
You have full discretion on your choice of Hand, but only from the pool of Mundies with the right marker. Always clear your choice with your supervisor prior to initiating the process. Attempting to turn someone who doesn't have the marker will result in their death, and may destabilize the "world."
—The Pharmer’s Handbook, Sixth Edition, page 46
"What the hell are you talking about?" He threw up his arms. "Do I look dead?" Van yelled. While this plot twist might have made for a cool turn in a story, it felt more like a cruel joke. The room started to wobble. It undulated and seemed to inhale and exhale around him. He swore he could hear a faint hiss.
[hhhhhhhhhh]
He curled his arms on the table and rested his head.
Hobson said, barely more than a whisper "We don't know what happened, or how this is even possible but I know for a fact that you died one year ago, yesterday, on September fifteenth, 2022. I was there."
"That was yesterday. I was at the pub yesterday. We were just there together. What the fuck is this?"
"Van. Listen to me. I'm not talking about yesterday. I'm talking about a year ago."
Delphi chimed in. "It's 2023, Van."
"No." He said with less conviction.
"Hobson. Look." Delphi said.
He turned to look at Van. "Hmmm."
"What? What's wrong?"
"This isn't good."
"He's not ready." Delphi said.
"I don't know that anyone can be ready for the sudden infusion of a year of life." Hobson said.
Van looked at his hands. His stomach cramped, a lot. He nearly smashed his face on the table. Then was hit with a wave of nausea, the kind that screamed "it's cooooomiiiing!" He bolted upright and yelled for the bathroom. The chair fell behind him. He stumbled down the hallway until he found it. He slammed the door.
He stood in front of the mirror, hands on either side of the sink where he'd just dropped his phone. The twist in his gut loosened a little. He looked into the mirror. Just in time to see his skin warble and waver. He could see his hair, growing and his large belly, the weight, the massive liver, that he'd carried for the last few years and had, in the end, killed him, dissipate beneath his clothes.
"What the fuck?" was all he could manage. His dark grey sweater hung loosely around his midsection. He raised a hand, touched his stomach. It was flat. "What the fuck?" He raised the fabric to reveal, abs? He'd never had abs in his life. He wasn't, had never been the muscular type, had always found the very thought of exercise exhausting, never mind the real thing. Yet, there they were, these little bumps of flesh that told a different tale. And his hair, it was long and lush. He wasn't younger. He hadn't turned into a younger version of himself. That would be crazy. He looked how he imagined he would have looked without the ravages of a lifetime of substance abuse; if he'd exercised regularly, slept and taken more care of himself. "What, the, actual, fuck."
Then, he giggled. It was a short laugh that flirted a little with insanity. His mind tried and make sense of it. His brain tried to Tetris the facts, organize them, force them into some sort of order. It was too much. He sat on the plush blue-carpeted toilet seat cover. No. This was the result of a year of choices that he didn't remember making. Hobson had said the sudden infusion of a year of life.
He could hear him in the hallway. He'd continued talking as if Van had been listening. "Somehow, someway, a year after your death, to the minute, we think, you appeared at the pub in your booth and claimed to be waiting for Anthony. You scared the crap out of Terry." Hobson chuckled.
Van yanked the door open, and looked at Hobson and behind him, Delphi. He started to smile. "I think I'm okay. That wasn't so bad." He stepped forward.
"Van. Wait. It isn't--" Hobson stopped as Van threw his hands against either side of his head. Memories erupted. Some familiar, others new, but none real. He pressed and pressed against his temples. Pain. Intense pain. The hospital. Sadness. Besame Mucho. Crying. Strained breath. Then nothing.
He couldn't focus on any specific memory, not yet. He didn't want to. Other memories fought to the surface, on top of the old ones. Had he died? Now there were memories of coming out of the hospital, of vowing to do better, of making changes. He dropped to his knees, braced himself, hands on thighs. He squeezed. His whole body flexed at once in a gigantic spasm. And then he fainted. He wasn't conscious but he heard them talking, felt them moving him.
"Dammit!"
"Let's put him in the guest room."
"This is unheard of, Hobson. I mean there have been cases where someone is made a Hand at death, but a year later?"
"His mind is trying to merge a year of nothing and a year of life, a different life. It's trying to backfill that time."
"Is that even possible?"
"I mean, I've never seen this before, but in theory, it should just work out, fix itself. If anything, the last year seems to have been better for him than his death." Hobson stopped moving for a second.
They dragged him down the hall to a small spare bedroom and put him onto a soft bed. Delphi sat next to him. She rested her cool hand on his forehead for a moment.
"I'm more concerned with who did this. Where's your terminal?" Hobson said as he left the room.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" She said to Hobson as she gently stroked Van's hair.
He wanted to sleep, to forget everything. Her hand soothed him a little.
Hobson continued talking from the other room. "No. But whoever did this, whoever could do this, is someone I need to get ahead of. I don't get it. Besides, we're out of options. Where is it?"
"In the bookcase. Look for A la recherche du temps perdu; it has a red binding."
"I can't find it." Hobson yelled from the other room.
Van heard Delphi whisper into his cheek. Her breath was warm and smelled of black coffee. "You can't trust him." She left the room. He heard the door shut tight, and the lock click.
It wasn't a dream. He could still hear them in the other room but could no longer understand what they were saying. He sat up, and turned to put his feet on the floor. He still had his shoes on. Whatever the hell was happening to him didn't matter. He needed to find Anthony. He stood up and went to the locked door. Their voices not close or loud enough. He went to the window, opened it and put his head out. There was no clear way down, but he saw a pipe to the left. He wondered, then flexed his hands and arms a few times, put his head out again. He decided it wasn't that high. He shrugged and lifted himself out the window, grabbed the pipe and shimmied down the side of the building. He couldn't help but feel like James fucking Bond. He reached the ground, and looked back up at the second story window. "This is going to take some getting used to." He said to himself.
He crossed the street in front of the bookshop. He walked along the closed green bouquiniste stands. He almost bumped into a Frenchman who made it a point to not cede the way in the slightest. "Ha, Paris. How I haven't missed you." It was just past eight in the morning and there were people about. Some heading to work, others jogging. The more zealous tourists also milled about. He pulled up his collar, lifted his chin and looked straight ahead at nothing. His stride changed, got longer. He was back in Paris. He needed to fit in.
From what Hobson had said, nobody here was looking for him. That would give him some freedom, at least for a while. It wouldn't be long before they realized he was gone.
He turned to cross the Seine. He passed a dirty lamp pole on the bridge. It was covered in stickers, that advertised a good time, a bad time, a great meal. In the middle of all that, there was the image, the stamp from his door at the apartment. It was a round red stamp on a white background. The very same boot from the flat in London. He needed to get to Père Lachaise, and then to the bar where June worked. "What are you up to, brother?"
