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Benjamin Ebert​

Silhouette on the Bridge

 

     It was late and no one was on the street except the man who passed through the weak circles of light the mist made as it fell over the street lamps. The mist had fallen for three days and the man enjoyed walking late at night because it deafened everything and he could look at it and drink until he’d finally be able to return to sleep again.
   He walked in the same direction as before, toward the worn smooth stone steps that descended down and to the left into the lower and older part of the town that he liked better, where the shuttered market stretched wider through the narrow passages, now that no one was crowding him. He walked through the empty market and pulled a bottle from his pack and drank from the bottle healthily until it was nearing its end and he was nearing the end of the market. The way widened and rose, climbing to a low wall that ran along to the old arched bridge that he had come to before to drink from as many bottles as was necessary, high above the very flat and green river Neretva that ran calm through the reeds on its shore, and watch the faintness of the town through the mist that never stopped falling.
   He had been alone, then, and as he reached the low wall this night and looked to the crest of the bridge, he saw a shape leaning far over the edge.
   “It is too shallow there,” the man said, as he approached.
   The woman did not turn to look.
   “The other side is better,” he continued. “There is a shelf and the undertow starts.”
   “It makes no difference.”
   “Well, if you don’t mind a mess, sure.”
   The woman bent into herself and smiled.
   “It’s just pretty this way,” she said. “And then there’s the view.”
   She was faced upriver, toward the town.
   “Some show that will be.”
   “Why not give ‘em the finale?”
   “Christ,” the man laughed.
   He stopped beside her. She was standing on the path, leaning over the railing and looking down. He handed her the bottle. She took a long pull and then hung her arm loosely over the railing. She let the bottle slip. It fell a long time, twisting over itself until it shattered in the shallow water.
   “Jesus,” she said, and then faced him. “What do I owe you?”
   “Have another drink with me.”
   The man began to undo the knotted pull strings on his pack while the woman started on a cigarette. He held out a second bottle and when she reached for it he pulled it back and raised his eyebrows, and then gave it to her. They leaned on the railing next to each other and passed the bottle.
   Across the gorge of the river hung the old Ottoman buildings jettying over the sudden cliffs. Wooden timbers drove diagonally out of the rock, meeting with the edges of the hanging structures, and muffled light could be made out fighting through the falling mist. 
   “There’s your audience,” the man said, leaning the neck of the bottle forward.
   “Really?” she said.
   “A joke.”
   “Well, I hate to disappoint.”
   “Don’t say that.”
   “A joke.”
   “Here,” he said, handing her back the drink. “Now you’re too busy to joke.”
   “Better have a lot more of this, then,” she said.
   “Come on, just try.”
   “Fine. You are from here?”
   “No.”
   “Where?”
   “America. You?”
   “Yes.”
   “America?”
   “Here.”
   “It’s nice here.”
   “It is something.”
   They were silent now and both watching the dark, quiet current of the river. Along the edges, through the reeds rose grassy embankments. On one, close to the bridge, there was set a chair with a wooden crate beside it. The man saw the chair and decided that he would use it tomorrow, assuming the weather finally permitted.
   “Do you fish?” he asked.
   “I used to.”
   “With your father?”
   “Yes,” she said, quietly, and hung her head.
   “Well, God rest his soul,” he said.
   “You’re religious?” she asked.
   “I was born Catholic.”
   “What the fuck does that mean?”
   “It’s a thing we say when we aren’t religious.”
   “Well, that makes both of us. That’s how you say it?”
   “Yes. Pretty much. You speak perfectly fine.”
   The woman smiled. She removed a cigarette from her carton and handed it to the man. She lit it, and then did the same for herself. 
The lights in the hanging buildings were flickering, and the man watched the flickering and smoked his cigarette slowly, cupping his hand over it because of the mist. The woman handed him back the bottle.
    “Would you like to come with me tomorrow?” the man said, taking it.
    “Where?”
    “I am not sure. Anywhere you like.”
    “I don’t know, then. That’s too hard. Where would you like to go?”
    “There are so many options here. How is it hard?”
    “For me, it is.”
    “But, you said you are from here.”
    “Yes,” she said. “I suppose I did.”
    “So where, then?” he said.
    “Paris.”
    “You’re not trying, again.”
    “Good God, what do you want from me?” the woman said. She turned away and walked to the other railing and looked over.
    The man turned around and watched her from behind. Past her the country began, rolling dark and green out to the distance where the gray stone broke vertically to the high plateau beneath the sky. He could see the occasional star breaking through the clouds.
    “It is nice here,” the man repeated.
    “You are not from here,” she said.
    “I have been here long enough.”
    “And America, is it as nice as we all pretend it is?”
    “Actually, that depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On who you ask.”
    “For you?”
    “For me, it’s like anywhere.”
    “That is a happy thought,” she said.
    The woman faced the other again. He was watching her. The smile was no longer hers anymore, and she saw it.
    “You really want to go to Paris?” he asked.
    “Sure.”
    “That’s what you would like?”
    “Yes.”
    “You would like not to stay here?”
    She didn’t respond.
    “I suppose it’d make you happy to be there,” he continued. “Perhaps, unhappy to be here?”
    She only looked at him.
    “Well, I’ve been to Paris.”
    “Really?” she whispered.
    “Yes. It is also nice.”
    “Why do we not go, then?”
    “Because that makes no sense.”
    “It is beautiful there, I know it.”
    “It is beautiful here.”
    “It is not,” she said. “There is real beauty. We just have to find it.” 
    “That does not work,” he said. “You will not find anything running around like that.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because that’s what I used to do.”
    “Then why are you here?”
    “Because I am.”
    “I bet that you are running, as well.”
    “No, not like you. You are running from something you cannot escape.”
    “You know everything. Do you know that? You know everything.”
    “It’s the truth.”
    “Tell me then.”
    The man only pointed towards the woman’s chest. She laughed.
    “You think I cannot get away from this?” she shouted.
    “Some things you cannot run away from. Some things you’ll always be with.”
    She laughed again.
    “I know a good way.”
    “No.”
    “Ha! You think you can say that?”
    “You cannot.”
    “What?”
    “You can’t”
    “I can’t? Really? I can’t?”
    “I won’t let you!”
    He stopped and looked down, realizing what he’d said.
    And then, quietly, he continued, “What is another day?”
    Again, the smiles had traded faces. The woman saw and the man knew that she saw it. He began to open his mouth again, but she spoke quicker.
    “You say such pretty things.”
    The man was silent, and when he looked up and saw her contorted smile, he almost ran to her, but could not. 
    “Come with me tomorrow,” was all he could continue with.
    “How could I miss it?”
    “It’s worth it.”
    “Yes, very clearly.”
    “It’s not so much. Just come.”
    “Where?”
    “There,” he said, pointing over the railing.
    The woman came back over to his side and looked below, to where the fishing spot was set, and then back to him. 
    “There? You want to meet there?” she said.
    “That is what I want.”
    “What you want.”
    “You know how to get down there?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    The man did not wish to speak recklessly now. 
    “Best time is late afternoon,” he said, slowly. “You get the sun behind you, so you can see. And also they bite, then.”
    The woman said nothing and only leaned forward and kissed the man with her smile.
    Everything had been brightening for some time, and as it brightened, so too was the town finally becoming clear again. Looking toward the town, the man saw more and more lights flickering on, and saw the shapes crossing in front of the lights and felt it would be smart to get at least some rest before the afternoon came.
    He turned toward the woman beside him and caught the beginning white-gold on the back of her head, and then turned further, away from the town, and saw as the long horizon yielded to a new light, finally shattering the clouds and mists that had deafened the town for so long.
    The man took the woman’s hands and pressed them as he pulled her close. He looked at her a moment, at her eyes reflecting the new day coming, and then kissed her.
    “It will be a very perfect time,” he said. 
    She nodded. 
    The man pressed her hands again and let them down softly. He turned and began off the bridge, now bathed in a rising warmth, toward his bed and the rest he could get now that he had drank until the day returned. As he walked, he roused the sleeping pigeons who flew about, bleached in the light. Just before reaching the end of the bridge, where the low wall began, he looked over his shoulder. The woman was still there, gazing over the railing at the town coming alive, golden. He had never seen it before.
   The man walked through the market again. People at the stalls were swinging open the shutters and unrolling the green and blue tasseled carpets on which they would lay out their wares. It was still uncrowded and the man remembered that this was the best time to worm, and so decided upon a long detour toward the descending path that led to the shore of the river.
   The sun was rising as he reached the beginning of the path. Down its long straight slope, the man could see the bright river reflecting yellow the sun and flowering reeds along its shore. A pigeon fluttered low over his head and he followed it with his eye along the river and then suddenly upward, where it met with the others hovering and dancing very white in dawn. And there was the old bridge arching satisfactory before the green and, now, always beautiful country that he’d found he loved so.
   The man reached the embankment where was set the chair and crate he’d seen from above. He could hear nothing but the splashing churn of the river, now that he was so close. From above, he could not realize its strength. He was sprayed by the mist made as the water passed through the scattered boulders and rapids, and felt that he could hear the slapping of large trout hitting the water again and again after jumping over the rapids. 
    He looked above. The bridge spanned wide and sharply silhouetted in front of the huge rising light, and he could not see anyone surely heading across the bridge to the market. The man stayed until he had enough worms for the both of them, and then went back to his hotel to sleep.
    He returned in the early afternoon to wait for the woman. Night fell. She never came.

Sean Ewing Crimson_Elegance.jpg

THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

© 2015 by William Ray

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