Escape to San Sebastian (Mystery)

I was so thrilled to reach the semi-final stage in the NYC Midnight 2016 Short Story Challenge with this story, written over the course of three days. NYC Midnight assigned me the following parameters:

Genre: Mystery
Subject: A horoscope
Character: A birdwatcher

Escape to San Sebastian

By Jessica Ramesch 

The megaliner had been in port for 45 minutes already. It had to clear customs, then passengers would be allowed to disembark. Ben stood patiently with the other guides, holding his big sign like a staff.  

Debarkation began soon enough, but only five people zeroed in on Ben. Guides with signs like “Discover Scuba” and “Snorkel with the Stingrays” led away groups of 20 or more. They’d rake in the money and tips.

“Birds of the Rainforest” just didn’t have the same wow factor. But being semi-retired, Ben was happy to have gainful work. He never could stand sitting at home, alone with his thoughts.

“Ok folks, if you’ll follow me, we have a bus waiting. It’s a 20-minute ride to San Sebastian Rainforest Preserve.” Words Ben had said a million times.

Unremarkable faces stared back at him. Some smiled. Some eyed the 200-yard stretch between the gangway and the tour buses apprehensively. What was it with tourists these days? No one wanted to walk anymore.

A young woman with shocking red hair stepped out from behind a rather large, red-faced man. The man didn’t look too happy—he was already panting in the heat—but the the woman wore a look of excitement.

“Um, will there be anywhere to buy souvenirs?” she asked.

Ben smiled. Tourists. They came all the way to paradise, and all they wanted was to buy plastic magnets and and painted feathers. A photo with a native in traditional costume, and the trip was considered a success. “Yep, have to walk through the gift shop to get to the canopy tower,” he replied.

The young lady turned out to be okay, despite her interest in souvenirs. She sat up front on the bus and asked Ben questions about the town and his life in San Sebastian. She struck Ben as one of those new age-y, obsessed with yoga types. Too many necklaces.

At the end of the tour, however, she was one of the few passengers that approached him to tip. She dropped a battered looking journal as she rummaged for ones. Ben reached for it, but she snatched it up.

There was something cagey about the way she shoved the book into her bag. Like it was top secret stuff. Ben caught a glimpse of what looked like an astrological chart on the cover. It was a large circle, and he thought he’d seen the word Taurus and a crude drawing of a bull. Next to it was Aries, the ram. For some strange reason, he wished for a better look.

The ship’s horn began to sound, and the last of the passengers rushed to the gangway to re-embark. He saw a shock of red hair bounce in, then out of view.

Ben watched the vessel until it pulled away from the shore. He had never set foot on a big ship like that. Not since he sailed from Europe at the age of 24.

***

“Ben, where you been all day?” Rock coughed his hacking, phlegmy cough. Rattled the dominoes in the middle of the table. Ready to play.

“Big ship in port today, Rocket Man. The Fiesta Mythos,” Ben said, taking his usual seat at the picnic table. “Pompous ass name if you ask me.” Ben didn’t want to get grilled about his day.

Something had felt off about that woman. Strange that she’d never mentioned her name or volunteered any information about herself. Most tourists did. And come to think of it, she never stopped in the gift shop. She had pretty much stayed beside Ben, drinking in everything he had to say about tanagers and toucans.

“What did you do all day, you lazy ass?” Ben asked.

Rock was busy peeking at his dominoes. “Hmm? Oh, get this. My stupid son-in-law ordered ten of them fancy new weed-whackers to try and sell at my store. Matter of fact, I was yelling at him when some feller came in and asked about you. Been wondering whether he found you.”

“Why would anyone ask about me?”

“Said he had a package for you. From someone in the old country,” Rock wheezed.

When Ben had first stepped off the boat in San Sebastian, he had nothing but a tattered pea-green suitcase to his name. There was no one left that he cared about in the old country. Nothing to look back on with nostalgia. No reason to go back and visit, ever.

Regular Joes like Rock, they’d gone back plenty times. To find wives, and later to introduce their spoiled kids to true adversity. A delivery from back home wouldn’t seem strange to Rock. But Ben’s heart began to pound in his chest. What could it be, after all this time?

San Sebastian was small, so whoever was looking for Ben wouldn’t have to look long. Someone would point the stranger in the direction of the park, where all the geezers played chess and dominoes. Or perhaps even Ben’s small A-frame.

Stay at the park or go home, it would make no difference. “One more game, Rock. Then I gotta go feed the cat,” said Ben.

As he walked home, Ben couldn’t help but think about his past life. His parents had died when he was very young, and he couldn’t really remember them. His brother had died young as well. Ben had learned to fend for himself from the age of 13.

He had slept everywhere from street corners to makeshift shelters along the Sava River. There were introductions to beer, and women, and eventually the stability of a factory job. No more looting to fill his belly. No more war.

***

The knock came after breakfast. Ben had made his usual Sunday fare—pancakes for one. He was sponging sticky maple syrup off the yellow linoleum when he heard it. A polite tap-tap-tap. The man at the door was young, mid-forties at most.

“Mister Tesich? My name is Martin Soloy, from the ICC, may I come in?”

“Might as well,” Ben murmured, stepping back so the man could push his way into the small sitting room. 

“I think, sir, you know why I’m here?” Soloy phrased it as a question, raising his brow as he looked Ben full in the face.

“Sit, let’s sit,” said Ben. “Can’t say that I do. You were the one asking about me?”

Soloy perched himself on the edge of the old beige sofa and nodded once.

“I haven’t had a single visitor from the old country since I left it. And I have no family to send me packages or name me in their wills. So I am very curious,” Ben said.

Soloy took a manila envelope out of his briefcase and handed it to Ben. Inside were two photographs of a smiling woman. Young, attractive…shocking red hair.

“I- I met this woman yesterday,” said Ben. “She’s a New Yorker. She was here on a cruise. I took a group to the canopy tower for a birding tour. Why on earth do you got pictures of her?” When Ben got nervous, his accent sounded thicker.

“That woman,” Soloy breathed, “is Sandy Alexander. She has been missing for two weeks.”

“How can she be missing when she’s a registered passenger on a cruise ship? Those things are impossible to stow away on or disappear from,” Ben almost shouted. “Call the ship’s agent here in town, he can find out I’m sure!”

Ben insisted Soloy use his phone to call immediately. Soloy made it clear he did not believe Ben, but he played along. As Ben sat waiting for the call to end, he noticed a file titled “Nick Tesich” peeking out of Soloy’s briefcase.

He stared at the file. He heard the beep that meant Soloy was off the phone, but didn’t turn to look at the man. Nick Tesich. That was a name Ben hadn’t heard—or uttered—in almost fifty years.

Soloy spoke first. “There is no record, Mister Tesich, of a Sandy Alexander on any Fiesta ship.”

“Why you got a file on my dead brother, Soloy?” Ben responded. He turned to look at the man standing in his kitchen. The man that had the nerve to be young and wearing a splendid suit…and to come into Ben’s home with a file…a file on…

Ben had half stood, but he sat again. “I think now is time you explain to me—fully—what the hell is going on here.”

“You know what the ICC is? The International Criminal Court. Sandy worked for me as a researcher. She was tracking you, Mister Tesich, as you’ve been wanted for a very long time for crimes committed following the Belgrade Offensive.”

“I was twelve years old during the Belgrade Offensive, you idiot. I never held a gun! And what does this have to do with my brother?”

“Oh I heard, you go by the name of Ben here in the tropics, where you surely thought no one would find you,” said Soloy. “None of us ever thought we’d find you. But Sandy did. The game’s up. We know you are Nick Tesich. And you will face the crimes you are accused of.”

“Nick died.” Ben’s hand trembled. He took out his hanky and wiped his lips. “No one ever saw him again. Ever.”

 Soloy just plowed on, talking over Ben. “The red purges were a horrible time in Serbia. Much is still unaccounted for. We have multiple interviews on file indicating that you knew the locations of the secret burial grounds. The descendants of the victims deserve to know, Mister Tesich.”

“If Nick were alive, he would be 85. I’m ten years younger. Look at me! And why would you think I am Nick? What kind of proof you have? Plus, this woman, I saw her get back on that ship. No wonder she was so interested in me.” Ben stood up, anger flushing his cheeks. “She thought I was a war criminal? And she’s making nice talk about tropical birds and plastic magnets? This is cuckoo-ness! What you gonna do, fly me back to Serbia? Put me in jail? At this age?”

“Look,” said Ben, “my life is an open book. I lost my parents and my brother. I left Europe and sailed to New York, and then I tried Chicago. Too cold and competitive. When I heard there was a community of former Yugoslavs here, I left the States. I’ve been here twenty years. Living a peaceful life, I might add.”

“I don’t have the authority to extradite you from San Sebastian,” said Soloy. “I will make appeals through diplomatic channels, but there’s no treaty.” He got up and crossed to the door, then turned back. “But sir, I entreat you. You’ve lived a good life. Spend your last years making it right for the victims and their families.” And with that, he was gone.

Ben thought he was having a heart attack. He took an aspirin, not because he thought it would help, but because that was what he took for everything. Then he didn’t know what to do, so he laid down for a nap. But that was no good. The older he got, the less he was able to sleep.

“If only I could find that woman,” he said to himself. “No…not if only. I’ve got to find her.”

He got out of bed and headed to the ship agent’s office.

***

Amateur sleuthing was hard work, but thankfully Ben had been in the cruise and tourism industry for a great many years. With help from the ship agent and a friendly Chief Purser, he was able to get the list of the five people that went on the birding tour. No Sandy Alexander, but there were only two women. One was named Mildred Hay, and the other Lindy Anderson.

Ben dialed the ship’s satellite number. It took a few attempts, but he finally got through to the purser’s office and then connected to Lindy’s room. No answer. Frustrated and tired beyond belief, he left a message.

At 2 a.m., his phone began to ring. He had taken it to bed with him, so he answered immediately.

“Oh I am so glad I caught you,” crackled the voice at the other end of the line.

“Of course you caught me, it’s two in the morning,” he mumbled. “But thank you for calling me. I’m being questioned about all kinds of crazy things and on top of it all, they seem to think I’m responsible for your disappearance. You are Sandy Alexander, are you not?”

“Yes,” she squealed. “Oh…shit, these calls are like $4 a minute. How do I explain quickly? Look, my boss was convinced that you were actually your brother, but he’s a hothead. And I just knew—I knew—that you hadn’t done all those terrible things. I had to get away. I took some vacation time and on a whim I hopped that cruise. I mean, it seemed like the perfect way to meet you. I could just take one of your tours.”

“But Miss Alexander—”

“Call me Sandy!”

“Okay, okay. Sandy. I’m in a lotta trouble here. You gotta talk some sense into Soloy!”

“I’ll call him so he knows I’m alive and well. I’ll do it right now, in fact. He deserves to be woken up! And I talked to an advisor at the ICC. They can’t extradite you from San Sebastian, Ben. You’re going to be okay.”

“But— So you believe that I am Ben, yes? You must have some evidence, some proof you can use to convince Soloy as well.”

“No, Ben, I don’t. When I was working your case, I just had a feeling that you were innocent. I went to my guru and he helped me do your chart. You know, an Indian horoscope.”

Even in his panic, Ben had to suppress a groan. New age-y types. “And that’s what convinced you?”

“It was so clear. You’re a decent person. That was all I needed to know,” Sandy said. There was a click, and she was gone.

Ben sank back into his pillow, and allowed himself a glimmer of hope. ‘I am a decent person,’ he thought.

He had never truly believed that, though. He didn’t think he deserved love. Never married or had kids. But hadn’t he lived a model life these past fifty years? He hadn’t wanted to take part in the purge. He was just doing what his commanding officer told him to do. Just following orders.

He rolled over and tried to sleep. But it wouldn’t come.

Where I Was When (Historical Fiction)

Where I Was When

“Karma! Arey Karma, are you listening?” Mataji came rushing around the corner, the front of her apron filled with small potatoes. “I’ll give you a good thrashing, you son of a donkey!” she yelled, spotting him in the field.

Karma kicked at the scratchy buckwheat stalks. When he had come to work at the camp—along with 34 other Tibetans—he had been an obedient boy of five. Three years later, he chafed at the work and Mataji’s beatings. A member of the local Gond tribe, she was dark as night and wore a massive gold stud in her left nostril. She never tired of telling Karma that she was descended from Durgawati, the warrior queen.

Mataji yelled again. “Go inside, Lata has some dipped rice for you.” That got his attention. He ran to Mataji’s hut, his worn sandals smacking the rust-red ground as he went.

Inside, Karma took the bowl and bent metal spoon from Lata and sank to the floor. He sat cross-legged in the corner, watching the hem of her sari sway this way and that as she made rotis. The food was good…yesterday’s rice, doused in buttermilk, with fiery mango pickle and raw onion on top.

Mataji soon joined him. “My mother wasn’t a donkey,” he said after a while. Mataji grunted, unconcernedly sucking on a piece of pickle.

“Lata, give him one of those rotis with some eggplant,” was all she said.

Karma’s mother had died a year ago, in childbirth. The scrawny babe—another boy—had died the next morning. “Your brother’s in heaven now,” Doctor Treadway had said. Then his face had turned red. Karma had wondered why. The American doctor was an enigma. But then, all adults were.

Mataji alternated between slapping Karma and force-feeding him. Karma thought she loved and hated him at the same time. “Does that make any sense?” he asked his mirror twin. But the apparition had no answers.

The doctor, on the other hand, was gentle and kind. He had come to the camps at Mainpat as a volunteer medic in May of 1963. It was supposed to be a weeklong trip, but a year later, the doctor was still there.

Tibetan refugees were still arriving by the hundreds, many after walking for two or three months. They were skeletal beings, their hands and feet wrapped in white bandages.

“It’s frostbite,” the doctor had explained to Karma. “Extreme cold has damaged their fingers and toes.”

The doctor tended to the refugees as best he could without modern equipment or even antibiotics. When he was off duty, he drank. He could down a bottle of whisky in a single evening. In the mornings, there was a sour stench about him. But Karma didn’t mind. When the doctor was drunk, he played guitar and sang songs in English.

***

It was nearly nightfall when Karma left Mataji’s hut for the community center. She had given him a rupee to buy a sack of rice from the vendors that had stalls outside. The road that wound up the hill used to overlook the steppes and deep green jungle growth. In the past two years, ugly concrete houses had been erected for the refugees and aid workers that came and went. Now there was always a faint smell of latrines mixed in with strong cooking spices like cumin, coriander, and mustard seeds.

As he neared the doctor’s house, Karma heard the familiar twang of the guitar. He neared and heard the doctor sing, “I fell into a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down as the flames went...”

But Karma never got to hear where the flames went. The doctor spotted Karma and interrupted his singing to say: “Hey kid,” though he continued to strum the guitar.

“Namaste Doctor-sir,” said Karma. “Nice song. Very nice,” he added, rolling his head from side to side to show his pleasure.

“I can’t seem to remember the words all that well,” said the doctor. He set down the guitar, pulled out a ten rupee note, and waved it at Karma. “Hey, want to buy me some cigarettes?”

“One packet, Doctor-sir?” Karma asked, taking the bill.

“Yeah…and buy yourself a sweet paan.”

Karma ran off, yelling his thank-you-sirs as he went. He bought the rice and cigarettes first. Then he went to the paanwalla’s stall.

A couple of men stood chewing their paan and spitting reddish juice at the grimy community center wall. Behind the paanwalla, an oscillating fan stopped whirring. There was only electricity during the day. 

The paanwalla’s voice pierced the sudden silence. “They’re saying the pundit is dead.”

“Good!” spat a man in a dhoti. “About time.”

“You! You’re a horse’s ass!” the paanwalla shot back. “Nehru was the architect of modern India! Now who will take over?”

The dhoti-man pointed a finger at the paanwalla. “If he hadn’t bungled the Chinese invasion maybe we wouldn’t be overrun by these Tibetans, eh? They get all the best land, and for the rest of us…what?”

The paanwalla raised his voice. “Gondi idiot! What did we have before the refugees started arriving? Thanks to them the government is building a school and a monastery here.”

“Shouldn’t the government build those things for us Chhattisgarhis?”

***

Karma handed a pack of Wills Filter cigarettes to the doctor. “Doctor-sir, people are saying Chacha Nehru has died,” Karma said. “Did he went to heaven?”

Doctor Treadway took a breath and looked down. Finally he looked back up. “Did you know, Karma, that I’m half-Tibetan?”

Karma didn’t answer. Who ever heard of a half-Tibetan?

“Jawaharlal Nehru has done more for our people than perhaps any man on earth.” The doctor smiled. “I know you don’t get it…the loss of a great man is…” He sighed and shook his head. “You will get it, some day. You’ll remember, when you’re older, what you were doing the day they told you Nehru died.”

He picked up his guitar and sang:

“I'm out here a thousand miles from my home,
walkin' a road other men have gone down.
I'm seein' a world of people and things…
hear paupers and peasants and princes and kings.”

Then he got up and went inside.

Karma walked back by the light of the moon, thinking that grown-ups were, indeed, very strange.

Measure (short story, drama at a war memorial)

For NYCMidnight's Flash Fiction Challenge, I had to come up with a short dramatic story (really short...max. 1000 words) that took place at a war memorial and mentioned a measuring tape. Odd prompts indeed! But you know, I had a lot of fun with it.

We were given the prompts on Friday (well...Saturday, as it was just past midnight) and had till almost midnight Sunday to turn in our submissions. Here's what I came up with (after a lot of procrastinating and starting over). I literally started this story at 5pm that Sunday, and turned it in with minutes to spare. So here it is, unedited, warts and all! Thanks for reading!

Synopsis

Fleur's life is the size of her waist, the length of her arms, and the steps she takes toward her fate. In the shadows of St. Petersburg's Narva memorial, she struggles against a life-altering decision.

Measure

“You’re so tiny,” he whispered. “How small is your waist?” He was getting excited, breathing fast. He smelled like blini and red caviar.

“Wait!” She spoke loudly, squirming underneath him.

“Quiet, they’ll hear us!”

She was terrified at what was about to happen. There was sweat under her breasts. She turned her head. Could see the Narva arch through the window. Dust on the shoe boxes above. Size thirty-five…size thirty-six…a pink ribbon hanging out of a size thirty-seven.

One hand, he slid from just above her knee to her inner thigh. The other hand, he held over her mouth.

***

A sleek limousine and a heavy GAZ Pobeda motored by. Debris danced across the flagstones. January winds. A soft wail.

It was a particularly frigid day, and the arch was cold. Fleur caressed it, alabaster hands on icy stone. Circling round, she launched into a double turn. She attempted an arabesque, going up on one toe, extending her long arms. She felt powerful for an instant. But her leg trembled. Her knee was weak. Panting, she crouched down, then rocked back onto her cushiony bottom.

She still bled now and then. Her piss burned, and she would find red smears on her inner thighs. “It’s not his fault,” she said to the dirty bathhouse walls.

She never spoke of it outside those cold, stinking rooms. Especially not to Rusinov, who was hard to handle as it was. Who wanted to control every inch of Fleur’s body. Measure it with that dreaded tape. Pinch and prod and prescribe illegal thyroid medication so she’d lose more weight.

“Your bust is too big. And you need to get your waist down to 23 inches.”

Fleur had refused to take any pills, but it was a battle she would eventually lose. Like the one she was waging today. How appropriate that her final stand should take place here in Stachek.

Once majestic, the “triumphal” Narva monument had begun to crumble after repeated bombardment. It cast a dark shadow over the square. A goddess flanked by horses was missing a wing tip. Looking up, Fleur could see the horses were all male. Their enormous testicles hung over inscriptions in Russian and Latin.  

She lowered her gaze. She could just see him through the memorial arch. Madame Rusinov was next to him, smoking. Probably giving him dirty looks.

“I’ll talk to her,” Fleur had said to him yesterday. “Tell her we’re fine. It’s my life, not hers.” He had done nothing to indicate he’d heard. 

Anton had been deep in slumber when she’d said her last words to him. “I want you. Despite everything.” No tears—she was delicate in appearance only. “Antosha moya,” she’d whispered. Soon she too had been asleep.

In the morning there had been no time for chatter. They were heading to the square early, and it was a long walk. He’d been unusually quiet as Fleur put on the drab gray dress that pinched at the waist. But his slate-gray eyes had followed her possessively.

They’d arrived at the square red-cheeked and sweaty despite the cold. Rusinov had been waiting, ready to argue with her headstrong charge. Pulling Fleur away from Anton.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Fleur had said. “I don’t want to dance. I can’t push my body anymore. I just want to live a normal life…with Anton.” She’d looked fearfully at Rusinov. “You could find another student. Someone even younger and better.”

“And you’ll be happy supporting Anton? Doing thankless work while he sucks the life out of you?” Rusinov had glanced over at him, but just for an instant. Her eyes had locked on Fleur’s. “You were so close to success—the best Nikya since Anna Pavlova—and you threw it all away.”

“I need him.” Fleur had spoken quietly, so quietly. She’d felt something like hysteria tightening her throat, but she’d swallowed and taken a breath. Rusinov did not respond to emotional displays.

“You came to me, remember? Asked for my help. Begged. Said you would do anything for another chance.” Ah, an irate Rusinov. Truly magnificent when the anger wasn’t directed at you.

Fleur had searched for understanding in the hard, lined face. The old endearment had slipped from her lips: “Tetya….” But Fleur wasn’t a child anymore, and Rusinov was far from being an auntie.

“Go. Wait for me over there.”

And as always, Fleur had obeyed. Counting flagstones as she went. One, two, three flagstones away from Anton. “Four, five…”

Rusinov had turned around, taking a few brisk steps back toward Anton.

Now Fleur watched Rusinov hail over a man in an expensive coat. Fleur stood up, her hands on the rough stone. She strained to see. Was that Doctor Beria?

Rusinov’s hands dropped off the buggy, but the Madame didn’t move away. Awkwardly, the man stepped in and maneuvered it toward the street.

Fleur watched man and buggy move away, crossing the grayish stone that ringed the memorial and reaching the rust-colored road.

A tram blocked her view. Fleur took off running, ignoring a shout from Rusinov. Once the buggy was in her sight again, she followed at a distance. Was Anton asleep? Whose breast would he feed from tonight?

Images from the past year flooded her brain. Her swollen belly, about 30 centimeters at 30 weeks. Pinkish, slug-shaped bumps had appeared all over it in the final month. Anton’s purplish, mottled skin the first time she held him. How he tried to fit his little mouth around her enlarged nipples.

The man headed east toward the river, pushing the buggy with care. She got closer. She was just two or three yards away. Then she began to fall back. She was leagues and leagues from them. On a stage, leaping and pirouetting away from everything she’d ever wanted, until the distance was too far to measure.