Farewell from Paradise Read online

  Farewell from Paradise

  Brent Saltzman

  Text copyright © 2013 by Brent Saltzman

  To my nephew

  “That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.”

  Edgar Allan Poe

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  The Woman on the Train

  2

  The Subjective Trash

  3

  The Good Man

  4

  The Marinara Angel

  5

  The First Step

  6

  The Right Moment

  7

  The Rabbit Hole

  8

  The Warm Welcoming

  9

  The City of Paradise

  10

  The Blue Building

  11

  The Slave to Order

  12

  The Mysterious Figure

  13

  The One Thing

  14

  The Overseer

  15

  The Costly Victory

  16

  The Companion

  17

  The Epiphany

  18

  The Desert of the Subconscious

  19

  The Lock Box Tower

  20

  The Memory Eater

  21

  The Oasis

  22

  The Grotto of Purpose

  23

  The Ocean of Dreams

  24

  The World Beneath the Waves

  25

  The White Whale

  26

  The Sea Monster

  27

  The City of Vista

  28

  The Sky Raid

  29

  The Field of Frost

  30

  The Legend of Diakrino

  31

  The Impossible Climb

  32

  The Woman on the Platform

  33

  The End of Life’s Road

  34

  The Curtain Always Has to Close

  Prologue

  In a time long lost and a place not unlike our own, there existed a small island nation in a corner of the globe to which few traveled, as it lay enveloped by poverty, sadness and the crushing despair of an uncertain future. On this island–the name of which has been forgotten by history–was a walled slum of a city, whose denizens walked the cobbled streets in dirty clothes and worn shoes, while subsisting on meals of water soup and bread sandwiches. The numerous rickety dwellings dotting the city frequently collapsed, leaving families to spend many days in the cold or the rain, wondering if there was indeed any light out there in the darkness.

  And there indeed was, as on clear nights, one could see a faint twinkle far over the oceanic horizon when standing on the tallest rooftops of the city. For across the great waters was another kingdom, one of prosperity, where every citizen was treated with equal resolve, where shelter was plentiful and hunger was but a foreign, seemingly impossible concept.

  This magical, legendary place was known as Paradiso.

  But the only passage to that elusive, great refuge of happiness was to cross the merciless ocean. Spoken in whispers were methods of travel, but none more practical than sneaking onto the weekly supply ship and storing away through the night, extending your hand for the sunrise in the warm morning on the shores of the flourishing settlement on the other side of the world.

  And that is where our story begins; on a night the dimly-lit streets were obscured by snaking fog, three children raced under the cover of darkness for the departing supply ship. A brunette boy of twelve held the hand of his younger, golden-haired sister while his other sister–a redheaded infant–excitedly bounced about in a backpack he had slung over his shoulders, looking around inquisitively. After years of pain and weeks of planning, they were finally braving the Guard for a better life. But as they darted amongst alleys, a banshee-like scream rang out over the cityscape, forcing them to duck into the shadows.

  From their place of relative safety, they peered toward the sky as the winged beast known as Diakrino skimmed the rooftops, the dragon’s eyes squinting through the dark, searching for the children. You see, Diakrino was the Guard of the city. His sole purpose was to prevent anyone from leaving, and he did this not with force, but with fear. Those who feared the great beast fell to him, those who did not walked past.

  On this night, the boy’s sister cringed in said fear, tears falling down her cheeks in weak rivulets.

  “It’s okay,” the boy said to her as he wiped her eyes with his sleeve. “I won’t let it hurt you.”

  The truth was that, if alone, the boy would have also experienced a paralyzing terror such as his sister’s. For it was her presence that gave him strength, and the strength to fight for the people one loved would always overcome even the greatest of doubts.

  And so, they set off through the night, hand-in-hand, until the dragon Diakrino was long gone and the three children, masked by the boy’s determination and will, had successfully boarded the supply ship. The vessel’s mighty horn bellowed as it set sail across the vast ocean toward the glimmering city of Paradiso miles beyond. But the perils for the children were far from over, as beneath the waves lurked yet another monster: the sea dragon known as Abbott, the ruler of the decrepit walled kingdom from which many had tried to escape.

  Sensing the children were making off for a better place, the evil monster slammed into the boat until it capsized, spilling all aboard into the sea. His infant sister screaming within his backpack, the boy climbed aboard a piece of floating debris. After catching his breath, he watched in horror as what remained of the ship sank into the dark waters of the forbidden ocean, vanishing without a trace. And looking around in panic, he saw the most terrible of sights: he was alone.

  Futilely calling her name, it took only a few moments to realize that his golden-haired sister, whom he’d held so dear, whom he’d promised would be safe, was gone. And as he held the redheaded infant close to warm her, he knew that she’d been taken by the wrath of the sea dragon, and that he would never see her again, and–

  Samuel James Pierce stopped typing. The light from his laptop illuminated the tears that had begun seeping around his eyes as he sat on the rooftop of his Manhattan apartment building, the night sky’s stars drowned by the city’s light.

  He’d written the same introduction a dozen times, but there was one part he could never get past. The part where the golden-haired girl met her demise. Most people would’ve thought it irrational; she was just a work of fiction, after all. Her entire existence was relegated to a few bits of text, nothing more. But Sam didn’t see it that way. The power of the pen was more potent than any non-author would ever understand. With a keyboard, an entire world could be created with the click of some buttons; complete people with complete lives–and ended just as quickly, yet no more easily.

  That’s why Sam always struggled right about here. Because the golden-haired girl was, at least to him, a life. And so with a sigh, he closed his laptop and carried it down to his apartment. He’d take yet another shot at his prologue tomorrow.

  1

  The Woman on the Train

  The train tracks clicked and clacked below the velvet carpet. Crystal chandeliers gently swung from the vaulted ceiling. The car was twenty feet wide, more than twice the width of those found snaking through the subterranean labyrinth of New York City. Each side was adorned with rows of plush leather benches, sandwiching tables draped in elegant white sheets. Waiters scrambled back and forth in dark vests while a strin
g quartet played music in the background. A desolate countryside blurred past the wide windows as rain streaked down the glass.

  At one bench sat a man in his early thirties, wearing a black suit with no tie and a silver watch that wasn’t ticking. Five-foot-ten, average build, messy black hair, stubble. He was utterly unremarkable. A grain of sand on a beach.

  Across from him was a woman in her late twenties. She was different. She glowed. Her blue dress hugged a tall, athletic body. Her face was round, her cheeks rosy. Dark brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. Sharp bangs ran over her eyebrows and hanging locks on each side framed her head. Her eyes were glass sapphires with a thin ring of orange around the pupils. The imperfection made them perfect.

  “I hate public transportation,” she said, a strong southern twang to her voice. Brisk. Hard on the R sounds. It was cute, even if it belied her otherwise soft features.

  “Me too,” the man replied. His voice was average. Not too deep, not too high, not too hard, not too soft. Northern accent. A whisper in a choir.

  “You must have had to use it in Washington. That the city or the state?”

  “The city.”

  “How was that?”

  He hesitated. Her multicolored eyes were hypnotic. It took him a second to snap out of it. “Uh, frustrating.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Lots of traffic. It would take a few hours to go a few miles.”

  She nodded. “That’s why I used the busses back in Nashville.”

  “I thought you said you hated public transportation?”

  “Well just because you don’t like it don’t mean you don’t need it.”

  It made odd sense. He liked that.

  “So,” he said, “you’re a long way from home. What are you doing up here?”

  She thought for a moment. Just a moment. “Same thing you are, I reckon.”

  A waiter sat plates of food at their table.

  “So are we gonna go back and forth with the questions?” she asked.

  He smirked. “Sure.”

  She crossed her arms over the table. “How come you never talk to me?”

  “I’m shy, I guess.” He wasn’t exactly sure how to answer. He rarely was.

  “Shy of what? I ain’t fixin’ to be unfriendly.”

  “Well, what if I mess up?”

  She scrunched her eyes. “How can you mess up talkin’ to someone?”

  There was a flash of lightning outside. Far in the distance. The train lights flickered. They ignored it.

  “I don’t know,” he chuckled at himself. “Maybe I’m just afraid that if I talk to you and I…ask you something…that it might ruin what we already have.”

  “If I recall, we don’t really have nothin’ to ruin,” she winked. “So you ain’t got no risk. Except…” She gave him a long, questioning look. “Pride?”

  “You got me.”

  She smiled. Her front teeth were prominent. Perfectly white.

  “I guess that when you spend your whole life getting rejected,” he said, “you start to come to expect it. And, eventually, you just sort of stop trying. Because your psyche can only take so much.”

  They shared a few seconds of silent repose. The train buckled on the tracks, but the wine in their glasses remained eerily placid. No waves, no sloshing, no ripples. She reached across the table and placed her palms over his hands.

  “You know what my daddy used to tell me?”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Whenever I was blue, he’d sit me down with some honey and toast and he’d say, ‘Del, you’s gonna get slapped in the face a lot in your life. Mostly by people you expect, sometimes by total strangers, but sometimes even by people you love. Hell, sometimes it’ll hurt so bad you’ll be knocked into next week. But you don’t quit. Because eventually you’s gonna find what you were lookin’ for all along. And when you do, those slaps in the face ain’t gonna feel so bad.’”

  The man considered it with a nod. “That’s good advice.”

  “Sam,” she spoke softly and gazed into his gray eyes, “I ain’t gonna slap you in the face.”

  He felt a calm wash over him. Peace. Serenity. It felt incredible. Liberating.

  Then, there was a roar. Somewhere far in the distance. Like the call of an angry lion that forced the car into silence. The wine glasses trembled and the swooping shadow of some horrible creature flashed past the windows, before finally fading over the outlying hills of green. When it was gone, and the ride smoothed out, Sam took a deep breath and continued the conversation. “So, is it my turn now?”

  “For?”

  “To ask a question about you.”

  “But you don’t know nothin’ about me, so how can I answer?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m—”

  “Because you never ask me anything ‘cept for an extra napkin once in a while,” she interrupted. She crossed her arms, grinned mischievously.

  The train’s brakes squealed. The metal whine was long and drawn out before the car eventually came to a stop. The man and the woman stepped out the door. He was suddenly wearing jeans and a black denim jacket. The woman had on gray sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, a little purse strapped over her shoulder. The train vanished. They were standing on a sidewalk within an urban metropolis. Towers of glass and concrete blocked out the cloudless sky. The mindless chatter and infinite footfalls of invisible pedestrians echoed all around.

  “So you gonna talk to me?” she asked.

  “I thought I had been?”

  “Don’t play dumb.”

  “I’m not playing. You should see me try long division.”

  She laughed. A flicker of a smile. She moved her hair out of her eyes as it fluttered in the breeze. She reached up and whispered in his ear, “I’m really looking forward to it.”

  She stepped back. Their eyes locked. They leaned in close. He could feel the warmth of her skin in the cold air. He could feel the harmony as her lips approached his. He could feel the lull of tranquility envelope him.

  Then, he woke up.

  2

  The Subjective Trash

  The alarm of a cell phone pulled him from his sleep. The cheery tune was always ironically ominous. Samuel Pierce lifted his head off his pillow, shielded his eyes from the harsh morning sunlight and looked around his studio apartment. It wasn’t bad for Manhattan. A hamster would have been downright jealous. Eleven feet wide, fifteen feet long, pretty big window, little walk-in kitchen. The Washington Heights neighborhood didn’t have the greatest reputation in the world, but he didn’t care. The graffiti covering the outside of the red brick building was just a red herring. The people here were friendly and he never had any problems.

  And the price was right, even if it was still suffocating.

  He got up, stretched, and grabbed some clean clothes from a pile in his closet. Then he stood in line for the community bathroom, took a shower and printed out subway directions. He dressed in jeans and his black jacket, grabbed his backpack and headed outside.

  It was cold out. The corner of Amsterdam Avenue and West 188th was a school bus stop that bustled on weekdays but was dead on weekends in the fall and winter. Mid-sized brick buildings, many of them old and rundown, stretched into the distance. The famous Manhattan skyline was too far away to see in the daylight hours.

  With the coast clear, he crossed the street and walked briskly down the sidewalk. He slowed down while passing Romano’s. The little Italian restaurant sat at the bottom of an apartment building, right next to a laundromat. It had all the staples of Italian places: green awning with red and white stripes, a little caricature of a chef with a big bushy mustache painted onto the window, and lawn furniture out front occupied by a couple of construction workers eating cheap subs and smoking cigarettes.

  He stopped at the glass door and peeked inside. Green and white tile, a soda dispenser, a few tables, a fat guy flipping dough in the kitchen and a petite blonde waitress chewing gum and texting with her back turned to a
frustrated customer. Not what he was looking for. He leaned down and pretended to tie his shoe, then stood up and continued toward the 191st Street subway station a few blocks away.

  Herushed in through the glass entrance of a little office tucked beneath a high rise on the Upper East Side. Simon and Lancaster, literary agency. A woman behind the counter of the tiny lobby raised her eyebrows as he approached the desk, panting.

  “Can I help you?” she asked with noticeable disinterest.

  “Sam Pierce,” he gasped. “I’m here to see Ms. Lancaster.”

  “You are aware that we close at noon on Saturdays, right?”

  “I know, it’s just…” He took another breath. “Come on, you know how New York is.”

  She rolled her eyes, sighed, and dialed her desk phone. Another woman answered: “Yes?”

  “A mister…”

  “…Pierce,” he whispered.

  “A Mr. Pierce is here to see you. Something Pierce.”

  There was hesitation on the other end of the line. Finally: “Fine, send him in.”

  She hung up and lazily nodded to a door with a frosted window. “Go on in.”

  “Thanks…”

  Ms. Lancaster’s office was smaller than he was expecting. She had quite a number of blown-up posters of book covers from authors she represented, but weirdly there didn’t seem to be any actual books on any of her shelves. That bothered him.

  “Mr. Pierce, how are you?” she half-heartedly greeted him from behind her desk. Mid-forties; charcoal pantsuit; long, straight hair. Looked busy. The breadwinner, if she was married.

  “Uh, good, thank you. I really appreciate you seeing me.”

  “You are aware that we close at noon on Saturdays?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He gulped. “Sorry about that. You know how New—”

  “Don’t worry about it. Go ahead and take a seat.”

  He did. There was one chair in front of her desk. It felt like the principal’s office.

  “Now, let me start off,” she shuffled through papers, “by saying that all criticism is meant to be beneficial. The worst thing you can do to someone is tell them they’re perfect.”