August 2, 2021
“1992” (Part I)– a Short Story
Something a little different this time. “1992” is a short story I wrote recently, part of a literary project I’m working on. I divided the story into two parts. Self-evidently, this is the first one, and you’ll find the second one next week.
Note: You might also be interested in knowing how this story was born. I’ve written a “behind the scenes” post about writing a short story, using “1992” as an example. Check it out!
“1992” – a Short Story; Part I
People were already there when the mariner turned at the corner and faced the design. Perhaps they were there for hours, perhaps for mere minutes, but they all had the same puzzled expression painted on their faces, made more poetic by the early morning sunshine. Usually people ignored anything drawn on the wall of a building – especially in a densely populated city like Athens – or, at best (or worst, depending on one’s viewpoint), they leered and silently protested, huffing and puffing, in the safe, cowardly way people often do.
This time it was different, as the crowd – and a crowd it must be called, since it consisted of a good dozen people – simply stood and stared at the piece of graffiti that had suddenly appeared during the night. Nobody dared to say anything negative (though neither positive) about the artwork, as nobody felt they could really ignore it as they habitually did. The mariner slowly approached and stood some distance away from the men and women who had decided to ignore their lives ticking away for just a while, entering a blurry area of here-and-now that seemed outside space-time altogether.
The summer heat could already be felt, though it wasn’t even nine in the morning, and the mariner’s long beard was already embroidered with sweat droplets. A couple of them reached the edge of the world, took a fleeting look, closed their eyes and jumped into oblivion, tasting flight before ending up as invisible spots on the mariner’s short-sleeved light blue shirt.
The artwork itself was simple in terms of content. Really, in all honesty, you could simply say it was a heart containing the number 1992. But this description would be not unlike describing The Odyssey as a story of a mariner returning home; correct, yet not. And so, this artwork that decorated the dirty gray wall of a dreary apartment building – similar to every one of its brethren – was far more than simply what it depicted.
It wasn’t the shading and the shapes, the intricate but subtle and restrained use of colors. It wasn’t the contours around the numbers – careful, meticulous flows around elegant serif font – or the illusion of depth produced by the exceptionally creative density of the paint. Overall, it wasn’t about anything one could see, but rather about things one couldn’t. The fact that this masterpiece had materialized in a single night, without anyone witnessing it, seemed to be a part of the fascination it inspired.
The artwork felt, quite literally, otherworldly.
The mariner knew something that none of the other spectators seemed to realize; he wasn’t quite sure why he knew, but that is rarely important. He smiled behind his imposing beard, as his eyes briefly scanned the area, looking for something. He couldn’t see it yet, so he allowed his eyes to return to the design. But he knew that what he was looking for would sooner or later appear. He knew what others ignored.
He knew that the artwork had a recipient.
The mariner leaned his back against a wall, waiting patiently, observing everything from a comfortable but discreet distance, every now and then rhythmically tapping his boot on the asphalt, or slowly swaying his head left and right. At some point he removed a blank, unmarked pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, retrieved a basic blue lighter squeezed in there, then a cigarette, which he lit. Plumes of thick smoke enveloped his face, as the advancing morning sunshine bounced through, creating razors of light.
About half an hour went by in this fashion, in which time people kept coming and going. Most would pass by, notice the design, stay to observe it for a while, then casually continue as if nothing had happened. Only once or twice did someone ask a neighbor something – the mariner couldn’t hear what, but he felt his assumptions couldn’t have been too far off the mark: “who made this,” “I don’t know;” “what is it,” “who cares, Joe;” “it’s peculiar,” “I must go.”
Intriguingly, the total number of people seemed to remain constant, never falling below ten, but not going above fifteen either. After the mariner had waited for about forty minutes, and with the summer sunshine acquiring stronger, determined hues, he saw her.
She exited the building exactly opposite to the artwork. She probably first saw the people gathered, the mariner felt, but it was crystal clear when she saw the design itself. The mariner witnessed it all, as evident as a ray of light in the darkest night.
Her eyes opened wide as she froze in place, a few steps away from the street door. Her youthful face seemed to lose all its color, as her thin lips parted. The mariner had seen this very expression countless times before, in all kinds of different contexts – some pleasant, some not – and had a good idea what to expect next. Indeed, the young woman brought her palm to her mouth and sealed it, as her eyes began blinking rapidly, reflecting the sunlight with increased shimmering. When she removed her hand from her lips, they could no longer remain steady. Quivering, drawing a couple of sudden breaths, she quickly looked left and right, causing her brown hair to dance around her shoulders. When she didn’t find what she was looking for, her attention returned to the design.
For a moment, the mariner expected her to rush to it, touch it, hold it, kiss it, and never let it go, but even if that had been a possibility she’d considered, she apparently changed her mind. Just like her expression when first seeing the artwork, her reaction now foreshadowed what would soon follow. Her caramel eyes closed for a moment – as if wishing reality away – and once she opened them again, her lips stopped quivering. Two seconds later, she abruptly turned around and hurriedly went back into the building.
The mariner sighed and discarded the cigarette, stepping on it with his boot.