I'm in Seattle, Where Are You?: A Memoir by Mortada Gzar

Author:Mortada Gzar [Gzar, Mortada]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-03-31T23:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

The house of the three monkeys resounded with my footsteps and the creak of wood on the stairs. Liao was drinking coffee with his legs crossed, watching a drop of rainwater slowly slide down the windowpane. He would read a little and then close the book and yawn. Erick seemed to have dropped the Christmas sweater, with its yarn trailing on his lap, and his expressionless face gazed into the void. Josie, for his part, seemed frozen as he silently flipped through television channels. He said nothing when I appeared before them and attempted to excite their interest and draw their attention. Their stillness, though, was more profound than I had imagined. I went to fetch spoons and knives as noisemakers, but—even then—none of them protested the random din I was making. So I sat on the steps to wait for one of their stony faces to come to life. That happened. Erick rose and asked me to fetch my drawing materials and follow him. I didn’t jump to obey him till Josie stirred and repeated the request. I responded once all three of them asked me. Trying to appear contagiously charming, I got my drawing supplies, climbed the steps, and headed to the room they had all entered quietly. I found them waiting for me beside Heraclitus.

“Have you attempted this before?” Erick asked. “We want you to draw a dead dog.”

Then I realized that Heraclitus had died. I approached him, following the scent. He reeked of Indian cologne, and an orange ribbon surrounded his neck. His head looked larger than before, and his eyes were half-closed. His mouth and nose were very clean and extremely handsome. He was almost dancing—like Keith Haring’s red, yellow, and blue dogs. His expression was easily captured on paper, and his eyes seemed to be glass globes. His face made a sound as it printed itself on the sheet of paper. The noise wasn’t barking or snoring. The living dogs I had drawn had extended their faces meekly and hadn’t made this beautiful clamor while they spread over my white page.

My portrait took its place in the basket where Heraclitus usually slept. The philosopher had died, leaving his caretakers with no guide or caliph.

Here I am—accompanying Erick to a pet cemetery in the southernmost part of the city. We walk among the trees as our footsteps create a duet. I sense that we are walking twice or that someone else is walking with us. Erick is experiencing an extremely pure state of clarity, and an all-embracing peace radiates from his spirit’s pores. Perhaps, for this reason, he is inspired to launch into an unusual conversation with me, for the first time.

“Are you still waiting for Morise? I want to ask something of you. It’s true that I shirked my responsibility to help you find him. Allow me to postpone that now. I ask you to learn about Seattle—to read it like a book and study it—to investigate it yourself as if it were a lesson, assignment, or on the school curriculum.

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