Tale In The Red Sand

Chapter Thirty - Three

The next day's afternoon, house help came as routine to clean the penthouse. Ercole instructed them to clean out every room except his own. When they left, Ercole found himself in his father's bedroom since he was last in there. It was spotless, and it no longer held his scent. Breathing shakily, he sat down on the foot of the bed, his body frozen. He stared at the thin and thick stripes that patterned the  white titled floor with nothing going through his mind, he could almost hear the blood pumping in his veins. Then his body acted on its own. His back hunched over and his elbows dropped to his knees, he pressed his eyes hard with the balls of his palms as the salty liquid wouldn't stop pouring from his eye ducts. His heaves and gasps refused to cease as he wept in his late father's bedroom, inconsolable and overcome by the wicked beast that was grief.

It tore him apart for hours.

When he finally raised his head, his vision was blurry and the sky had darkened considerably. His heart hurt so much as if someone had reached into his chest and ripped it to shreds. The crushing sensation persisted through his prayers, and through his dinner which he poked around on his plate. He couldn't stomach anything, he could barely take down a sip of water.

Only when Ercole would lay his head on a pillow at night and he would drift off to sleep, the pain would be forgotten because his soul was somewhere greater. Above the clouds, freed from its misery for a couple of hours. He would dream of golden sun, tall guava trees and crushed spices, a brown skinned man with a broad white smile alongside a brown skinned beauty with the same delightful smile and the most enthralling honey coloured eyes. Eyes that would seek him out and soften upon him, hands that would beckon him over and arms that would spread wide for him to venture into; but the moment before he could walk into her warm embrace, Ercole would be forcefully pulled out of his dream to wake up to a plain ceiling in a dark room.

...

Every night it was the same bittersweet dream, his only escape from the stress of life. When he woke up it would all be waiting for him, meetings, phone calls and a ton of paperwork. He didn't know how long it went on for, but the seasons changed subtly around and time churned through, next thing he knew he was at his father's grave peering down at his name plate exactly one year the date he died on.

September 20th, 1969.

He visited his father's grave just two weeks ago, it wasn't like he was planning to come on this particular day, he simply wanted to see how his father was faring. Time really did fly though, it felt like only yesterday he was sitting on the deckchair beside him talking about whatever came to mind. The world may have forgotten Marco Rossi, but that's why it was Ercole's job to keep the memory of him alive in his heart, in his home and with his loved ones. A good and honest legacy, just like his father wished.

When Ercole returned home, the house phone suddenly rang by the front door, startling him. He didn't have to think twice about who it was as Warsame's laugher came through on the line.

"Asalamualaikum, Ercole!" He greeted boisterously.

"Wa'alaikumasalam, Warsame." Ercole returned, a grin tugging the corners of his mouth. Warsame was always on the phone lately, he called even for just a minute just to see how Ercole was holding up, and it was honestly the highlight of Ercole's days.

"I'm kind of disappointed, son," Warsame remarked, sighing heavily into the phone. Ercole quietly chuckled away from the phone before bringing it back to his ear.