Lunatics

Lunatics · Chap 038 · Breeds of dissimilar seeds?

38 · Breeds of dissimilar seeds?

THE ROOM was quite comfortable. Ibrahim was worried the low cost would translate into low quality service, but he could do nothing much as he had booked the room hastily. The Eduard Gans Hotel was part of a community dreaming of recovering the egalitarian principles of the XVIII and XIX centuries French utopias, especially the Saint-Simonian ideals that led to Teutonic socialism and Russian communism in the XX century.

Everything was simple; an ascetic emphasis dominated the decoration, but no device was missing to appease all needs of the contemporary traveller.

He was uneasy; too many things bouncing inside his head. His life had unmistakably changed and it was speeding in the direction he had tried hard to avoid.

Chico Manoel’s call and his nervous tone was just one of his worries. There was an incredible similarity in both their lives, now. Chico Manoel saw it coming, but seemed unable to escape the disaster: his friend had crossed the line. Ibrahim should have known after seeing his expression in the Maiden; it was exactly the same one of some minutes ago. Chico Manoel had sounded very tired, very hopeless, very old.

Chico Manoel had been to my apartment. If his jacket was not there, where is it?

Ibrahim checked his pockets before taking off his coat. He found the card for the Suzano airport locker and smiled. It reminded him of his moves. He was shocked after receiving the news of Elisangela’s passing. His coat was over the jacket on his couch. The jacket was inside the doggy bag along with his trench coat, waiting for his return to Alphaville.

What small thing did you put in one of the pockets of your jacket that’s so vital, so dangerous, Chico Manoel?

Ibrahim left the card on top of the bedside table and took all his clothes off. He went to the lavatory and prepared a good foam bath; he got into the tub as if getting back to the uterine security of two lost mothers.

The noises in the hotel were also Spartan; the near absolute silence helped him empty his mind of problems, evading reality—little by little, invading a dimension of pure balance, full exhilaration.

Ibrahim almost dreamed of his mothers; he almost laughed with Elisangela Mussume, that person beyond genres, that beauty beyond bounds, dancing on their fancy grassy garden, protected from the dangers of the three dimensional World defined by time and space, that World beyond their fences, an eternal effort to escape the future; he almost smiled back to Mina Mousmée preparing their meagre supper, that woman with bony cheeks and sunken eyes, that ethereal beauty of the hopeful destitute people, defined by what they dreamed, an endless struggle to escape the past.

Lilica and Mina. Lilica… and… Mina… A roundabout of richness and poverty, of wanting and glamour, of beauty and ugliness… Lilica… Mina… Mothers…

Where are you now? Why am I alone?

The tender buzz of the room communicator brought him back to reality. It took him some seconds before opening his eyes and answering the call. It was 11PM. He stretched his hand and blocked the camera. The night porter sounded sleepy and impersonal.

“Miss Carnation wants to see you, sir.”

Ibrahim sighed. Before he could say something, the porter resumed his monochord message, peremptorily, this time.

“We can’t allow visitors to go upstairs after the twenty-two hours, Mr Mousmée.”

Ibrahim breathed deeply.

“Ask him... her... to wait, please. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

He cut the call and left the tub. The towel was too thin and raspy—terrible failure! He quickly dressed up and took the lift, thinking he would have to be up early to take his flight at 7AM.