Having arrived at the luxury hotel, I slip into my formal attire and get out of my car. Thanks to LA traffic, I'm 15 minutes late when I enter the building. My heels click on the marble floor as I hurry across the empty lobby.
When I show my invitation to the man outside the door, he bids me to mute my phone before entering the auction. I send a quick message to Link, asking if everything is going alright, then I mute my phone and try to enter the room as quietly as possible so none of the other guests notice my entry.
The charity auction is in full swing, and I feel like a small fish in a very extravagant pond. A lavish chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, crowning a sea of elegantly dressed individuals, each dripping in opulence. The whole room has a sophisticated ambiance, adorned with elegant decor and accompanied by live music.
All this feels a tad strange to me, despite having spent a great portion of my childhood attending formal events like this. Ever since I started college, I suppose I have been too busy to accompany Father to these fancy gatherings, or spent my time at very informal environments, like frat parties, dates, and the beach. I got used to those settings and almost detached myself from high-class social events. I think I like those informal settings more than this, but at least I'm familiar with this right here and know how to navigate it confidently.
I try to find Father in a room of rich fabrics and sparkling jewels. As I pass by some people, I am acutely aware of the eyes that undoubtedly follow my every move. Eventually, somebody addressed me. "Zelda, darling!" A girl in a fancy dress greets me with an overly dramatized expression of excitement. I have no idea who she is but it comes as no surprise that she recognized me; being the daughter of one of the state's most affluent individuals. My father likely knows each person in this room on a first-name basis. The girl points at herself, and says, "Mila." Who? "We met at cotillion when we were kids."
"Oh! Mila! Of course," I say, still not remembering her whatsoever. Probably because I hated cotillion. "How have you been?"
"SO good! And you?"
"Ditto."
"Ah–It's SO good to see you!" she says with an obvious fake smile. "We should definitely get together soon."
"Soon," I nod, no intention of meeting her again. I know girls like her. Arrogant and spoiled, always seeking to climb the ladder of riches. I'm just another blank face in her network of influential family connections.
I let my eyes roam the room, hoping to find Father in the crowd.
"Aren't you dating that athlete?" Mila interrupts my search.
"Link?" I look at her. "Yes."
"Is he here?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"Bummer! I would have loved to meet him!"
So it's not my father's connection she's after, it's my boyfriend's.
"Bummer indeed," I give her the same fake smile she's giving me and quickly move along.
As I pass by the guests, I catch snippets of a conversation. "Have you had your eye on anything specific in tonight's art auction?" A guest asks another.
"The pieces are all stunning," the other guest answers, "but that Yuga caught my attention. The bidding war is fierce though. I heard someone flew in just for that painting."
"Well, it's no surprise. Yuga's work is rare to come by, especially in an event like this."
I bet Pik would love to see the art.
Finally, amidst the jungle of tailored suits and glittering gowns, I spot Father in conversation with another noble man.
He notices me approaching, his smile turning stiff as if trying really hard not to look disappointed.
"Sweetheart," he greets me first, keeping his smile in place for the man next to him. "You are fashionably late."
"Hello Father," I say, joining them. "My apologies for being late."
"You arrived just in time," the other man chips in, sounding much more relaxed than Father. "However, I am afraid cocktail hour is about to end, which means you missed premium drinks and gourmet hors d'oeuvres." The man extends his hand, "You must be Zelda."
Shaking the man's hand, I say, "And you must be..."
"Penn," he introduces himself.
"Penn?" I repeat, a hint of surprise in my voice. "Like the author?"
"You're familiar with my work?"
He sounds just as surprised as me, and before I can answer, he turns to my father who shrugs and proudly says, "My daughter has excellent taste."
Little do they know that I only know Penn's name because he signed Pik's book. I don't even remember the title of the book if I'm honest.
A young waiter, clad in a discreet black uniform, appears with a silver tray. "Good evening, sir," he addresses Penn first. Then my father, "Dr.Hyrule." Then me, "Ms. Hyrule."
The tray slightly trembling in his nervous grip, he seems intimidated by these two men, as if one wrong move could get him fired. Or worse.
"May I offer you some seared ahi tuna on wonton crisps with wasabi aioli?" He asks the three of us. "Or perhaps a glass of vintage champagne to elevate the evening?"
Penn declines with a subtle wave of the hand. The waiter glances as me with bright red cheeks. "What about you, ma'am?"
"I'm good, thank you." When I give him a friendly smile, his cheeks take on an even darker shade of red. He remains standing in front of me, and by the looks of it, he wants to say something to me.
"Would you ever want to..."
But Father clears his throat before the waiter can finish his questions. We turn our attention to him, who is no longer smiling. Then, Penn addresses the waiter in a slightly more serious tone. "I'm sure some of the other guests would love some champagne."
The young waiter nods and turns away. The way people look at and treat Penn makes me think he must be another big shot, like my father. It's quite possible that he is the one who organized this event.
"So," Penn returns his attention to me, "Tell me about you."
"Me?" I stiffen, inclined to treat the situation like an important job interview. If Father is friends with this man, it means he thinks highly of him. Which also means that I must make a good impression. "I am currently in my sophomore year at Hyrule University, where I am double majoring in Biology and Political Science, which reflects my commitment to a comprehensive and multidisciplinary education."
Penn laughs lightly, "I already know that. Your father has told me all about it."
I nod respectfully. "Then what would you like to know?"
"Your dreams and ambitions, dear. What ignites your passion?"
I consider what Father would want me to answer. He doesn't think a career in biology is a commendable goal. So I answer simply and dishonestly, "Politics. I am an aspiring leader."
Penn, with a knowing smile, shakes his head. "You cannot fool me, Zelda. You cannot fool me! I have a knack for spotting when someone's putting on an act. So, regardless of your father's expectations, what is it you desire?"
"Pardon?" I glance at Father, who looks both amused and resigned. He does not intervene.
"Your dream, Zelda," Penn says, lightly gripping my father's shoulder as if they've known each other for decades. "I know he's hard to impress, and I bet he's strict too, but that shouldn't stop you from pursuing your dreams."
"Penn, please," Father chuckles. "You're going to give the girl the wrong idea."
Penn shushes my father. "So what is it?" He asks once more. "What is it you wish to accomplish?"
I've never seen anyone treat Father this way. The fact that Father is still smiling tells me that they must be close friends. Otherwise Penn would have already been fired, whether or not he is working for Father.
"Biology," I answer truthfully this time, maintaining eye contact with Penn to deliberately ignore Father's reaction to my words. "I aspire to become a researcher and contribute significantly to the fields of science."
"Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous," Penn exclaims with enthusiasm. He then turns to Father. "Now, why did she seem hesitant to share her fantastic goal with me?"
Father, playing the ignorant role of the innocent, shrugs nonchalantly. "I wouldn't know."
"You cannot fool me, Rhoam. You can not fool me!" Penn laughs and dismisses Father to address me as if we were the only ones in the room. "Never doubt your dreams, Zelda. Never! You possess a bright, brilliant mind. Do not hide that from the world!"
Flushed cheeks and eyes wide with admiration, I offer him a confident nod. "Yes, sir."
From the corner of my eye, I spot another waiter approaching. "Sorry to interrupt," he says to Penn, "I just wanted to inform you that we'll be starting in a few minutes."
"Thank you," Penn returns with a smile.
"Sure thing," the young man says, his casual tone catching my attention. Intrigued, I glance over at the waiter, wondering if he might face consequences for addressing Penn in such a manner. He looks slightly younger than the previous water, so perhaps he is not as experienced in this field yet.
Upon closer inspection, I notice that he isn't carrying a tray, suggesting he might not even be a waiter. His handsome and tall presence sets him apart, and his impeccable style confirms that he certainly doesn't belong to the waitstaff, who are all dressed in black.
"It's incredible to see everything come together for tonight's auction," Penn grins, the young man still standing beside him. "The anticipation is palpable, and I'm eager to witness the impact of your efforts on the cause."
My interest is officially piqued. Is Penn not the one behind all this? Could it really be that this guy, who is pretty much my age, is the true orchestrator of the auction? Just as I'm mentally piecing everything together, Father seizes the moment.
"Zelda," he sets down his champagne to fully focus on the newcomer. "Let me introduce you to Penn's son, Ramses."
The guy responds with a warm smile and a modest nod. "Pleasure to meet you, Zelda. Your father speaks very highly of you."
His words are measured, and there's a humility in his demeanor that contrasts with my father's lavishing introduction. His freckled smile in combination with those chestnut eyes, framed by the rims of his glasses, radiate so much sincerity that, despite knowing that Father does not think highly of me, I can't help but believe in Ramses' words.
I shake his hand. "The pleasure is mine."
"Ramses is currently in his junior year of college," Father informs me. "He's pursuing a double major with two minors. Refresh my memory, Ramses, what are your fields of study?"
"I'm on the pre-med route, focusing on veterinary medicine," Ramses humbly replies. "My main area of study is biology, with minors in Chemistry and Environmental Science."
"All while maintaining a perfect 4.0 GPA," Father praises, his enthusiasm carrying a hint of expectation. But what is it he expects of me?
"That's very impressive indeed," I say, offering a friendly smile.
But it's not enough, and Father goes on. "Ramses not only studies diligently in his junior year, but as it happens, he's the brilliant mind behind these noble charity events. It's rare to find someone so dedicated to meaningful causes at such a tender age. It speaks volumes about his character."
I glance at the guy who is only a year older than me, genuinely impressed by his accomplishments and dedication.
Yet, Ramses remains professional and focused. "Just doing my part for something I believe in." Clearly, he isn't seeking all this praise. Too bad Father can't see that.
"Don't be humble," Father insists, resuming the sales pitch. "You've been working tirelessly to organize this event."
"Thank you, Sir, but it's truly a team effort," Ramses deflects the praise once more. He adjusts his glasses, and with a glint of excitement in his eyes, he adds, "We're in luck actually. Zunari, the finest auctioneer in the west, will be crying today," then he turns to me to clarify, "We say an auctioneer 'cries' a sale."
Taken aback, I question whether that was a reference to the novel The Crying of Lot 49. At the end of Pynchon's short story, Cohen says those exact words to Oedipa. It's been years since I've read that story, but those words sound too familiar to be a mere coincidence.
Curious, I ask Ramses, "Did you just quote Thomas Pynchon?"
Ramses nods and smiles, and my father says to him, "Like I told your father earlier: my daughter has excellent taste." Though this time it seems Father may be referring to something other than literature.
Thankfully, Ramses doesn't seem to interpret Father's remark in any particular way. Still, I can't shake the feeling that Father is subtly trying to set me up with Ramses. I'm not entirely sure why he'd be so determined to play matchmaker considering that I'm in a serious relationship with Link, but if he persists, things might get uncomfortable.
Keeping myself composed, I watch as Ramses politely excuses himself and heads to the stage to commence the auction while Father, Penn, and I take our seats.
Link's POV:
"So," Pik breaks the awkward silence. "How has the season been?"
"What?" I say, helping him sort through his vinyls.
"Soccer," He clarifies.
"Ah," I nod. "I'm not playing this year."
"Oh, okay."
We continue to unpack the second to last box. It's been really quiet because we literally got nothing to talk about. He's been trying to do small talk here and there and talk about authors I've never heard of or artworks I've never seen. I bet Zelda would swoon at the mention of any one of these. She loves that stuff. Me? Not so much.
Now Pik's trying a different approach. He's trying to talk to me about things I'm familiar with, thinking it will make this whole evening less awkward, but he's just as bad at talking about Luka Dončić as I am at talking about Banksy.
It's already dark outside when we finally take a break. I sit down on the floor, because he doesn't have any furniture yet, and check my phone.
Two messages from Zelda: *I made it to the auction* and *How is the move going?*
Let's see... I still feel weird being alone with Pik when I know basically nothing about him other than that he used to have a crush on my girlfriend. But he's much more chill than I remember him to be, so that's good I guess. To be honest, he seems kinda depressed.
Pik hands me a cold beer and says, "Thanks for helping me move, by the way."
"Yeah, no problem," I nod, taking a small sip.
"This would've probably taken me days if I had done it all by myself. Maybe longer because I just started a new job too."
"Happy to help," I say.
Pik leans against the brick wall with his beer in hand. I chill on the floor for a couple of minutes. We try some small talk again, followed by another stretch of silence until Pik suddenly drops the most random and depressing question on me. "What do you think happens after death?"
"Huh?" I place the beer on the floor next to me. "Like... Once we die?"
"Yes."
"I don't know," I shrug, "reincarnation maybe?"
"Sometimes I picture the afterlife like going back in time."
"What?"
"I picture myself reliving my whole life from the start, exactly the way it was, but from a third person view. I'd get to see my birth, my childhood, my teen years, my twenties–you get the idea. Up until the moment I die. But not only do I get to watch myself grow old, but I'd also be able to hear all the thoughts my younger self had during that time."
"So you'd be God?"
"Not quite. I'd be like an invisible spirit that's just present during these moments."
"So God," I say.
"No, because everyone would go through this after death, not just me."
"Hm... Interesting." I try to picture it. "So do you think our future dead spirits are watching us right now?"
"Yeah, maybe."
"Wait, that means we already died and this is the past?"
"I guess so."
I wave into the empty room. "What's up, Future Me." Hm... I wonder if there really is a spirit evesdropping. "Can our spirits see each other right now since they're both here?"
"No. They're solely focused on their previous lives."
"That sucks," I say. "Do our spirits know our full life stories, or do they watch us without any memories of what happened?"
Pik thinks about my question for a few seconds and then answers, "They remember everything. Even things you've forgotten, like memories from your childhood. And they won't ever forget it again."
"So my spirit remembers math and all the homework I forgot to turn in?"
"Yes."
"And it won't ever forget all the embarrassing things I did in life?"
"Nor all the good memories you made. Like your first bike ride or your first kiss."
"Both of those first times sucked for me."
"Well your first goal then."
"Or meeting Zelda," I say, watching Pik's reaction. There's none. He just looks deep into thought. Then he walks up to me.
"With all the wisdom these spirits gained over the years," he says, "they finally begin to understand the life they led. They've matured, now following the journey it took to achieve this state of wisdom. This spiritual experience would serve as a final life lesson, helping us understand the life we once deemed confusing and complicated."
"I see... So all you do after you die is watch yourself with the knowledge of life?" I ask. He nods, taking a seat next to me. "But... Wouldn't you get bored? Or hungry? Or sleepy?"
Pik shakes his head. "Time doesn't exist the same way in the afterlife. No hunger or exhaustion will burden the spirits. You'll watch your whole life without ever getting bored. It'll all feel like a split second and like an eternity at once."
"And you can't intervene?"
He shakes his head again. "Just watch."
"What's the point? Wouldn't it be too late to learn the lesson?"
"It's never too late."
"What about your blindness?" I ask. "Would you still be blind in the afterlife?"
"Ideally, disabilities are earthly ties," Pik explains. "Hopefully I'd exist parallel to this world, no longer bound to human fragilities. No longer limited by blindness... Or maybe our greatest pain sticks with us as a reminder of our sacrifices. In that case, I'd still be blind."
"And I'd still have a huge scar on my head." I let out a sigh. "Sounds like a pretty interesting idea for an afterlife. But it also sounds kinda lonely, no?"
"Hm yeah..." But it only takes Pik two seconds to come up with a solution, "Maybe once everyone has re-lived and fully understood and learned from their own life, they're finally ready to spend the afterlife with the other spirits. This way, no more misunderstandings will occur and people will stop fighting. Only then, everyone can live in harmony and peace."
"There you go. Now you've got me hooked," I say, "Where can I sign up?"
"Well," Pik chuckles and, as he puts his beer down, knocks over my bottle. A small puddle of alcohol spreads and fizzles, soaking the wooden floor.
"Shoot–" I quickly pick up the bottle to place it upright.
"My bad! Let me grab some paper towels!" Pik steers towards the kitchen, but knocks over my beer again in the process. I pick it up and place it out of reach while he cusses in frustration and as if things weren't bad enough already, he trips over an empty cardboard box on his way to the kitchen and takes a dive to the floor.
"You alright, dude?" I say, getting up to check on him.
"Goddamn it!" He kicks the box.
"Yeah, screw that box," I say in a flat tone, unsure how to help him feel better. He looks left and right in confusion, disoriented after tripping over the box. Now he doesn't know which direction the kitchen is. "Here, I got you." I grab the paper towels from the kitchen and clean up the mess. "Oh shoot! Some of your art got drenched."
"That's just great," Pik sighs. He kneels next to me and searches the floor with his hands until he finds the papers and moves them out of the way of the puddle while I finish cleaning up the alc that got spilled.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Splendid," he says sarcastically, dropping the wet papers back on the floor, the artwork smudged and unrecognizable. Pik sits down, leaning his head against the brick wall. I put down the paper towels and walk up to him.
"Talk to me, dude," I say, taking a seat next to him.
"This is a bunch of bullshit!" He sighs, "I feel cheated by life! I used to be an artist–used to paint these vibrant landscapes, capture the essence of life on my canvas. And now? Now everything's just... black. A fucking void."
I don't know what to say. I have no clue what being blind feels like and don't think it would affect me the same way as him, so I can't really say 'I get it.' But I remember what it was like to wake up from a coma and not being able to walk anymore. I had been lying in bed for so long that my muscles just couldn't hold me up anymore. I felt like my own body was betraying me, and I thought I was never going to play sports again. I felt like shit every day. But I knew that, with a lot of hard work, I could get back on my feet.
Pik doesn't have that option. Hard work might make his life a little easier, but he'll never get his sight back.
If I lost my arm or something and couldn't play sports anymore, I'd be pretty depressed. I don't even think I'd have it in me to smile and joke around like Pik at the beach last month.
Pik clenches his fists, his head lowered. "I used to be close to my parents. Especially my mom because she shares my interest in the performing arts. But ever since I found out about my prognosis, I have barely talked to either of them. I haven't even told them that I'm blind! And the worst part is, the memories of their faces are starting to blur...! The harder I try to remember them, the more they fade away. Like an unstable dream. Once they're gone, they're gone forever..."
I bet he's been hiding his pain all this time. He's been putting it all on himself and thinks he has to deal with it alone. Idiot, I used to be just like that. I thought I had to silently carry any burden. In the end, it destroyed me and made it so much harder to open up to people who genuinely cared about me.
Pik shakes his head in defeat. "I will never be able to look my son in the eyes, or see my daughter's smile," he confesses, his voice breaking. "Playing catch with them, reading goodnight stories, all those things seem so impossible now."
I don't say anything. He doesn't need a response. He just needs to let it all out. All that pent-up emotion. I bet he's never fully dealt with the grief of losing his sight until now.