I lay upon the asphalt roads gilded by the afternoon sunshine. The uneven white lines of parking space by the pavement inbound the radiant like blocks of concentrated grounds by the cemetery.
This is Parral. North border of the lanes, of Faust, where nothing happens. Inappropriate city design led to the outskirts west of the luxurious valley of Monclea just a shallow slope away turned into a small village. Initially, after the first wave of immigrant workers failed to buy a place to sleep by the shore or the central train station and the housing plans were nowhere in sight at the time.
Where used to be a three football fields in size, of barren sand and broken rocks, transformed into horizontally placed, five blocks of bungalow thanks to sloppy ownership restrictions.
From the older generations and their father's occasional reminiscences over dogmatic systems, they remembered it was not until the idea of Monclea came to be do they had to relocate again. Since the construction of an entire bloody mountain slope would sure as hell raise the pricing up north, the entire north. Which includes Parral.
After dozens of recorded protests that ended in rubbishes and botched helmets all over the road, the residents gave up in hope of the public housing project down south of Nochnaya ain't a pile of horse shit.
In truth it wasn't, even though construction took a couple of months longer than promised but the congress delivered and the residents are more than thrilled to relocate to a place much closer to downtown and the docks where most of them will work in building the columns and rows of skyscrapers bridging towards the sun.
And so the narrow seam between iron ladders climbing onto red bricks, and pillars under the breeze block pavilion. Parral was reduced to two vertical streets before the road stretches to a curved highway across the slope, to the back of the mountain where none of the shit on the other side matters.
Fun fact: The road doesn't have a speed limit. As Viv nicknamed it Indianapolis speed away.
You'd think all is happy in this arrangement, which is not far from true. But a small detail everyone overlooked is that the congress never mentioned converting Parral into a part of Monclea. They just didn't want the prime residential area to be right next to bungalows infested by the poor. And since they can't think of a better way to utilize the plain. They perfunctorily mark it as public cemetery.
The cursed irony is both disgusting and hilarious as the size of 'Parral' grew involuntarily towards the north. Dojo once estimated within a decade. The well-fed preferred folks will see hundreds of tombs grow like daylily in the edge of their backyard.
As for the last street of Parral, it had become a part of the lanes a decade ago. And on the verge of everything, in front of a small tranquil plaza lies the smallest church in Euforia. It welcomes all, though some more than others.
***
The broad daylight of napalm sky at three in the afternoon flooded the celadon blue sea at the furthest reach of the street to my left as Parral lengthens at the border of Faust all the way to the shoreline. But the perfect white wall pressing down on the horizon couple of hours away notes it will catch the city before the moon does.
Between the shimmering, single dot of blue and the burning saffron sun engraved by thin traces of cloud it bestowed them the same graces until the entire corner of my eye dialed the same.
And in between them, in front of me. A couple of barefooted kids are playing football using two chalk white frames on a steel rolling door on either side of the trapezoid plaza as gates. Each time one of them breaks through the other side's defenses and intentional trips and pulls to score a resounding shot that echos against metal like a gunshot traveling afar. One of the two middle-aged women sitting by the exterior stairs up the rooftop addition of old, blue bungalows would spit some of the most vile Spanish curses at them for disrupting the afternoon broadcast on the radio.
Some call it here the most peaceful part of Euforia. Without anything worthwhile for the grips of chancers and scoundrels. Sitting behind the massive and ever growing graveyard, facing the ocean, the lanes beckoning across the street. Kids go to catholic schools five stations away in downtown, folks get by, old man visits the graveyard, the young works night to five at east, and wives find ways to entertain themselves.
Nothing ever happens here.
I walk around the plaza in the pine tree's shadows. The marble floor of eggshell white registered my steps as clearly as everyone else's except the 11 kids in the middle. Just like the peeled cadet grey eyes at the top corner of the plaza had his eyes on me ever since I made the last turned.
The heat radiates from everything in this coast neighborhood, I can feel sheens of sweat on my neck even under the jagged shades and with sporadic breezes from electric fans on the counter of family-run restaurants and air conditioners on the walls of indoor stalls selling chocolate cups and cherry moonshines.
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Five meters away, the rows of pine trees loosely planted by the twin edge of the plaza stop at the front of a church sitting at the far end as eyes take you within the zone.
It's made of dirty stones and washed wooden beams. The outlines were first sharpened by the rain before sea breezes yielded them smooth as waxed. The building's small in any sense of word, about three times my arm's reach if standing in the middle, 10 steps at most. Not a window in sight from this angle.
The exterior's a grayish to put it nicely considering the broken tiles are white once. So was the cross at the tip of the tower, the uneven walls of granite, locked and held in place by the thoughtfully placed timber supports around the church like a net over a slope of rolling rocks. It somehow looks as sturdy as it is fragile. Just like the man sitting two stairs on top of the plaza with a pair of scythe eyes. His hands rest upon his knees.
***
"Good day to you." I take the initiate step, and the bold man nods a very low nod in return but without any sense of politeness. As he does so, it is impossible to see past there are no traces of hair follicles on top. In fact, there's no a trace of bodyhair on his face except two sparse lines of brow the color of his eyes.
"As to you." Distorted. That's all you could think about as he utters. This freak could keep any unwanted guests out of the grace of lord's five meter radius by returning a greeting.
"Are you here to exchange a prayer?"
"I'm here for he who receives them." The featureless face moves forward as if it's floating in the air.
"For your sins, merc?" The left corner of my eyes twitched as I thought about the prospect of public execution at this fine hour.
"For my conceit actions against the lord, yes." I let the words out of my mouth while feeling an obnoxious animus running wild in my chest.
You pathetic fanatic.
The bald man stands up with a smile that defies your knowledge of facial muscles. He's at least a head taller and on top of the stairs, that childish pale face blocks out half of my sky as if tearing the middle of a deliberate painting on canvas into a gaping nothingness.
He lowers his head in front of the double wooden door about three steps away and extends his slender arms to push the left one open with his body leaning forward but feet planted as if not daring to walk any closer.
The squeaks like thunder with a smell of incense coming out of the pitch black inside of the church. Everyone heard it, but I couldn't feel any pressure on the back of my neck or shiver down my spine. The daily of parral continues as I dive into the narrow gateway.
Nothing ever happens here.
***
One strained ray of light filtered by stacks of dust in the air, the dirtied, only window in the house of god is sculpted right above the cross on the alter 15 steps away, the polluted yellow light just so well blocked the face of the poor son of a gun nailed on it and lit a pathway between two rows of waxed wooden benches, some padded with red velvet, some not.
Besides the extinguish chamber sticks with coagulated lard reaching down, in the dark corner to the left is a heavy wooden door with iron rebars on hinges and bolts around the keyhole. It's shut if not forever as its characteristic confides.
The old tiles on the ground absorb steps from soft-sole sneakers and announce it through the cramped space like a door chime on the rim of a coffin. I walk through the benches in an awkward, almost crouching posture for there's no space left on either side.
About three lumps to the east wall close to the corner is the confessional.
Old as the fake testament of dogmas.
Two identical panel doors sit aside the one in the middle adorned by a single cross carved into existence. It spread from top to knee height, from one's handle to the other's hinge.
Blessed be the wavering heart, for I thought it was a hut the first time I saw it.
I crack my joints and stretch my leg before pulling the panel door on the right open. The thing appears not as sturdy as it feels.
Inside, is a red cushion on the seat that took half the space. The interior walls are entirely covered by wooden panels, there are no blinds or curtains or grilles between rooms. Just a small ventilation seam blocked by bars on top of the wall to the priest's.
Just below it is a slender counter like the ones in stall coffee shops, with a wavering candlelight on one end, and a pack of cigarettes by the seat. Both brand new.
I close the door behind me and let the flickering light the size of a knuckle and restricted sense of halo on top be the only lighting. I can barely see my fingertips as I rest my right arm on the board.
***
The smell of incense and heat around citrus is all there is besides me. The 1 square meter box is dead silence without the city forever next to me. Fitting. This place is for you, your sins, the lord, and about half of the city's most vile secrets.
I concentrate the questions that's been piling up inside my head and deduct them into something plainer. The priest next door waited, if you wanted to stay in this booth for half a day without uttering or lighting the cigarette, he would've waited as well. Doing god knows what.
Time is irrelevant here, so I take mine in spades to contemplate the question marks left by my footsteps in these few days and the meeting two days away.
The emperor's baby girl got a little fight in her spirit and more than a complaint about the way things are. So she set up a meeting in a couple of days, in a mutually agreed position which just so happens to complicate things further especially after I went to the dojo yesterday.
Japs, Qins, Russkies...... too many sharks under the same roof is never going to end too well. Throwing myself into the pot might just be the flicker to set the shitstorm on fire. Other than those, there's still the personal spies of the old emperor creeping around like shit under boots. Plus a whole that of ominous misbehaves here and there.
But my goal, now that I'm neck-deep in, is to be the goddamn mediator. Which means everyone's peace of mind, body and soul during that time is my priority.
Unconsciously, I've put my arms on my knees and lowered my head to the candle's height like a true pennant. I straightened my back and neck before the guy upstairs got the wrong idea and started taking a good look at what this one's done.
Qin Yan ain't going to try anything at this Friday. That is certain, she'd pathed the red carpet at our doorsteps if needed; Xiao is...... strange to put it in embellishment, she acts overly protective of someone who, in her words had only been in touch with her for less than a year. Not to mention her personality as a bodyguard is as fitting as me being a therapist.....
Shit.... And how can I forget about Nan-Shi-Pei? The man of the hour and the reason I'm in this mess. He's capable, very fucking capable in all factors. A great actor, good with brains and tongue, got a shit luck for ladies though. But what concerns me the most is his reaction when I mentioned 'Liu Jiu'. He was the most radical one if only for a second. And everyone seemed oblivious of anything before he gone under Qin Yan's wing.
With the shooting thoughts in my head more organized than before, I lean back on the wall and pick up the pack of cigarettes.