While on Vacation

01/25/06

JM, having been on vacation in the area for a couple of weeks now, Marie and I stumbled upon this at a local bazaar. Yes, she drags me into every shop and market we encounter still; Marie is quite one reliable woman in that respect. On her insistence I purchased the following letter, paying all too much I may add, as a souvenir of sorts. Tattered, dirty and rumpled rather badly, faded from moisture and stained with what looks outwardly a dark substance, possibly blood or bile, for all that, the words are remarkably intact. At first I’d had a gut reaction this was some horrible hoax, being unsigned by the author, yet the Hotel’s name is real enough and there was a religious holiday of some sort held in recent days. Having not bothered to read the newspapers since leaving (we are on vacation after all) neither of us have heard of the political snafu the writer mentions; more is the loss to him, if not just some sick jest perpetrated by the locals on tourists. Not knowing how to broach the subject gracefully, my stumbling inquires have been met only with friendly faces and curious smiles. Aware of how you so enjoy this sort of thing, I'm sending it along, but mind, would like it back upon our return. What do you make of it then?

I’ve got to run now, the day and Marie are calling, love S_



01/19/06

I'd was told two days earlier that I was to be executed. Having merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, to groan at the injustice would have gotten me nowhere. Taken to an office, I was queried as to any last requests. Asking for the paper and pen that I’m writing this on pleased the head officer. He asked if this was to be a confession of my people’s guilt, with which I planned to bargain life. No, I explained patiently to him, I would just write a short account of these last hours of life, simply to ease the nerves. This puzzled him a bit, but he shrugged it off letting my explanation suffice. At the time, I also took the opportunity to question him if I was to be beheaded or shot. I had gathered from the guard that these are the usual ways of the region. Looking up from his desk he quietly informed me that I’m to be taken into the town-square, and after a brief official proclamation, am to be handed over to the mob and torn apart.

Seeing or maybe sensing my panic, the commander told me not to worry. My demise coincides with some local religious holiday occurring later in the week, and many people from outlying areas will already be in town, to, as in his words, “lend a hand.” With such a crowd he mused “You shouldn’t feel much for long; the whole process will be quite quick, and before nightfall, pieces only big enough for the birds will remain.” If that was meant to calm, it numbed instead. “It is an unfortunate affair”, he continued “that you should come seeking the beauty of our great country and find this end.” “Yes” I replied, “the land is indeed beautiful.” With that he looked out the window, sighed and after calling for guards to return me to my cell, went about his official duties.

The insult, I gathered later listening through bars, that had so grieved these people, was something that passed unnoticed by me in the papers a little over a week ago. A slight on the part of some dignitary that sent a wave of hatred careening throughout the land. Overnight my fellow countrymen and I had become the despised enemy.

On what was passed off as a bed, I sit looking at my hands, having sunk mentally into a state of shocked depression, lost without a voice to scream or tears to cry. Things like this happen to others, not me. Surely, if I pinched myself long and hard enough, I will awaken safely once again at home.

The bone-laden figure of an old man in the next cell, bent on tormenting, points his arthritic forefinger at me, hooking it again and again, downward, in a topsy turvey form of spectral beckoning. Repeatedly, he strangles out in his grating gargled voice, “hey you… hey you…hey you,” then smiles wide to reveal missing, broken and crooked teeth.

Soon, even this distraction became distant; thoughts of the beautiful vacation I had been enjoying added their surreal presence to the cacophony of emotions. The hotel de M_ manager dressed to the nines, stepping out from behind the counter to shake my hand in welcome. Native children giggling, running wildly down the street, holding still only long enough for my tourist camera to do its magic. There is a wonderful open-air market here, popular among the tourists and locals alike, which sells every conceivable item or oddity to be found. Wonderful foods , cooked and uncooked, and drinks found cheap, all becoming my nightly affair.

I was getting ready to retire one evening when there came a knock on my door.; the two policemen telling me to dressed, get my passport, and to accompany them. When asked, what I was being dragged out in the middle of the night for, I was told rudely to “shut up” _it would be explained later. Fearing I was being set up for a kidnapping, my relief upon seeing the police headquarters proved short lived.

The knot in my stomach is such that when bread was given me, it seemed a crude joke on the part of my captors. Tossing it to the still muttering old man, in an attempt to quiet him, I gaze out into the square.

The sun’s glow is faint, yet rising. The sounds of a city coming slowly to life are drifting lazily through the bars in the window. I’m balling up this note now and swallowing it, in the hope that without these words to confront me I may yet wake.